HOUGHTON, _July_ 4, 1743.
I hear no particular news here, and I don't pretend to send you the
common news; for as I must have it first from London, you will have it
from thence sooner in the papers than in my letters. There have been
great rejoicings for the victory; which I am convinced is very
considerable by the pains the Jacobites take to persuade it is not. My
Lord Carteret's Hanoverian articles have much offended; his express has
been burlesqued a thousand ways. By all the letters that arrive, the
loss of the French turns out more considerable than by the first
accounts: they have dressed up the battle into a victory for
themselves--I hope they will always have such! By their not having
declared war with us, one should think they intended a peace. It is
allowed that our fine horse did us no honour: the victory was gained by
the foot. Two of their princes of the blood, the Prince de Dombes, and
the Count d'Eu his brother, were wounded, and several of their first
nobility. Our prisoners turn out but seventy-two officers, besides the
private men; and by the printed catalogue, I don't think many of great
family. Marshal Noailles' mortal wound is quite vanished, and Duc
d'Aremberg's shrunk to a very slight one. The King's glory remains in
its first bloom.
Lord Wilmington is dead.[1] I believe the civil battle for his post will
be tough. Now we shall see what service Lord Carteret's Hanoverians will
do him. You don't think the crisis unlucky for him, do you? If you
wanted a Treasury, should you choose to have been in Arlington Street,
or driving by the battle of Dettingen? You may imagine our Court wishes
for Mr. Pelham. I don't know any one who wishes for Lord Bath but
himself--I believe that is a pretty substantial wish.
[Footnote 1: Formerly Sir Spencer Compton, and successor of Sir R.
Walpole at the Treasury. He was succeeded by Mr. Pelham, a brother of
the Duke of Newcastle.]
I have got the Life of King Theodore, but I don't know how to convey
it--I will inquire for some way.
We are quite alone. You never saw anything so unlike as being here five
months out of place, to the congresses of a fortnight in place; but you
know the "Justum et tenacem propositi virum"[1] can amuse himself
without the "Civium ardor!" As I have not so much dignity of character
to fill up my time, I could like a little more company. With all this
leisure, you may imagine that I might as well be writing an ode or so
upon the victory; but as I cannot build upon the Laureate's[2] place
till I know whether Lord Carteret or Mr. Pelham will carry the
Treasury, I have bounded my compliments to a slender collection of
quotations against I should have any occasion for them. Here are some
fine lines from Lord Halifax's[3] poem on the battle of the Boyne--
The King leads on, the King does all inflame,
The King;--and carries millions in the name.
[Footnote 1: A quotation from Horace, Odes iii. 3.]
[Footnote 2: The Poet Laureate was Colley Cibber.]
[Footnote 3: The celebrated Chancellor of the Exchequer, Charles
Montagu, was raised to the peerage as Earl of Halifax. In conjunction
with Prior, he wrote the "Country and City Mouse," in ridicule of
Dryden's "Hind and Panther."]
Then follows a simile about a deluge, which you may imagine; but the
next lines are very good:
So on the foe the firm battalions prest,
And he, like the tenth wave, drove on the rest.
Fierce, gallant, young, he shot through ev'ry place,
Urging their flight, and hurrying on the chase,
He hung upon their rear, or lighten'd in their face.
The next are a magnificent compliment, and, as far as verse goes, to be
sure very applicable.
Stop, stop! brave Prince, allay that generous flame;
Enough is given to England and to Fame.
Remember, Sir, you in the centre stand;
Europe's divided interests you command,
All their designs uniting in your hand.
Down from your throne descends the golden chain
Which does the fabric of our world sustain,
That once dissolved by any fatal stroke,
The scheme of all our happiness is broke.
Adieu! my dear Sir; pray for peace!
_FRENCH ACTORS AT CLIFDEN--A NEW ROMAN CATHOLIC MIRACLE--LADY MARY
WORTLEY._