STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 4, 1785.
I don't love to transgress my monthly regularity; yet, as you must
prefer facts to words, why should I write when I have nothing to tell
you? The newspapers themselves in a peaceable autumn coin wonders from
Ireland, or live on the accidents of the Equinox. They, the newspapers,
have been in high spirits on the prospect of a campaign in Holland; but
the Dutch, without pity for the gazetteers of Europe, are said to have
submitted to the Emperor's terms: however, the intelligence-merchants
may trust that _he_ will not starve them long!
Your neighbour, the Queen of Sardinia, it seems, is dead: but, if there
was anything to say about her, you must tell it to me, not I to you;
for, till she died, I scarce knew she had been alive.
Our Parliament is put off till after Christmas; so, I have no more
resource from domestic politics than from foreign wars. For my own
particular, I desire neither. I live here in tranquillity and idleness,
can content myself with trifles, and think the world is much the happier
when it has nothing to talk of. Most people ask, "Is there any
news?"--How can one want to know one does not know what? when anything
has happened, one hears it.
There is one subject on which I wish I had occasion to write; I think it
long since I heard how you go on: I flatter myself, as I have no letter
from you or your nephew, prosperously. I should prefer a letter from
him, that you may not have the trouble; and I shall make this the
shorter, as a precedent for his not thinking more than a line necessary.
The post does not insist on a certain quantity; it is content with being
paid for whatever it carries--nay, is a little unreasonable, as it
doubles its price for a cover that contains nothing but a direction: and
now it is the fashion to curtail the direction as much as possible.
Formerly, a direction was an academy of compliments: "To the most noble
and my singularly respected friend," &c., &c.--and then, "Haste! haste,
for your life, haste!" Now, we have banished even the monosyllable _To_!
Henry Conway,[1] Lord Hertford's son, who is very indolent, and has much
humour, introduced that abridgment. Writing to a Mr. Tighe at the
Temple, he directed his letter only thus: "T. Ti., Temple"[2]--and it
was delivered! Dr. Bentley was mightily flattered on receiving a letter
superscribed "To Dr. Bentley in England." Times are altered; postmen are
now satisfied with a hint. One modern retrenchment is a blessing; one is
not obliged to study for an ingenious conclusion, as if writing an
epigram--oh! no; nor to send compliments that never were delivered. I
had a relation who always finished his letters with "his love to all
that was near and dear to us," though he did not care a straw for me or
any of his family. It was said of old Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough,
that she never put dots over her _i's_, to save ink: how she would have
enjoyed modern economy in that article! She would have died worth a
thousand farthings more than she did--nay, she would have known exactly
how many; as Sir Robert Brown[3] did, who calculated what he had saved
by never having an orange or lemon on his sideboard. I am surprised
that no economist has retrenched second courses, which always consist of
the dearest articles, though seldom touched, as the hungry at least dine
on the first. Mrs. Leneve,[4] one summer at Houghton, counted thirty-six
turkey-pouts[5] that had been served up without being meddled with.
[Footnote 1: Second son of Francis Seymour Conway, first Earl of
Hertford.--WALPOLE.]
[Footnote 2: This address was surpassed towards the end of the reign, by
a letter which arrived in London addressed to "Srumfredafi, England;"
and was correctly interpreted at the Post Office as being designed for
Sir Humphrey Davy.]
[Footnote 3: A noted miser, who raised a great fortune as a merchant at
Venice, though his whole wealth, when he went thither, consisted in one
of those vast wigs (a second-hand one, given to him) which were worn in
the reign of Queen Anne, and which he sold for five guineas. He returned
to England, very rich, in the reign of George II., with his wife and
three daughters, who would have been great fortunes. The eldest, about
eighteen, fell into a consumption, and, being ordered to ride, her
father drew a map of the by-lanes about London, which he made the
footman carry in his pocket and observe, that she might ride without
paying a turnpike. When the poor girl was past recovery, Sir Robert sent
for an undertaker, to cheapen her funeral, as she was not dead, and
there was a possibility of her living. He went farther; he called his
other daughters, and bade them curtsy to the undertaker, and promise to
be his friends; and so they proved, for both died consumptive in two
years.--WALPOLE.]
[Footnote 4: A lady who lived with Sir Robert Walpole, to take care of
his youngest daughter, Lady Maria, after her mother's death. After Sir
Robert's death, and Lady Mary's marriage with Mr. Churchill, she lived
with Mr. H. Walpole to her death.--WALPOLE.]
[Footnote 5: As the sons of rajahs in India are called Rajah Pouts, and
as turkeys came from the East, quaere if they were not called
Turkey-pouts, as an Eastern diminutive?--WALPOLE.]
_5th._
I had written thus far yesterday. This minute I receive your nephew's of
Sept. 20th; it is not such an one by any means as I had wished for. He
tells me you have had a return of your disorder--indeed, he consoles me
with your recovery; but I cannot in a moment shake off the impression of
a sudden alarm, though the cause was ceased, nor can a second agitation
calm a first on such shattered nerves as mine. My fright is over, but I
am not composed. I cannot begin a new letter, and therefore send what I
had written. I will only add, what you may be sure I feel, ardent wishes
for your perfect health, and grateful thanks to your nephew for his
attention--he is rather your son; but indeed he is Gal.'s son, and that
is the same thing. How I love him for his attendance on you! and how
very kind he is in giving me accounts of you! I hope he will continue,
and I ask it still more for your sake than for my own, that you may not
think of writing yourself. If he says but these words, "My uncle has had
no return of his complaint," I shall be satisfied--satisfied!--I shall
be quite happy! Indeed, indeed, I ask no more.
_LADY CRAVEN--MADAME PIOZZI--"THE ROLLIAD"--HERSCHEL'S ASTRONOMICAL
DISCOVERY._