ARLINGTON STREET, Jan. 19, 1759.
I hope the treaty of Sluys[1] advances rapidly. Considering that your own court is as new to you as Monsieur de Bareil and his, you cannot be very well entertained: the joys of a Dutch fishing town and the incidents of a cartel will not compose a very agreeable history. In the mean time you do not lose much; though the Parliament is met, no politics are come to town; one may describe the House of Commons like the price of stocks—Debates, nothing done. Votes, under par. Patriots, no price. Oratory, books shut. Love and war are as much at a stand; neither the Duchess of Hamilton, nor the expeditions are gone off yet. Prince Edward has asked to go to Quebec, and has been refused. If I was sure they would refuse me, I would ask to go thither too. I should not dislike about as much laurel as I could stick in my window at Christmas.
[Footnote 1: Treaty of Sluys. Conway was engaged at Sluys negotiating with the French envoy, M. de Bareil, for an exchange of prisoners.]
We are next week to have a serenata at the Opera-house for the King of Prussia's birthday; it is to begin, "Viva Georgio, e Frederigo viva!" It will, I own, divert me to see my Lord Temple whispering for this alliance, on the same bench on which I have so often seen him whisper against all Germany. The new opera pleases universally, and I hope will yet hold up its head. Since Vanneschi is cunning enough to make us sing the roast beef of old Germany, I am persuaded it will revive; politics are the only hot-bed for keeping such a tender plant as Italian music alive in England.
You are so thoughtless about your dress, that I cannot help giving you a little warning against your return. Remember, everybody that comes from abroad is censé to come from France, and whatever they wear at their first reappearance immediately grows the fashion. Now if, as is very likely, you should through inadvertence change hats with a master of a Dutch smack, Offley will be upon the watch, will conclude you took your pattern from M. de Bareil, and in a week's time we shall all be equipped like Dutch skippers. You see I speak very disinterestedly; for, as I never wear a hat myself, it is indifferent to me what sort of hat I don't wear. Adieu! I hope nothing in this letter, if it is opened, will affect the conferences, nor hasten our rupture with Holland. Lest it should, I send it to Lord Holdernesse's office; concluding, like Lady Betty Waldegrave, that the Government never suspect what they send under their own covers.
ROBERTSON'S "HISTORY OF SCOTLAND"—COMPARISON OF RAMSAY AND REYNOLDS AS PORTRAIT-PAINTERS—SIR DAVID'S "HISTORY OF THE GOWRIE CONSPIRACY."
TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.
STRAWBERRY HILL, Feb. 25, 1759.
I think, Sir, I have perceived enough of the amiable benignity of your mind, to be sure that you will like to hear the praises of your friend.[1] Indeed, there is but one opinion about Mr. Robertson's "History [of Scotland]." I don't remember any other work that ever met universal approbation. Since the Romans and the Greeks, who have now an exclusive charter for being the best writers in every kind, he is the historian that pleases me best; and though what he has been so indulgent as to say of me ought to shut my mouth, I own I have been unmeasured in my commendations. I have forfeited my own modesty rather than not do justice to him. I did send him my opinion some time ago, and hope he received it. I can add, with the strictest truth, that he is regarded here as one of the greatest men that this island has produced. I say island, but you know, Sir, that I am disposed to say Scotland. I have discovered another very agreeable writer among your countrymen, and in a profession where I did not look for an author; it is Mr. Ramsay, the painter, whose pieces being anonymous, have been overlooked. He has a great deal of genuine wit, and a very just manner of reasoning. In his own walk, he has great merit. He and Mr. Reynolds are our favourite painters, and two of the very best we ever had. Indeed, the number of good has been very small, considering the numbers there are. A very few years ago there were computed two thousand portrait-painters in London; I do not exaggerate the computation, but diminish it; though I think it must have been exaggerated. Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Ramsay can scarce be rivals; their manners are so different. The former is bold, and has a kind of tempestuous colouring, yet with dignity and grace; the latter is all delicacy. Mr. Reynolds seldom succeeds in women; Mr. Ramsay is formed to paint them.
[Footnote 1: Sir David was himself a historical writer of some importance. Macaulay was greatly indebted to his "Memoirs of Great Britain and Ireland from the Restoration to the Battle of La Hogue." The secret history and object of the strange attempt on James VI. (afterwards James I. of England) have been discussed by many writers, but without any of them succeeding in any very clear or certain elucidation of the transaction.]