STRAWBERRY HILL, _Nov._ 7, 1774.
I have written such tomes to Mr. Conway,[1] Madam, and so nothing new to
write, that I might as well, methinks, begin and end like the lady to
her husband; "Je vous écris parceque je n'ai rien à faire: je finis
parceque je n'ai rien à vous dire." Yes, I have two complaints to make,
one of your ladyship, the other of myself. You tell me nothing of Lady
Harriet [Stanhope]: have you no tongue, or the French no eyes? or are
her eyes employed in nothing but seeing? What a vulgar employment for a
fine woman's eyes after she is risen from her toilet? I declare I will
ask no more questions--what is it to me, whether she is admired or not?
I should know how charming she is, though all Europe were blind. I hope
I am not to be told by any barbarous nation upon earth what beauty and
grace are!
[Footnote 1: Mr. Conway and Lady Aylesbury were now at Paris
together.--WALPOLE.]
For myself, I am guilty of the gout in my elbow; the left--witness my
handwriting. Whether I caught cold by the deluge in the night, or
whether the bootikins, like the water of Styx, can only preserve the
parts they surround, I doubt they have saved me but three weeks, for so
long my reckoning has been out. However, as I feel nothing in my feet, I
flatter myself that this Pindaric transition will not be a regular ode,
but a fragment, the more valuable for being imperfect.
Now for my Gazette.--Marriages--Nothing done. Intrigues--More in the
political than civil way. Births--Under par since Lady Berkeley left off
breeding. Gaming--Low water. Deaths--Lord Morton, Lord Wentworth,
Duchess Douglas. Election stock--More buyers than sellers.
Promotions--Mr. Wilkes as high as he can go.--_Apropos_, he was told the
Lord Chancellor intended to signify to him, that the King did not
approve the City's choice: he replied, "Then I shall signify to his
lordship, that I am at least as fit to be Lord Mayor as he is to be Lord
Chancellor." This being more Gospel than everything Mr. Wilkes says, the
formal approbation was given.
Mr. Burke has succeeded in Bristol, and Sir James Peachey will miscarry
in Sussex. But what care you, Madam, about our Parliament? You will see
the _rentrée_ of the old one, with songs and epigrams into the bargain.
We do not shift our Parliaments with so much gaiety. Money in one hand,
and abuse in t'other--those are all the arts we know. _Wit and a
gamut_[1] I don't believe ever signified a Parliament, whatever the
glossaries may say; for they never produce pleasantry and harmony.
Perhaps you may not taste this Saxon pun, but I know it will make the
Antiquarian Society die with laughing.
[Footnote 1: Walpole is punning on the old Saxon name of the National
Council, Witangemot.]
Expectation hangs on America. The result of the general assembly is
expected in four or five days. If one may believe the papers, which one
should not believe, the other side of the waterists are not _doux comme
des moutons_, and yet we do intend to eat them. I was in town on Monday;
the Duchess of Beaufort graced our loo, and made it as rantipole as a
Quaker's meeting. _Loois Quinze_,[1] I believe, is arrived by this time,
but I fear without _quinze louis_.
[Footnote 1: This was a cant name given to a lady [Lady Powis], who was
very fond of loo, and who had lost much money at that game.]
Your herb-snuff and the four glasses are lying in my warehouse, but I
can hear of no ship going to Paris. You are now at Fontainbleau, but not
thinking of Francis I., the Queen of Sweden, and Monaldelschi. It is
terrible that one cannot go to Courts that are gone! You have supped
with the Chevalier de Boufflers: did he act everything in the world and
sing everything in the world? Has Madame de Cambis sung to you "_Sans
dépit, sans légèreté_?"[1] Has Lord Cholmondeley delivered my pacquet? I
hear I have hopes of Madame d'Olonne. Gout or no gout, I shall be little
in town till after Christmas. My elbow makes me bless myself that I am
not in Paris. Old age is no such uncomfortable thing, if one gives
oneself up to it with a good grace, and don't drag it about
To midnight dances and the public show.
[Footnote 1: The first words of a favourite French air.--WALPOLE.]
If one stays quietly in one's own house in the country, and cares for
nothing but oneself, scolds one's servants, condemns everything that is
new, and recollects how charming a thousand things were formerly that
were very disagreeable, one gets over the winters very well, and the
summers get over themselves.
_DEATH OF LORD CLIVE--RESTORATION OF THE FRENCH PARLIAMENT--PREDICTION
OF GREAT MEN TO ARISE IN AMERICA--THE KING'S SPEECH._