Crest-fallen, the ministers then proposed simply to discharge the complaint; but the plumes which they had dropped, Pitt soon placed in his own beaver. He broke out on liberty, and, indeed, on whatever he pleased, uninterrupted. Rigby sat feeling the vice-treasureship slipping from under him. Nugent was not less pensive--Lord Strange, though not interested, did not like it. Everybody was too much taken up with his own concerns, or too much daunted, to give the least disturbance to the Pindaric. Grenville, however, dropped a few words, which did but heighten the flame. Pitt, with less modesty than ever he showed, p.r.o.nounced a panegyric on his own administration, and from thence broke out on the _dismission of officers_. This increased the roar from us.

Grenville replied, and very finely, very pathetically, very animated. He painted Wilkes and faction, and, with very little truth, denied the charge of menaces to officers. At that moment, General A'Court walked up the House--think what an impression such an incident must make, when pa.s.sions, hopes, and fears, were all afloat--think, too, how your brother and I, had we been ungenerous, could have added to these sensations! There was a man not so delicate. Colonel Barre rose--and this attended with a striking circ.u.mstance; Sir Edward Deering, one of _our_ noisy fools, called out, "_Mr._ Barre."[1] The latter seized the thought with admirable quickness, and said to the Speaker, who, in pointing to him, had called him _Colonel_, "I beg your pardon, Sir, you have pointed to me by a t.i.tle I have no right to," and then made a very artful and pathetic speech on his own services and dismission; with nothing bad but an awkward attempt towards an excuse to Mr. Pitt for his former behaviour. Lord North, who will not lose his _bellow_, though he may lose his place, endeavoured to roar up the courage of his comrades, but it would not do--the House grew tired, and we again divided at seven for adjournment; some of our people were gone, and we remained but 184, they 208; however, you will allow our affairs are mended, when we say, _but_ 184. _We_ then came away, and left the ministers to satisfy Wood, Webb, and themselves, as well as they could. It was eight this morning before I was in bed; and considering that, this is no very short letter.

Mr. Pitt bore the fatigue with his usual spirit--and even old Onslow, the late Speaker, was sitting up, anxious for the event.

[Footnote 1: Mr. Barre had lately been dismissed from the office of Adjutant-General, on account of some of his votes in Parliament. In 1784 he was appointed Clerk of the Rolls, a place worth above 3,000 a year, by Mr. Pitt, who, with extraordinary disinterestedness, forbore from taking it himself, that he might relieve the nation from a pension of similar amount which had been improperly conferred on the Colonel by Lord Rockingham.]

On Friday we are to have the great question, which would prevent my writing; and to-morrow I dine with Guerchy, at the Duke of Grafton's, besides twenty other engagements. To-day I have shut myself up; for with writing this, and taking notes yesterday all day, and all night, I have not an eye left to see out of--nay, for once in my life, I shall go to bed at ten o'clock....

Adieu! pray tell Mr. Hume that I am ashamed to be thus writing the history of England, when he is with you!

_LORD CLIVE--MR. HAMILTON, AMBa.s.sADOR TO NAPLES--SPEECH OF LOUIS XV._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _June_ 8, 1764.

Your Red Riband is certainly postponed. There was but one vacant, which was promised to General Draper, who, when he thought he felt the sword dubbing his shoulder, was told that my Lord Clive could not conquer the Indies a second time without being a Knight of the Bath. This, however, I think will be but a short parenthesis, for I expect that _heaven-born hero_[1] to return from whence he came, instead of bringing hither all the Mogul's pearls and rubies. Yet, before that happens there will probably be other vacancies to content both Draper and you.

[Footnote 1: "That _heaven-born hero_" had been Lord Chatham's description of Lord Clive.]

You have a new neighbour coming to you, Mr. William Hamilton,[1] one of the King's equerries, who succeeds Sir James Gray at Naples. Hamilton is a friend of mine, is son of Lady Archibald, and was aide-de-camp to Mr.

