STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 5, 1764.
My dear Lord,--Though I wrote to you but a few days ago, I must trouble
you with another line now. Dr. Blanchard, a Cambridge divine, and who
has a good paternal estate in Yorkshire, is on his travels, which he
performs as a gentleman; and, therefore, wishes not to have his
profession noticed. He is very desirous of paying his respects to you,
and of being countenanced by you while he stays at Paris. It will much
oblige a particular friend of mine, and consequently me, if you will
favour him with your attention. Everybody experiences your goodness, but
in the present case I wish to attribute it a little to my request.
I asked you about two books, ascribed to Madame de Boufflers. If they
are hers, I should be glad to know where she found, that Oliver Cromwell
took orders and went over to Holland to fight the Dutch. As she has been
on the spot where he reigned (which is generally very strong evidence),
her countrymen will believe her in spite of our teeth; and Voltaire, who
loves all anecdotes that never happened, _because_ they prove the
manners of the times, will hurry it into the first history he publishes.
I, therefore, enter my caveat against it; not as interested for Oliver's
character, but to save the world from one more fable. I know Madame de
Boufflers will attribute this scruple to my partiality to Cromwell (and,
to be sure, if we must be ridden, there is some satisfaction when the
man knows how to ride). I remember one night at the Duke of Grafton's, a
bust of Cromwell was produced: Madame de Boufflers, without uttering a
syllable, gave me the most speaking look imaginable, as much as to say,
"Is it possible you can admire this man!" _Apropos_: I am sorry to say
the reports do not cease about the separation, and yet I have heard
nothing that confirms it.
I once begged you to send me a book in three volumes, called "Essais sur
les Moeurs;" forgive me if I put you in mind of it, and request you to
send me that, or any other new book. I am wofully in want of reading,
and sick to death of all our political stuff, which, as the Parliament
is happily at the distance of three months, I would fain forget till I
cannot help hearing of it. I am reduced to Guicciardin, and though the
evenings are so long, I cannot get through one of his periods between
dinner and supper. They tell me Mr. Hume has had sight of King James's
journal;[1] I wish I could see all the trifling passages that he will
not deign to admit into History. I do not love great folks till they
have pulled off their buskins and put on their slippers, because I do
not care sixpence for what they would be thought, but for what they are.
[Footnote 1: This journal is understood to have been destroyed in the
course of the French Revolution, but it had not only been previously
seen by Hume, as Walpole mentions here, but Mr. Fox had also had access
to it, and had made some notes or extracts from it, which were
subsequently communicated to Lord Macaulay when he carried out the
design of writing a "History of the Revolution of 1688," which Mr. Fox
had contemplated.]
Mr. Elliot brings us woful accounts of the French ladies, of the decency
of their conversation, and the nastiness of their behaviour.
Nobody is dead, married, or gone mad, since my last. Adieu!...