Lady Mary Coke is stripping off all the plumes that she has been wearing for Niagara, etc., and is composing herself into religious melancholy against to-morrow night, when she goes to Princess Elizabeth's burial. I passed this whole morning most deliciously at my Lady Townshend's. Poor Roger, for whom she is not concerned, has given her a hint that her hero George may be mortal too; she scarce spoke, unless to improve on some bitter thing that Charles said, who was admirable. He made me all the speeches that Mr. Pitt will certainly make next winter, in every one of which Charles says, and I believe, he will talk of this great campaign, "memorable to all posterity with all its imperfections-a campaign which, though obstructed, cramped, maimed—but I will say no more."
The campaign in Ireland, I hear, will be very warm; the Primate is again to be the object; Ponsonby, commander against him. Lord George's situation will not help the Primate's. Adieu!
(1070) Now first printed.
512 Letter 335 To George Montagu, Esq. Strawberry Hill, Saturday, October 11, 1759.
I don't desire any such conviction of your being ill as seeing you nor can you wonder that I wish to persuade myself that what I should be very sorry for, never happens. Poor Fred. Montagu's gout seems more serious: I am concerned that he has so much of a judge in him already.
You are very good in thinking of me about the sofas; but you know the Holbein chamber is complete, and old matters arc not flung away upon you yourself Had not you rather have your sofa than Lord Northampton's running footman? Two hundred years hence one might be amused with reading of so fantastic a dress, but they are horrid in one's own time. Mr. Bentley and I go to-morrow to Chaffont for two or three days. Mr. Chute is at the Vine already, but, I believe, will be in town this week.
I don't know whether it proceeds from the menaced invasion or the last comet, but we are all dying of heat. Every body has put out their fires, and, if it lasts, I suppose will next week make summer clothes. The mornings are too hot for walking: last night I heard of strawberries. I impute it to the hot weather that my head has been turned enough to contend with the bards of the newspapers. You have seen the French epigram on Madame Pompadour, and fifty vile translations of it. Here IS Mine—
O yes! here are flat-bottom boats to be sold,
And soldiers to let-rather hungry than bold:
Here are ministers richly deserving to swing,
And commanders whose recompense should be a string.
O France! still your fate you may lay at Pitt's door;
You were saved by a Maid, and undone by a * * *
People again believe the invasion; and I don't wonder, considering how great a militia we have, with such a boy as you mention. I own, before I begin to be afraid, I have a little curiosity to see the militia tried. I think one shall at least laugh before one cries. Adieu! what time have you fixed for looking southwards?
P. S. Your pictures you may have when you please; I think you had better stay and take them with you, than risk the rubbing them by the wagon. Mr. M`untz has not been lately in town— that is, Hannah has drawn no bill on him lately—so he knows nothing of your snuff-box. This it is to trust to my vivacity, when it is past Its bloom. Lord! I am a mere antiquarian, a mere painstaking mortal. Mr. Bentley says, that if all antiquarians were like me, there would be no such thing as an antiquarian, for I set down every thing, SO circumstantially that I leave them nothing to find out.