ARLINGTON STREET, _Feb._ 12, 1765.
A great many letters pass between us, my dear lord, but I think they are
almost all of my writing. I have not heard from you this age. I sent you
two packets together by Mr. Freeman, with an account of our chief
debates. Since the long day, I have been much out of order with a cold
and cough, that turned to a fever: I am now taking James's powder, not
without apprehensions of the gout, which it gave me two or three years
ago.
There has been nothing of note in Parliament but one slight day on the
American taxes,[1] which, Charles Townshend supporting, received a
pretty heavy thump from Barré, who is the present Pitt, and the dread of
all the vociferous Norths and Rigbys, on whose lungs depended so much of
Mr. Grenville's power. Do you never hear them to Paris?
[Footnote 1: Mr. Grenville's taxation of stamps and other articles in
our American colonies, which caused great discontent, and was repealed
by Lord Rockingham's Ministry.]
The operations of the Opposition are suspended in compliment to Mr.
Pitt, who has declared himself so warmly for the question on the
Dismission of officers, that that motion waits for his recovery. A call
of the House is appointed for next Wednesday, but as he has had a
relapse, the motion will probably be deferred. I should be very glad if
it was to be dropped entirely for this session, but the young men are
warm and not easily bridled.
If it was not too long to transcribe, I would send you an entertaining
petition of the periwig-makers to the King, in which they complain that
men will wear their own hair. Should one almost wonder if carpenters
were to remonstrate, that since the peace their trade decays, and that
there is no demand for wooden legs? _Apropos_ my Lady Hertford's friend,
Lady Harriot Vernon, has quarrelled with me for smiling at the enormous
head-gear of her daughter, Lady Grosvenor. She came one night to
Northumberland House with such display of friz, that it literally spread
beyond her shoulders. I happened to say it looked as if her parents had
stinted her in hair before marriage, and that she was determined to
indulge her fancy now. This, among ten thousand things said by all the
world, was reported to Lady Harriot, and has occasioned my disgrace. As
she never found fault with anybody herself, I excuse her. You will be
less surprised to hear that the Duchess of Queensberry has not yet done
dressing herself marvellously: she was at Court on Sunday in a gown and
petticoat of red flannel....
We have not a new book, play, intrigue, marriage, elopement, or quarrel;
in short, we are very dull. For politics, unless the ministers wantonly
thrust their hands into some fire, I think there will not even be a
smoke. I am glad of it, for my heart is set on my journey to Paris, and
I hate everything that stops me. Lord Byron's[1] foolish trial is likely
to protract the session a little; but unless there is any particular
business, I shall not stay for a puppet-show. Indeed, I can defend my
staying here by nothing but my ties to your brother. My health, I am
sure, would be better in another climate in winter. Long days in the
House kill me, and weary me into the bargain. The individuals of each
party are alike indifferent to me; nor can I at this time of day grow to
love men whom I have laughed at all my lifetime--no, I cannot
alter;--Charles Yorke or a Charles Townshend are alike to me, whether
ministers or patriots. Men do not change in my eyes, because they quit a
black livery for a white one. When one has seen the whole scene shifted
round and round so often, one only smiles, whoever is the present
Polonius or the Gravedigger, whether they jeer the Prince, or flatter
his phrenzy.
[Footnote 1: In a previous letter Walpole mentions the duel caused by a
dispute at cards, in which Lord Byron was so unfortunate as to kill his
cousin, Mr. Chaworth.]
_Thursday night, 14th._
The new Assembly Room at Almack's[1] was opened the night before last,
and they say is very magnificent, but it was empty; half the town is ill
with colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house is scarcely built
yet. Almack advertized that it was built with hot bricks and boiling
water--think what a rage there must be for public places, if this
notice, instead of terrifying, could draw anybody thither. They tell me
the ceilings were dropping with wet--but can you believe me, when I
assure you the Duke of Cumberland was there?--Nay, had had a levée in
the morning, and went to the Opera before the assembly! There is a vast
flight of steps, and he was forced to rest two or three times. If he
dies of it,--and how should he not?--it will sound very silly when
Hercules or Theseus ask him what he died of, to reply, "I caught my
death on a damp staircase at a new club-room."
[Footnote 1: Almack was a Scotchman, who got up a sort of female club in
King Street, St. James's, at the place since known as Willis's Rooms. In
the first half of the present century the balls of Almack's were the
most fashionable and exclusive in London, under the government of six
lady patronesses, without a voucher from one of whom no one could obtain
admittance. For a long time after trousers had become the ordinary wear
they were proscribed at Almack's, and gentlemen were required to adhere
to the more ancient and showy attire of knee-breeches; and it was said
that in consequence of one having attempted unsuccessfully to obtain
admission in trousers the tickets for the next ball were headed with a
notice that "gentlemen would not be admitted without breeches and
stockings."]
Williams, the reprinter of the _North Briton_, stood in the pillory
to-day in Palace Yard.[1] He went in a hackney-coach, the number of
which was 45. The mob erected a gallows opposite him, on which they hung
a boot[2] with a bonnet of straw. Then a collection was made for
Williams, which amounted to near £200. In short, every public event
informs the Administration how thoroughly they are detested, and that
they have not a friend whom they do not buy. Who can wonder, when every
man of virtue is proscribed, and they have neither parts nor characters
to impose even upon the mob! Think to what a government is sunk, when a
Secretary of State is called in Parliament to his face "the most
profligate sad dog in the kingdom," and not a man can open his lips in
his defence. Sure power must have some strange unknown charm, when it
can compensate for such contempt! I see many who triumph in these bitter
pills which the ministry are so often forced to swallow; I own I do not;
it is more mortifying to me to reflect how great and respectable we
were three years ago, than satisfactory to see those insulted who have
brought such shame upon us. 'Tis poor amends to national honour to know,
that if a printer is set in the pillory, his country wishes it was my
Lord This, or Mr. That. They will be gathered to the Oxfords, and
Bolingbrokes, and ignominious of former days; but the wound they have
inflicted is perhaps indelible. That goes to _my_ heart, who had felt
all the Roman pride of being one of the first nations upon earth!--Good
night!--I will go to bed, and dream of Kings drawn in triumph; and then
I will go to Paris, and dream I am pro-consul there: pray, take care not
to let me be awakened with an account of an invasion having taken place
from Dunkirk![3] Yours ever, H.W.
[Footnote 1: This was the last occasion on which the punishment of the
pillory was inflicted.]
[Footnote 2: A scandal, for which there was no foundation, imputed to
the Princess of Wales an undue intimacy with John Earl of Bute; and with
a practical pun on his name the mob in some of the riots which were
common in the first years of his reign showed their belief in the lie by
fastening a _jack-boot_ and a petticoat together and feeding a bonfire
with them.]
[Footnote 3: One article in the late treaty of peace had stipulated for
the demolition of Dunkirk.]
_HIS "CASTLE OF OTRANTO"--BISHOP PERCY'S COLLECTION OF OLD BALLADS._