ARLINGTON STREET, _Jan._ 14, 1760.
How do you contrive to exist on your mountain in this rude season? Sure
you must be become a snowball! As I was not in England in forty-one, I
had no notion of such cold. The streets are abandoned; nothing appears
in them: the Thames is almost as solid. Then think what a campaign must
be in such a season! Our army was under arms for fourteen hours on the
twenty-third, expecting the French; and several of the men were frozen
when they should have dismounted. What milksops the Marlboroughs and
Turennes, the Blakes and the Van Tromps appear now, who whipped into
winter quarters and into port, the moment their noses looked blue. Sir
Cloudesley Shovel said that an admiral would deserve to be broke, who
kept great ships out after the end of September, and to be shot if after
October. There is Hawke in the bay weathering _this_ winter, after
conquering in a storm. For my part, I scarce venture to make a campaign
in the Opera-house; for if I once begin to freeze, I shall be frozen
through in a moment. I am amazed, with such weather, such ravages, and
distress, that there is anything left in Germany, but money; for
thither, half the treasure of Europe goes: England, France, Russia, and
all the Empress can squeeze from Italy and Hungary, all is sent thither,
and yet the wretched people have not subsistence. A pound of bread sells
at Dresden for eleven-pence. We are going to send many more troops
thither; and it is so much the fashion to raise regiments, that I wish
there were such a neutral kind of beings in England as abbés,[1] that
one might have an excuse for not growing military mad, when one has
turned the heroic corner of one's age. I am ashamed of being a young
rake, when my seniors are covering their grey toupees with helmets and
feathers, and accoutering their pot-bellies with cuirasses and martial
masquerade habits. Yet rake I am, and abominably so, for a person that
begins to wrinkle reverendly. I have sat up twice this week till between
two and three with the Duchess of Grafton, at loo, who, by the way, has
got a pam-child this morning, and on Saturday night I supped with Prince
Edward at my Lady Rochford's, and we stayed till half an hour past
three. My favour with that Highness continues, or rather increases. He
makes everybody make suppers for him to meet me, for I still hold out
against going to court. In short, if he were twenty years older, or I
could make myself twenty years younger, I might carry him to Campden
House, and be as impertinent as ever my Lady Churchill was; but, as I
dread being ridiculous, I shall give my Lord Bute no uneasiness. My Lady
Maynard, who divides the favour of this tiny court with me, supped with
us. Did you know she sings French ballads very prettily? Lord Rochford
played on the guitar, and the Prince sung; there were my two nieces, and
Lord Waldegrave, Lord Huntingdon, and Mr. Morrison the groom, and the
evening was pleasant; but I had a much more agreeable supper last night
at Mrs. Clive's, with Miss West, my niece Cholmondeley, and Murphy, the
writing actor, who is very good company, and two or three more. Mrs.
Cholmondeley is very lively; you know how entertaining the Clive is, and
Miss West is an absolute original.
[Footnote 1: French chroniclers remark that the title Abbé had long
since ceased in France to denote the possession of any ecclesiastical
preferment, but had become a courteous denomination of unemployed
ecclesiastics; and they compare it to the use of the term "Esquire" in
England.]
There is nothing new, but a very dull pamphlet written by Lord Bath, and
his chaplain Douglas, called a "Letter to Two Great Men." It is a plan
for the peace, and much adopted by the City, and much admired by all who
are too humble to judge for themselves.
I was much diverted the other morning with another volume on birds by
Edwards, who has published four or five. The poor man, who is grown very
old and devout, begs God to take from him the love of natural
philosophy; and having observed some heterodox proceedings among bantam
cocks, he proposes that all schools of girls and boys should be
promiscuous, lest, if separated, they should learn wayward passions. But
what struck me most were his dedications, the last was to God; this is
to Lord Bute, as if he was determined to make his fortune in one world
or the other.
Pray read Fontaine's fable of the lion grown old; don't it put you in
mind of anything? No! not when his shaggy majesty has borne the insults
of the tiger and the horse, &c., and the ass comes last, kicks out his
only remaining fang, and asks for a blue bridle? _Apropos_, I will tell
you the turn Charles Townshend gave to this fable. "My lord," said he,
"has quite mistaken the thing; he soars too high at first: people often
miscarry by not preceding by degrees; he went and at once asked for my
_Lord_ Carlisle's garter--if he would have been contented to ask first
for my _Lady_ Carlisle's garter, I don't know but he would have obtained
it!" Adieu!
_CAPTURE OF CARRICKFERGUS._