Conway. He is picture-mad, and will ruin himself in virtu-land. His wife is as musical as he is connoisseur, but she is dying of an asthma.

[Footnote 1: Mr. W. Hamilton, afterwards Sir William, was the husband of the celebrated Lady Hamilton.]

I have never heard of the present[1] you mention of the box of essences.

The secrets of that prison-house do not easily transpire, and the merit of any offering is generally a.s.sumed, I believe, by the officiating priests.

[Footnote 1: A present from Sir Horace, I believe, to the Queen.--WALPOLE.]

Lord Tavistock is to be married to-morrow to Lady Elizabeth Keppel, Lord Albemarle's sister.

I love to tell you an anecdote of any of our old acquaintance, and I have now a delightful one, relating, yet indirectly, to one of them. You know, to be sure, that Madame de Craon's daughter, Madame de Boufflers, has the greatest power with King Stanislaus. Our old friend the Princess de Craon goes seldom to Luneville for this reason, not enduring to see her daughter on that throne which she so long filled with absolute empire. But Madame de Boufflers, who, from his Majesty's age, cannot occupy _all_ the places in the palace that her mother filled, indemnifies herself with his Majesty's Chancellor. One day the lively old monarch said, "Regardez, quel joli pet.i.t pied, et la belle jambe!

Mon Chancellier vous dira le reste." You know this is the form when a King of France says a few words to his Parliament, and then refers them to his chancellor. I expect to hear a great deal soon of the princess, for Mr. Churchill and my sister are going to settle at Nancy for some time. Adieu!

_THE KING OF POLAND--CATHERINE OF RUSSIA._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Aug._ 13, 1764.

I am afraid it is some thousands of days since I wrote to you; but woe is me! how could I help it? Summer will be summer, and peace peace. It is not the fashion to be married, or die in the former, nor to kill or be killed in the latter; and pray recollect if those are not the sources of correspondence. You may perhaps put in a caveat against my plea of peace, and quote Turks Island[1] upon me; why, to be sure the parenthesis is a little hostile, but we are like a good wife, and can wink at what we don't like to see; besides, the French, like a sensible husband, that has made a slip, have promised us a new topknot, so we have kissed and are very good friends.

[Footnote 1: Turk's Island, called also Tortuga, is a small island near St. Domingo, of which a French squadron had dispossessed some British settlers; but the French Government disavowed the act, and compensated the settlers.]

The Duke of York returned very abruptly. The town talks of remittances stopped; but as I know nothing of the matter, and you are not only a minister but have the honour of his good graces, I do not pretend to tell you what to be sure you know better than I do.

Old Sir John Barnard is dead, which he had been to the world for some time; and Mr. Legge. The latter, who was heartily in the minority, said cheerfully just before he died, "that he was going to the majority."

Let us talk a little of the north. Count Poniatowski, with whom I was acquainted when he was here, is King of Poland, and calls himself Stanislaus the Second. This is the sole instance, I believe, upon record, of a second of a name being on the throne while the first was living without having contributed to dethrone him.[1] Old Stanislaus lives to see a line of successors, like Macbeth in the cave of the witches. So much for Poland; don't let us go farther north; we shall find there Alecto herself. I have almost wept for poor Ivan! I shall soon begin to believe that Richard III. murdered as many folks as the Lancastrian historians say he did. I expect that this Fury will poison her son next, lest Semiramis should have the b.l.o.o.d.y honour of having been more unnatural. As Voltaire has unpoisoned so many persons of former ages, methinks he ought to do as much for the present time, and a.s.sure posterity that there never was such a lamb as Catherine II., and that, so far from a.s.sa.s.sinating her own husband and Czar Ivan,[2] she wept over every chicken that she had for dinner. How crimes, like fashions, flit from clime to clime! Murder reigns under the Pole, while you, who are in the very town where Catherine de' Medici was born, and within a stone's throw of Rome, where Borgia and his holy father sent cardinals to the other world by hecatombs, are surprised to hear that there is such an instrument as a stiletto. The papal is now a mere gouty chair, and the good old souls don't even waddle out of it to get a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

[Footnote 1: The first was Stanislaus Leczinski, father of the Queen of France. He had been driven from Poland by Peter the Great after the overthrow of Charles XII. of Sweden (_v. infra_, Letter 90).]

[Footnote 2: Ivan, the Czar who had been deposed by the former Czarina, Elizabeth, had recently been murdered, while trying to escape from the confinement in which he had been so long detained.]

Well, good night! I have no more monarchs to chat over; all the rest are the most Catholic or most Christian, or most something or other that is divine; and you know one can never talk long about folks that are only excellent. One can say no more about Stanislaus _the first_ than that he is the best of beings. I mean, unless they do not deserve it, and then their flatterers can hold forth upon their virtues by the hour.

_MADAME DE BOUFFLERS' WRITINGS--KING JAMES'S JOURNAL._

TO THE EARL OF HERTFORD.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 5, 1764.

My dear Lord,--Though I wrote to you but a few days ago, I must trouble you with another line now. Dr. Blanchard, a Cambridge divine, and who has a good paternal estate in Yorkshire, is on his travels, which he performs as a gentleman; and, therefore, wishes not to have his profession noticed. He is very desirous of paying his respects to you, and of being countenanced by you while he stays at Paris. It will much oblige a particular friend of mine, and consequently me, if you will favour him with your attention. Everybody experiences your goodness, but in the present case I wish to attribute it a little to my request.

I asked you about two books, ascribed to Madame de Boufflers. If they are hers, I should be glad to know where she found, that Oliver Cromwell took orders and went over to Holland to fight the Dutch. As she has been on the spot where he reigned (which is generally very strong evidence), her countrymen will believe her in spite of our teeth; and Voltaire, who loves all anecdotes that never happened, _because_ they prove the manners of the times, will hurry it into the first history he publishes.

I, therefore, enter my caveat against it; not as interested for Oliver's character, but to save the world from one more fable. I know Madame de Boufflers will attribute this scruple to my partiality to Cromwell (and, to be sure, if we must be ridden, there is some satisfaction when the man knows how to ride). I remember one night at the Duke of Grafton's, a bust of Cromwell was produced: Madame de Boufflers, without uttering a syllable, gave me the most speaking look imaginable, as much as to say, "Is it possible you can admire this man!" _Apropos_: I am sorry to say the reports do not cease about the separation, and yet I have heard nothing that confirms it.

I once begged you to send me a book in three volumes, called "Essais sur les Moeurs;" forgive me if I put you in mind of it, and request you to send me that, or any other new book. I am wofully in want of reading, and sick to death of all our political stuff, which, as the Parliament is happily at the distance of three months, I would fain forget till I cannot help hearing of it. I am reduced to Guicciardin, and though the evenings are so long, I cannot get through one of his periods between dinner and supper. They tell me Mr. Hume has had sight of King James's journal;[1] I wish I could see all the trifling pa.s.sages that he will not deign to admit into History. I do not love great folks till they have pulled off their buskins and put on their slippers, because I do not care sixpence for what they would be thought, but for what they are.

[Footnote 1: This journal is understood to have been destroyed in the course of the French Revolution, but it had not only been previously seen by Hume, as Walpole mentions here, but Mr. Fox had also had access to it, and had made some notes or extracts from it, which were subsequently communicated to Lord Macaulay when he carried out the design of writing a "History of the Revolution of 1688," which Mr. Fox had contemplated.]

Mr. Elliot brings us woful accounts of the French ladies, of the decency of their conversation, and the nastiness of their behaviour.

n.o.body is dead, married, or gone mad, since my last. Adieu!...

END OF VOL. I.