"Record it thus, Madam. This day thousand years I was married!"
'Twas not till a week later I discovered this to be a bon mot of Madame de Sevigne. His jewels are polished very fine, but 'tis not always in the Strawberry mine they are dug. But to our news--What will your Honour pay me for a penn'orth?
Tis of our beauty, Maria--ahem!--Walpole. The pretty angler has caught her fish--a big fish, a gold fish, even a golden-hearted fish, for't is Lord Waldegrave! A belted earl, a Knight of the Garter, no less, for the pretty milliner's daughter. You don't believe it, Kitty? Yet you must, for't is true, and sure. If beauty can shed a lustre over puddled blood, she has it. Lord Villiers, chief of the macaronis, said, yesterday was a week:--
"Of all the beauties Miss Walpole reigns supreme--if one could forget the little accident of birth! Her face, bloom, eyes, teeth, hair, and person are all perfection's self, and Nature broke the mould when she made this paragon, for I know none like her."
'Tis true, but 'tis so awkward with these folk that can't be presented nor can't meet this one nor that. Still, I have had her much to my routs and drums, where 'tis such an olla podrida that it matters not who comes. But Lady Waldegrave may go where she will; and certainly the bridegroom has nothing to object on the score of birth, for he comes from James the Second by the left hand, and for aught I know a left-hand milliner is as good these Republican days. Anyhow, 'tis so, and Horry, who would have all think him above such thoughts, is most demurely conceited that a Walpole--ahem!--should grace the British peerage. Remains now only Charlotte, and I dare swear she will carry her charms to no worse market than Maria, though not so great a Venus.
I went yesterday evening to the Bluestocking Circle at Mrs Montagu's fine house in Hill Street. I am not become learned, Kitty, but 'twas to hear the lionesses roar, and because I knew the Lord of Strawberry would be there and was wishful to hear his exultations. Lord preserve us, child, what a frightening place! We were ushered into the Chinese Room, lined with painted Pekin paper, and noble Chinese vases, and there were all the lions, male and female, in a circle--the Circle of the Universe. All the great ladies of the Bluestocking Court were there: the vastly learned Mrs Carter, Mrs Delany over from Ireland, the Swan of Lichfield Miss Anna Seward, Mrs Chapone, and other lionesses and cubesses. My dear, they sat in a half-moon, and behind them another half-moon of grave ecclesiastics and savants, and Horry at the head of them, in brown and gold brocade. 'Twas not sprightly, Kitty. 'Tis true these women are good and learned, and some of them well enough in looks; but 'tis so pretentious, so serious,--I lack a word!--so censorious of all that does not pull a long face, that, when Mrs Montagu rose to meet us with the shade of Shakespeare in attendance (for no lower footman would serve so majestic a lady), I had a desire to seize her two hands and gallop round the room with her, that I could scarce restrain. But sure she and the company had died of it!
I expected great information from such an assemblage, but 'twas but a snip-snap of talk--remarks passed from one to another, but served as it were on massy plate--long words, and too many of 'em. Dull, my dear, dull! And so 'twill always be when people aim to be clever. They do these things better in France, where they have no fear of laughter and the women sparkle without a visible machinery. 'Twas all standing on the mind's tip-toe here. And when the refreshments were served I made for Horry--
On silver vases loaded rise
The biscuits' ample sacrifice,
And incense pure of fragrant tea.
But Bluestockingism is nourished on tea as wit on wine. "So, Mr Walpole," says I, "what is this news I hear of Miss Maria? My felicitations to the bridegroom on the possession of so many charms."
And Horry with his bow:--