ARLINGTON STREET, _April_ 26, 1771.
You may wonder that I have been so silent, when I had announced a war
between the House of Commons and the City--nay, when hostilities were
actually commenced; but many a campaign languishes that has set out very
flippantly. My letters depend on events, and I am like the man in the
weather-house who only comes forth on a storm. The wards in the City
have complimented the prisoners,[1] and some towns; but the train has
not spread much. Wilkes is your only gun-powder that makes an explosion.
He and his associates are more incensed at each other than against the
Ministry, and have saved the latter much trouble. The Select Committees
have been silent and were forgotten, but there is a talk now of their
making some report before the session closes.
[Footnote 1: The prisoners were Crosby, the Lord Mayor, and Oliver, one
of the aldermen, both members of Parliament. The selection of the Tower
for their imprisonment was greatly remarked upon, because hitherto that
had never been so used except for persons accused of high treason; while
their offence was but a denial of the right of the House of Commons to
arrest a liveryman within the City, and the entertaining a charge of
assault against the messenger who had endeavoured to arrest him. These
riots, which for the moment appeared likely to become formidable, arose
out of the practice of reporting the parliamentary debates, a practice
contrary to the Standing Orders of Parliament, passed as far back as the
reign of Elizabeth, but the violation of which had lately begun to be
attempted.]
The serious war is at last absolutely blown over. Spain has sent us word
she is disarming. So are we. Who would have expected that a courtesan at
Paris would have prevented a general conflagration? Madame du Barri has
compensated for Madame Helen, and is _optima pacis causa_. I will not
swear that the torch she snatched from the hands of Spain may not light
up a civil war in France. The Princes of the Blood[1] are forbidden the
Court, twelve dukes and peers, of the most complaisant, are banished, or
going to be banished; and even the captains of the guard. In short, the
King, his mistress, and the Chancellor, have almost left themselves
alone at Versailles. But as the most serious events in France have
always a ray of ridicule mixed with them, some are to be exiled _to_
Paris, and some to St. Germain. How we should laugh at anybody being
banished to Soho Square and Hammersmith? The Chancellor desired to see
the Prince of Conti; the latter replied, "Qu'il lui donnoit rendezvous à
la Grève."[2]
[Footnote 1: The "Princes of the Blood" in France were those who, though
of Royal descent, were not children of a king--such, for instance, as
the Dukes of Orléans and Bourbon; and they were reckoned of a rank so
inferior to the princes of the Royal Family, that, as Marie Antoinette
on one occasion told the Duke of Orléans, in a well-deserved reproof for
his factious insolence, Princes of the Blood had never pretended to the
honour of supping with the King and herself. (See the Editor's "Life of
Marie Antoinette," c. 10). Their offence, in this instance, was having
protested against the holding and the proceedings of a _Lit de Justice_,
which had been held on April 15th, about three months after the
banishment of all the members of Parliament (Lacretelle, c. 13).]
[Footnote 2: La Grève was the place of execution in Paris.
Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Grève,
The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave;
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute
To ease hero's pains by a halter and gibbet (PRIOR).]
If we laugh at the French, they stare at us. Our enormous luxury and
expense astonishes them. I carried their Ambassador, and a Comte de
Levi, the other morning to see the new winter Ranelagh [The Pantheon] in
Oxford Road, which is almost finished. It amazed me myself. Imagine
Balbec in all its glory! The pillars are of artificial _giallo antico_.
The ceilings, even of the passages, are of the most beautiful stuccos in
the best taste of grotesque. The ceilings of the ball-rooms and the
panels painted like Raphael's _loggias_ in the Vatican. A dome like the
pantheon, glazed. It is to cost fifty thousand pounds. Monsieur de
Guisnes said to me, "Ce n'est qu'à Londres qu'on peut faire tout cela."
It is not quite a proof of the same taste, that two views of Verona, by
Canaletti, have been sold by auction for five hundred and fifty guineas;
and, what is worse, it is come out that they are copies by Marlow, a
disciple of Scott. Both master and scholar are indeed better painters
than the Venetian; but the purchasers did not mean to be so well
cheated.
The papers will have told you that the wheel of fortune has again
brought up Lord Holdernesse, who is made governor to the Prince of
Wales. The Duchess of Queensberry, a much older veteran, is still
figuring in the world, not only by giving frequent balls, but really by
her beauty. Reflect, that she was a goddess in Prior's days![1] I could
not help adding these lines on her--you know his end:
Kitty, at Heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
This was some fifty-six years ago, or more. I gave her this stanza:
To many a Kitty, Love his car
Will for a day engage,
But Prior's Kitty, ever fair,
Obtained it for an age!
And she is old enough to be pleased with the compliment.
[Footnote 1: Prior died in 1721.]
My brother [Sir Edward Walpole] has lost his son; and it is no
misfortune, though he was but three-and-thirty, and had very good parts;
for he was sunk into such a habit of drinking and gaming, that the first
ruined his constitution, and the latter would have ruined his father.
Shall I send away this short scroll, or reserve it to the end of the
session? No, it is already somewhat obsolete: it shall go, and another
short letter shall be the other half of it--so, good night!
_GREAT DISTRESS AT THE FRENCH COURT._