The business of women, dear Chloe, is pleasure,
And by love ev'ry fair one her minutes should measure.
"Oh! for love we're all ready," you cry.--very true;
Nor would I rob the gentle fond god of his due.
Unless in the sentiments Cupid has part,
And dips in the amorous transport his dart
'Tis tumult, disorder, 'tis loathing and hate;
Caprice gives it birth, and contempt is its fate.
"True passion insensibly leads to the joy,
And grateful esteem bids its pleasures ne'er cloy.
Yet here you should stop-but your whimsical sex
Such romantic ideas to passion annex,
That poor men, by your visions and jealousy worried,
To Dyinphs less ecstatic, but kinder, are hurried.
In your heart, I consent, let your wishes be bred;
Only take care your heart don't get into your head.
Adieu, till Midsummer-day!
(267) See ant`e, p. 175, Letter 117.-E.
(268) Lady Bolingbroke and the Countess of Pembroke were
sisters.-E.
Letter 149 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, April 6, 1763. (page 206)
You will pity my distress when I tell you that Lord Waldegrave
has got the smallpox, and a bad sort. This day se'nnight, in the
evening, I met him at Arthur's: he complained to me of the
headache, and a sickness in the stomach. I said, "My dear lord,
why don't you go home, and take James's powder you will be well
in the morning." He thanked me, said he was glad I had put him
in mind of it, and he would take my advice. I sent in the
morning; my niece said he had taken the powder, and that James
thought he had no fever, but that she found him very low. As he
had no fever, I had no apprehension. At eight o'clock on Friday
night, I was told abruptly at Arthur's, that Lord Waldegrave had
the small-pox. I was excessively shocked, not knowing if the
powder was good or bad for it. I went instantly to the house; at
the door I was met by a servant of Lady Ailesbury, sent to tell
me that Mr. Conway was arrived. These two opposite strokes of
terror and joy overcame me so much, that when I got to Mr.
Conway's I could not speak to him, but burst into a flood of
tears. The next morning, Lord Waldegrave hearing I was there,
desired to speak to me alone. I should tell you, that the moment
he knew it was the small-pox, he signed his will. This has been
the unvaried tenor of his behaviour, doing just what is wise and
necessary, and nothing more. He told me, he knew how great the
chance was against his living through that distemper at his age.
That, to be sure, he should like to have lived a few years
longer; but if he did not, he should submit patiently. That all
he desired was, that if he should fail, we would do our utmost to
comfort his wife, who, he feared was breeding, and who, he added,
was the best woman in the world. I told him he could not doubt
our attention to her, but that at present all our attention was
fixed on him. That the great difference between having the
small-pox young, or more advanced in years, consisted in the fear
of the latter; but that as I had so often heard him say, and now
saw, that he had none of those fears, the danger of age was
considerably lessened. Dr. Wilmot says, that if any thing saves
him, it will be his tranquillity. To my comfort I am told, that
James's powder has probably been a material ingredient towards
his recovery. In the mean time, the universal anxiety about him
is incredible. Dr. Barnard, the master of Eton, who is in town
for the holidays, says, that, from his situation, he is naturally
invited to houses of all ranks and parties, and that the concern
is general in all. I cannot say so much of my lord, and not do a
little justice to my niece too. Her tenderness, fondness,
attention, and courage are surprising. She has no fears to
become her, nor heroism for parade. I could not help saying to
her, "There never was a nurse of your age had such attention."
She replied, "There never was a nurse of my age had such an
object." It is this astonishes one, to see so much beauty
sincerely devoted to a man so unlovely in his person; but if
Adonis was sick, she could not stir seldomer out of his
bedchamber. The physicians seem to have little hopes, but, as
their arguments are not near so strong as their alarms, I own I
do not give it up, and yet I look on it in a very dangerous
light.
I know nothing of news and of the world, for I go to
Albemarle-Street early in the morning, and don't come home till
late at night. Young Mr. Pitt has been dying of a fever in
Bedfordshire. The Bishop of Carlisle,(269) whom I have appointed
visiter of Strawberry, is gone down to him. You will be much
disappointed if you expect to find the gallery near finished.
They threaten me with three months before the gilding can be
begun. twenty points are at a stand by my present confinement,
and I have a melancholy prospect of being forced to carry my
niece thither the next time I go. The Duc de Nivernois, in
return for a set of the Strawberry editions, has sent me four
seasons, which, I conclude, he thought good, but they shall pass
their whole round in London, for they have not even the merit of
being badly old enough for Strawberry. Mr. Bentley's epistle to
Lord Melcomb has been published in a magazine. It has less wit
by far than I expected from him, and to the full as bad English.
The thoughts are old Strawberry phrases; so are not the
panegyrics. Here are six lines written extempore by Lady Temple,
on Lady Mary Coke, easy and genteel, and almost true:
She sometimes laughs, but never loud;
She's handsome too, but somewhat proud:
At court she bears away the belle;
She dresses fine, and figures well:
With decency she's gay and airy;
Who can this be but Lady Mary?
