"I thank your ladyship's partiality and good heart. For character and
credit, Lord Waldegrave is the first match in England, and for beauty,
Maria--excepting only the lady I address. The family is well pleased,
though 'tis no more than her deserts, and 'twas to be expected my father's
grandchild would ally herself with credit."
'Tis when Horry Walpole gives himself these demure airs that I am tempted
to be wicked, Kitty. For what signifies talking? The girl is a beauty, but
Nancy Parsons and Kitty Fisher are beauties, too, and if the court and
peerage are opened to women of no birth, why what's left for women of
quality? 'Tis certain the next generation of the peerage bids fair to be
extreme ill-born, and the result may be surprising. But I held my tongue,
for I have a kindness for Horry and his niece, though I laugh at 'em.
I thought Mr Walpole looked ill, and doubted whether I might hope to see
him at my Tuesday rout. Says he:--
"'Tis the gout, Madam, that ungallant disorder, and had I a mind to brag,
I could boast of a little rheumatism too; but I scorn to set value on such
trifles, and since your ladyship does me the honour to bespeak my company,
I will come if 'twere in my coffin and pain. May I hope your ladyship will
favour us at Maria's nuptials? Sure the Graces were ever attended by Venus
on occasions of ceremony."
He would have said more, but the Queen of the Blues swam up, protesting
and vowing she had never seen such a goddess as Miss Maria Walpole; that
were she to marry the Emperor of the world, 'twould be vastly below the
merit of such glowing charms. And so forth.
'Tis a lady that paints all her roses red and plasters her lilies white,
and whether 'tis malice, I can't tell, but believe 'tis possible to blast
by praise as well as censure, by setting the good sense of one half the
world and the envy of the other against the victim. So she shrugged and
simpered and worked every muscle of her face, in hopes to be bid to the
wedding; but Mr. Walpole only bowed very grave and precise, and turned
away, and I with him. And no more circles for me, my dear; and here I
conclude, and my next shall be the epithalamium.
_18th May_, 1759.
Kitty, child, when you was married, did you look about you from under your
hat?--did you take a sly peep at the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, and
wonder which was the bridegroom? I did, but I'll never tell which he
proved to be! Well, Maria was married two days since, and Horry Walpole
favoured me today with a glimpse of the letter he writ to his friend
Montagu on the occasion. 'Twas very obliging; but you know all he writes
is writ with one eye on the paper and one on posterity, so 'tis no wonder
if he squints a little by times. However, here's to our letter.
"The original day was not once put off--lawyers and milliners all
canonically ready. They were married in Pall Mall just before dinner, and
we all dined there, and the Earl and the new Countess got into their
post-chaise at eight and went to Navestock alone. On Sunday she is to be
presented and to make my Lady Coventry distracted. Maria was in a white
and silver night gown, with a hat very much pulled over her face. What one
could see of it was handsomer than ever. A cold maiden blush gave her the
sweetest delicacy in the world."
So far our doting uncle, Kitty; but 'tis indeed a fair creature. I saw the
long soft brown eyes lifted once and flash such a look at the bridegroom--I
dare to swear Lord Waldegrave wished away then the twenty years between
them. Poor Lady Coventry, indeed! Her race is run, her thread is spun, her
goose is cooked, and any other trope you please; for what signifies all
the white lead at the 'pothecary's compared to the warm brown of Maria's
complexion and her long eyelashes!
Lady Elizabeth Keppel had a gown worthy of the Roman Empress she looks,
with that beak nose and nutcracker chin. 'Twas a black velvet petticoat,
embroidered in chenille, the pattern a great gold wicker basket filled to
spilling over with ramping flowers that climbed and grew all about her
person. A design for a banqueting hall rather than a woman; or indeed a
committee of Bluestockings might have wore it to advantage. She had
winkers of lace to her head, and her hoop covered so many acres that one
could but approach at an awful distance and confidences were impossible--a
sure reason why the modish ladies will soon drop the hoop.