ARLINGTON STREET, _Jan._ 15, 1775.
You have made me very happy by saying your journey to Naples is laid
aside. Perhaps it made too great an impression on me; but you must
reflect, that all my life I have satisfied myself with your being
perfect, instead of trying to be so myself. I don't ask you to return,
though I wish it: in truth, there is nothing to invite you. I don't want
you to come and breathe fire and sword against the Bostonians,[1] like
that second Duke of Alva,[2] the inflexible Lord George Germaine....
[Footnote 1: The open resistance to the new taxation of the American
Colonies began at Boston, the capital of Massachusetts, where, on the
arrival of the first tea-ship, a body of citizens, disguised as Red
Indians, boarded the ship and threw the tea into the sea.]
[Footnote 2: The first Duke of Alva was the first Governor of the
Netherlands appointed by Philip II.; and it was his bloodthirsty and
intolerable cruelty that caused the revolt of the Netherlands, and cost
Spain those rich provinces.]
An account is come of the Bostonians having voted an army of sixteen
thousand men, who are to be called _minutemen_, as they are to be ready
at a minute's warning. Two directors or commissioners, I don't know what
they are called, are appointed. There has been too a kind of mutiny in
the Fifth Regiment. A soldier was found drunk on his post. Gage, in his
time of _danger_, thought rigour necessary, and sent the fellow to a
court-martial. They ordered two hundred lashes. The General ordered them
to improve their sentence. Next day it was published in the _Boston
Gazette_. He called them before him, and required them on oath to abjure
the communication: three officers refused. Poor Gage is to be scapegoat,
not for this, but for what was a reason against employing him,
incapacity. I wonder at the precedent! Howe is talked of for his
successor.--Well, I have done with _you_!--Now I shall go gossip with
Lady Aylesbury.
You must know, Madam, that near Bath is erected a new Parnassus,
composed of three laurels, a myrtle-tree, a weeping-willow, and a view
of the Avon, which has been new christened Helicon. Ten years ago there
lived a Madam Riggs, an old rough humourist who passed for a wit; her
daughter, who passed for nothing, married to a Captain Miller, full of
good-natured officiousness. These good folks were friends of Miss Rich,
who carried me to dine with them at Bath-Easton, now Pindus. They caught
a little of what was then called taste, built and planted, and begot
children, till the whole caravan were forced to go abroad to retrieve.
Alas! Mrs. Miller is returned a beauty, a genius, a Sappho, a tenth
Muse, as romantic as Mademoiselle Scudéri, and as sophisticated as Mrs.
Vesey. The Captain's fingers are loaded with cameos, his tongue runs
over with _virtù_, and that both may contribute to the improvement of
their own country, they have introduced _bouts-rimes_ as a new
discovery. They hold a Parnassus fair every Thursday, give out rhymes
and themes, and all the flux of quality at Bath contend for the prizes.
A Roman vase dressed with pink ribbons and myrtles receives the
poetry,[1] which is drawn out every festival; six judges of these
Olympic games retire and select the brightest compositions, which the
respective successful acknowledge, kneel to Mrs. Calliope Miller, kiss
her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle, with--I don't know
what. You may think this is fiction, or exaggeration. Be dumb,
unbelievers! The collection is printed, published.--Yes, on my faith,
there are _bouts-rimes_ on a buttered muffin, made by her Grace the
Duchess of Northumberland; receipts to make them by Corydon the
venerable, alias George Pitt; others very pretty, by Lord Palmerston;
some by Lord Carlisle: many by Mrs. Miller herself, that have no fault
but wanting metre; an Immorality promised to her without end or measure.
In short, since folly, which never ripens to madness but in this hot
climate, ran distracted, there never was anything so entertaining or so
dull--for you cannot read so long as I have been telling.
[Footnote 1: Four volumes of this poetry were published under the title
of "Poetical Amusements at a villa near Bath." The following lines are a
fair sample of the _bouts-rimes_.
The pen which I now take and brandish
Has long lain useless in my standish.
Know, every maid, from her own patten,
To her who shines in glossy sattin,
That could they now prepare an oglio
From best receipt of book in folio,
Ever so fine, for all their puffing,
I should prefer a butter'd muffin;
A muffin Jove himself might feast on,
If eat with Miller at Batheaston.
The following are the concluding lines of a poem on Beauty, by Lord
Palmerston:--
In vain the stealing hand of Time
May pluck the blossoms of their prime;
Envy may talk of bloom decay'd,
How lilies droop and roses fade;
But Constancy's unalter'd truth,
Regardful of the vows of youth--
Affection that recalls the past,
And bids the pleasing influence last,
Shall still preserve the lover's flame
In every scene of life the same;
And still with fond endearments blend
The wife, the mistress, and the friend!
"Lady Miller's collection of verses by fashionable people, which were
put into her vase at Bath-Easton, in competition for honorary prizes,
being mentioned, Dr. Johnson held them very cheap: '_Bouts-rimés_,' said
he, 'is a mere conceit, and an old conceit; I wonder how people were
persuaded to write in that manner for this lady.' I named a gentleman of
his acquaintance who wrote for the vase. JOHNSON--'He was a blockhead
for his pains!' BOSWELL--'The Duchess of Northumberland wrote.'--'Sir,
the Duchess of Northumberland may do what she pleases; nobody will say
anything to a lady of her high rank: but I should be apt to throw ...
verses in his face." (Boswell, vol. v. p. 227.)]
_OPPOSITION OF THE FRENCH PARLIAMENTS TO TURGOT'S MEASURES._