There has been tough doings in Parliament about the tax on cider;
and in the Western counties the discontent is so great, that if
Mr. Wilkes will turn patriot-hero, or patriot-incendiary in
earnest, and put himself at their head, he may obtain a rope of
martyrdom before the summer is over. Adieu! I tell you my
sorrows, because, if I escape them, I am sure nobody will rejoice
more.
(269) Dr. Charles Lyttelton, consecrated Bishop of Carlisle in
1762, in the room of Dr. Osbaldiston, translated to the see of
London.-E.
Letter 150 To George Montagu, Esq.
Arlington Street, Friday night, late. [April 8, 1763.. (page 208)
Amidst all my own grief, and all the distress which I have this
moment left, I cannot forget you, who have so long been my steady
and invariable friend. I cannot leave it to newspapers and
correspondents to tell you my loss. Lord Waldegrave died to-day.
Last night he had some glimmerings of hope. The most desponding
of the faculty flattered us a little. He himself joked with the
physicians, and expressed himself in this engaging manner: asking
what day of the week it was; they told him Thursday: "Sure," said
he, "it is Friday." "No, my lord, indeed it is Thursday."
"Well," said he, "see what a rogue this distemper makes one; I
want to steal nothing but a day." By the help of opiates, with
which, for two or three days, they had numbed his sufferings, he
rested well. This morning he had no worse symptoms. I told Lady
Waldegrave, that as no material alteration was expected before
Sunday, I would go to dine at Strawberry, and return in time to
meet the physicians in the evening; in truth, I was worn out with
anxiety and attendance, and wanted an hour or two of fresh air.
I left her at twelve, and had ordered dinner at three that I
might be back early. I had not risen from table when I received
an express from Lady Betty Waldegrave, to tell me that a sudden
change had happened, that they had given him James's powder, but
that they feared it was too late, and that he probably would be
dead before I could come to my niece, for whose sake she begged I
would return immediately. It was indeed too late! too late for
every thing--late as it was given, the powder vomited him even in
the agonies--had I had power to direct, he should never have
quitted James; but these are vain regrets! vain to recollect how
particularly kind he, who was kind to every body, was to me! I
found Lady Waldegrave at my brother's; she weeps without ceasing,
and talks of his virtues and goodness to her in a manner that
distracts one. My brother bears this mortification with more
courage than I could have expected from his warm passions: but
nothing struck me more than to see my rough savage Swiss, Louis,
in tears, as he opened my chaise. I have a bitter scene to come:
to-morrow morning I carry poor Lady Waldegrave to Strawberry.
Her fall is great, from that adoration and attention that he paid
her, from that splendour of fortune, so much of which dies with
him, and from that consideration, which rebounded to her from the
great deference which the world had for his character. Visions
perhaps. Yet who could expect that they would have passed away
even before that fleeting thing, her beauty!
If I had time or command enough of my thoughts, I could give you
as long a detail of as unexpected a revolution in the political
world. To-day has been as fatal to a whole nation, I mean to the
Scotch, as to our family. Lord Bute resigned this morning. His
intention was not even suspected till Wednesday, nor at all known
a very few days before. In short, there is nothing, more or
less, than a panic; a fortnight's opposition has demolished that
scandalous but vast majority, which a fortnight had purchased;
and in five months a plan of absolute power has been demolished
by a panic. He pleads to the world bad health; to his friends,
more truly, that the nation was set at him. He pretends to
intend retiring absolutely, and giving no umbrage. In the mean
time he is packing up a sort of ministerial legacy, which cannot
hold even till next session, and I should think would scarce take
place at all. George Grenville is to be at the head of the
treasury and chancellor of the exchequer; Charles Townshend to
succeed him; and Lord Shelburne, Charles. Sir Francis Dashwood
to have his barony of Despencer and the great wardrobe, in the
room of Lord Gower, who takes the privy seal, if the Duke of
Bedford takes the presidentship; but there are many ifs in this
arrangement; the principal if is, if they dare stand a tempest
which has so terrified the pilot. You ask what becomes of Mr.
Fox? Not at all pleased with this sudden determination, which has
blown up so many of his projects, and left him time to heat no
more furnaces, he goes to France by the way of the House of
Lords,(270) but keeps his place and his tools till something else
happens. The confusion I suppose will be enormous, and the next
act of the drama a quarrel among the opposition, who would be
all-powerful if they could do what they cannot, hold together and
not quarrel for the plunder. As I shall be
at a distance for some days, I shall be able to send you no more
particulars of this interlude, but you will like a pun my brother
made when he was told of this explosion: "Then," said he, "they
must turn the Jacks out of the drawing-room again, and again take
them into the kitchen." Adieu! what a world to set one's heart
on!