"M. W. M."
What a picture we have of Mrs. Lowther! How the Mall is revived with its strollers of fashion and beauty!
"I am yet in this wicked town, but purpose to leave it as soon as the parliament rises. Mrs. Murray and all her satellites have so seldom fallen in my way, I can say little about them. Your old friend Mrs. Lowther is still fair and young, and in pale pink every night in the parks."
To the name of Mrs. Lowther is appended the following note,—and we do not know that we ever remember an anecdote, in years, better set off.
"Mrs. Lowther was a respectable woman, single, and, as it appears by the text, not willing to own herself middle-aged. Another lady happened to be sitting at breakfast with her when an awkward country lad, new in her service, brought word that 'there was one as begged to speak to her.'—'What is his name?'—'Don't know.'—'What sort of person? a gentleman?'—'Can't say rightly.'—'Go and ask him his business.'—The fellow returned grinning. 'Why, madam, he says as how—he says he is—'—'Well, what does he say, fool?'—'He says he is one as dies for your ladyship.'—'Dies for me! exclaimed the lady, the more incensed from seeing her friend inclined to laugh as well as her footman,—'was there ever such a piece of insolence! Turn him out of my house this minute. And hark ye, shut the door in his face.' The clown obeyed; but going to work more roughly than John Bull will ever admit of, produced a scuffle that disturbed the neighbours and called in the constable. At last the audacious lover, driven to explain himself, proved nothing worse than an honest tradesman, a dyer, whom her ladyship often employed to refresh her old gowns."
Can the following trifle of whipt fashion and satire be surpassed even by the pointed and light pleasantries of Walpole?
"Cavendish-square, 1727.
"My Lady Stafford[22] set out towards France this morning, and has carried half the pleasures of my life along with her; I am more stupid than I can describe, and am as full of moral reflections as either Cambray or Pascal. I think of nothing but the nothingness of the good things of this world, the transitoriness of its joys, the pungency of its sorrows, and many discoveries that have been made these three thousand years, and committed to print ever since the first erecting of presses. I advise you, as the best thing you can do that day, let it happen as it will, to visit Lady Stafford: she has the goodness to carry with her a true-born Englishwoman, who is neither good nor bad, nor capable of being either; Lady Phil Prat by name, of the Hamilton family, and who will be glad of your acquaintance, and you can never be sorry for hers.[23]
"Peace or war, cross or pile, makes all the conversation; this town never was fuller, and, God be praised, some people brille in it who brilled twenty years ago. My cousin Buller is of that number, who is just what she was in all respects when she inhabited Bond-street. The sprouts of this age are such green withered things, 'tis a great comfort to us grown up people: I except my own daughter, who is to be the ornament of the ensuing court. I beg you will exact from Lady Stafford a particular of her perfections, which would sound suspected from my hand; at the same time I must do justice to a little twig belonging to my sister Gower. Miss Jenny is like the Duchess of Queensberry both in face and spirit. A propos of family affairs: I had almost forgot our dear and amiable cousin Lady Denbigh, who has blazed out all this winter; she has brought with her from Paris cart-loads of riband, surprising fashion, and of a complexion of the last edition, which naturally attracts all the she and he fools in London; and accordingly she is surrounded with a little court of both, and keeps a Sunday assembly to shew she has learned to play at cards on that day. Lady Frances Fielding[24] is really the prettiest woman in town, and has sense enough to make one's heart ache to see her surrounded with such fools as her relations are. The man in England that gives the greatest pleasure, and the greatest pain, is a youth of royal blood, with all his grandmother's beauty, wit and good qualities. In short, he is Nell Gwin in person, with the sex altered, and occasions such fracas amongst the ladies of gallantry that it passes description. You'll stare to hear of her Grace of Cleveland at the head of them.[25] If I was poetical I would tell you—
"The god of love, enrag'd to see The nymph despise his flame, At dice and cards misspend her nights, And slight a nobler game;