ARLINGTON STREET, _March_ 29, 1745.
I begged your brother to tell you what it was impossible for me to tell
you. You share nearly in our common loss! Don't expect me to enter at
all upon the subject. After the melancholy two months that I have
passed, and in my situation, you will not wonder I shun a conversation
which could not be bounded by a letter--a letter that would grow into a
panegyric, or a piece of moral; improper for me to write upon, and too
distressful for us both!--a death is only to be felt, never to be talked
over by those it touches!
I had yesterday your letter of three sheets: I began to flatter myself
that the storm was blown over, but I tremble to think of the danger you
are in! a danger, in which even the protection of the great friend you
have lost could have been of no service to you. How ridiculous it seems
for me to renew protestations of my friendship for you, at an instant
when my father is just dead, and the Spaniards just bursting into
Tuscany! How empty a charm would my name have, when all my interest and
significance are buried in my father's grave! All hopes of present
peace, the only thing that could save you, seem vanished. We expect
every day to hear of the French declaration of war against Holland. The
new Elector of Bavaria is French, like his father; and the King of Spain
is not dead. I don't know how to talk to you. I have not even a belief
that the Spaniards will spare Tuscany. My dear child, what will become
of you? whither will you retire till a peace restores you to your
ministry? for upon that distant view alone I repose!
We are every day nearer confusion. The King is in as bad humour as a
monarch can be; he wants to go abroad, and is detained by the
Mediterranean affair; the inquiry into which was moved by a Major
Selwyn, a dirty pensioner, half-turned patriot, by the Court being
overstocked with votes. This inquiry takes up the whole time of the
House of Commons, but I don't see what conclusion it can have. My
confinement has kept me from being there, except the first day; and all
I know of what is yet come out is, as it was stated by a Scotch member
the other day, "that there had been one (Matthews)[1] with a bad head,
another (Lestock) with a worse heart, and four (the captains of the
inactive ships) with na heart at all." Among the numerous visits of form
that I have received, one was from my Lord Sandys: as we two could only
converse upon general topics, we fell upon this of the Mediterranean,
and I made _him_ allow, "that, to be sure, there is not so bad a court
of justice in the world as the House of Commons; and how hard it is upon
any man to have his cause tried there!"...
[Footnote 1: Admiral Matthews, an officer of great courage and skill,
was Commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean fleet. Lestock, his second
in command, was also a skilful officer; but the two were on bad terms,
and when, in February, 1744, Matthews attacked the Spanish fleet,
Lestock disobeyed his signals, and by his misconduct deprived Matthews
of a splendid victory, which was clearly within his grasp.
Court-martials were held on the conduct of both officers; but the
Admiralty was determined to crush Matthews, as being a member of the
House of Commons and belonging to the party of Opposition, and the
consequence was that, though Lestock's misconduct was clearly proved, he
was acquitted, and Matthews was sentenced to be cashiered, and declared
incapable of any further employment in his Majesty's service. The whole
is perhaps the most disgraceful transaction in the history of the navy
or of the country. (See the Editor's "History of the British Navy," i.
203-214.)]
The town flocks to a new play of Thomson's called "Tancred and
Sigismunda:" it is very dull; I have read it. I cannot bear modern
poetry; these refiners of the purity of the stage, and of the
incorrectness of English verse, are most wofully insipid. I had rather
have written the most absurd lines in Lee, than "Leonidas" or "The
Seasons;" as I had rather be put into the round-house for a wrong-headed
quarrel, than sup quietly at eight o'clock with my grandmother. There is
another of these tame genius's, a Mr. Akenside, who writes Odes: in one
he has lately published, he says, "Light the tapers, urge the fire."[1]
Had not you rather make gods "jostle in the dark," than light the
candles for fear they should break their heads? One Russel, a mimic, has
a puppet-show to ridicule Operas; I hear, very dull, not to mention its
being twenty years too late: it consists of three acts, with foolish
Italian songs burlesqued in Italian.
[Footnote 1: Walpole's quotation, however, is incorrect; the poet wrote: