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Saturday Morning, Arlington-street.

I CAME to town yesterday for a party at Bedford-house, made for princess Amelia; the garden was open, with French horns and clarionets, and would have been charming with one single zephyr, had that not come from the north-east; however, the young ladies found it delightful. There was limited loo for the princess, unlimited for the duchess of Grafton, to whom I belonged, a table of quinze, and another of quadrille. The princess had heard of our having cold meat upon the loo table, and would have some. A table was brought in; she was served so; others rose by turns and went to the cold meat; in the outward room were four little tables for the rest of the company. Think if king George the Second could have risen and seen his daughter supping pell-mell with men, as it were in a booth! The tables were removed, the young people began to dance to a tabor and pipe; the princess sat down again, but to unlimited loo; we played till three, and I won enough to help on the gallery. I am going back to it to give my neices and their lords a dinner.

We were told there was a great victory come from Pondicherry, but it came from too far to divert us from liking our party better. Poor George Monson has lost his leg there. You know that sir W. Williams has made Fred. Montague heir to his debts. Adieu!

Yours ever.

TO THE COUNTESS OF AILESBURY.

Strawberry-hill, June 13, 1761.

I NEVER ate such good snuff, nor smelt such delightful bonbons, as your ladyship has sent me. Every time you rob the duke's dessert, does it cost you a pretty snuff-box? Do the pastors at the Hague1 enjoin such expensive retributions? If a man steals a kiss there, I suppose he does penance in a sheet of Brussels lace. The comical part is, that you own the theft and send it

1

Lady Ailesbury remained at the Hague while Mr. Conway was with the army during the campaign of 1761. [Or.]

me, but say nothing of the vehicle of your repentance. In short, madam, the box is the prettiest thing I ever saw, and I give you a thousand thanks for it.

When you comfort yourself about the operas, you don't know what you have lost; nay, nor I neither; for I was here, concluding that a serenata for a birth-day would be as dull and as vulgar as those festivities generally are: but I hear of nothing but the enchantment of it. There was a second orchestra in the footman's gallery, disguised by clouds, and filled with the music of the king's chapel. The choristers behaved like angels, and the harmony between the two bands was in the most exact time. Elisi piqued himself, and beat both heaven and earth. The joys of the year do not end there. The under-actors open at Drury-lane to-night with a new comedy by Murphy, called All in the Wrong. At Ranelagh all is fire-works and sky-rockets. The birth-day exceeded the splendour of Haroun Alraschid and the Arabian Nights, when people had nothing to do but to scour a lantern, and send a genii for a hamper of diamonds and rubies. Do you remember one of those stories, where a prince has eight statues of diamonds, which he overlooks because he fancies he wants a ninth; and to his great surprise the ninth proves to be pure flesh and blood, which he never thought of? Some how or other, Lady *** is the ninth statue; and, you will allow, has better red and white than if she was made of pearls and rubies. Oh! I forgot, I was telling you of the birth-day my Lord P*** had drunk the king's health so often at dinner, that at the ball he took Mrs. **** for a beautiful woman, and, as she says, made an improper use of his hands. The proper use of hers, she thought, was to give him a box on the ear, though within the verge of the court. He returned it by a push, and she tumbled off the end of the bench; which his majesty has accepted as a sufficient punishment, and she is not to lose her right hand.2

I enclose the list your ladyship desired: you will see that the Plurality of Worlds are Moore's, and of some I do not know the authors. There is a late edition with these names to them.

My duchess was to set out this morning. I saw her for the last time the day before yesterday at lady Kildare's: never was a journey less a party of pleasure. She was so melancholy, that 2 The old punishment for giving a blow in the king's presence. [Or.]

all miss * * * * 's oddness and my spirits could scarce make her smile. Towards the end of the night, and that was three in the morning, I did divert her a little. I slipped Pam into her lap, and then taxed her with having it there. She was quite confounded; but, taking it up, saw he had a telescope in his hand, which I had drawn, and that the card, which was split, and just waxed together, contained these lines:

Ye simple astronomers, lay by your glasses;
The transit of Venus has proved you all asses:

Your telescopes signify nothing to scan it;

'Tis not meant in the clouds; 'tis not meant of a planet :

The seer who foretold it mistook or deceives us;

For Venus's transit is when Grafton leaves us.

I don't send your ladyship these verses as good, but to show you that all gallantry does not centre at the Hague.

4

I wish I could tell you that Stanley and Bussy, by crossing over and figuring in, had forwarded the peace. It is no more made than Belleisle is taken. However, I flatter myself that you will not stay abroad till you return for the coronation, which is ordered for the beginning of October. I don't care to tell you how lovely the season is; how my acacias are powdered with flowers, and my hay just in its picturesque moment. Do they ever make any other hay in Holland than bullrushes in ditches? My new buildings rise so swiftly, that I shall not have a shilling left, SO far from giving commissions on Amsterdam. When I have made my house so big that I don't know what to do with it, and am entirely undone, I propose, like king Pyrrhus, who took such a roundabout way to a bowl of punch, to sit down and enjoy myself: but with this difference, that it is better to ruin one's self than all the world. I am sure you would think as I do, though Pyrrhus were king of Prussia. I long to have you bring back the only hero that ever I could endure. Adieu, madam! I sent you just such another piece of title-tattle as this by general Waldegrave: you are very partial to me, or very fond of knowing every thing that passes in your own country, if you can be amused so. If you can, 'tis surely my duty to divert you, though at the expense of my character; for I own I am

3 Hans Stanley, esq., minister to the court of France. [Ed.] The French minister to the English court. [Ed.]

ashamed when I look back and see four sides of paper scribbled

over with nothings.

Your ladyship's most faithful servant.

To GEORGE MONTAGU, Esq.

Strawberry-hill, June 18, 1761.

I AM glad you will come on Monday, and hope you will arrive in a rainbow and pair, to signify that we are not to be totally drowned. It has rained incessantly, and floated all my new works; I seem rather to be building a pond than a gallery. My farm, too, is all under water, and what is vexatious, if Sunday had not thrust itself between, I could have got in my hay on Monday. As the parsons will let nobody else make hay on Sundays, I think they ought to make it on that day themselves. By the papers I see Mrs. Trevor Hampden1 is dead of the small-pox. Will he be much concerned? If If you will stay with me a fortnight or three weeks, perhaps I may be able to carry you to a play of Mr. Bentley's-you start, but I am in earnest: nay, and de par le roy. In short here is the history of it. You know the passion he always had for the Italian comedy; about two years ago he wrote one, intending to get it offered to Rich, but without his name. He would have died to be supposed an author, and writing for gain. I kept this an inviolable secret. Judge then of my surprise, when about a fortnight or three weeks ago, I found my lord Melcomb reading this very Bentleiad in a circle at my lady Hervey's. Cumberland had carried it to him with a recommendatory copy of verses, containing more incense to the king and my lord Bute than the magi brought in their portmanteaus to Jerusalem. The idols were propitious, and to do them justice there is a great deal of wit in the piece, which is called the Wishes, or Harlequin's Mouth Opened. A bank note of two hundred pounds was sent from the treasury to the author, and the play ordered to be performed by the summer company. Foote was summoned to lord Melcomb's, where Parnassus was composed of the peer himself, who, like Apollo, as I am going to tell you, was dozing, the two chief justices, and

1 The lady of the Hon. R. Trevor Hampden, Esq., joint postmastergeneral. [Ed.]

lord B. Bubo read the play himself, with handkerchief and orange by his side. But the curious part is a prologue, which I never saw. It represents the god of verse fast asleep by the side of Helicon: the race of modern bards try to wake him, but the more they repeat their works, the louder he snores. At last Ruin seize thee, ruthless king is heard, and the god starts from his trance. This is a good thought, but will offend the bards so much, that I think Dr. Bentley's son will be abused at least as much as his father was. The prologue concludes with young Augustus, and how much he excels the ancient one by the choice of his friend. Foote refused to act this prologue, and said it was too strong. "Indeed," said Augustus's friend, "I think it is.” They have softened it a little, and I suppose it will be performed. You may depend upon the truth of all this; but what is much more creditable is, that the comely young author appears every night in the Mall in a milk white coat with a blue cape, disclaims any benefit, and says he has done with the play now it is out of his own hands, and that Mrs. Hannah Clio, alias Bentley, writ the best scenes in it. He is going to write a tragedy, and she, I suppose, is going to court. You will smile when I tell you that t'other day a party went to Westminster-abbey, and among the rest saw the ragged regiment. They inquired the names of the figures. "I don't know them," said the man, "but if Mr. Walpole was here he could tell you every one." Adieu! I expect Mr. John and you with impatience.

Yours ever.

To GEORGE MONTAGU, Esq.

Strawberry-hill, July 5, 1761.

You are a pretty sort of a person to come to one's house and get sick, only to leave an excuse for not returning to it. Your departure is so abrupt, that I don't know but I may expect to find that Mrs. Jane Truebridge, whom you commend so much, and call Mrs. Mary, will prove Mrs. Hannah. Mrs. Clive is still more disappointed; she had proposed to play at quadrille with you from dinner till supper, and to sing old Purcell to you from supper to breakfast next morning. If you cannot trust

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