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lost to me! I must not, cannot repine at your having a fortune that delivers you from uneasy connexions with a world that is sure to use ill those that have any dependence on it; but undoubtedly some of the satisfaction that you have acquired is taken out of my scale; I will not, however, moralize, though I am in a very proper humour for it, being just come home from an outrageous crowd at Northumberlandhouse, where there were five hundred people, that would have been equally content or discontent with any other five hundred. This is pleasure! You invite so many people to your house, that you are forced to have constables at your door to keep the peace; just as the royal family, when they hunted, used to be attended by surgeons. I allow honour and danger to keep company with one another, but diversion and breaking one's neck are strangely ill-matched. Mr. Spence's Magliabechi is published to-day from Strawberry; I believe you saw it, and shall have it; but 'tis not worth sending you on purpose. However, it is full good enough for the generality of readers. At least there is a proper dignity in my saying so, who have been so much abused in all the magazines lately for my Catalogue. The chief points in dispute lie in a very narrow compass: they think I don't understand English, and I am sure they don't: yet they will not be convinced, for I shall certainly not take the pains to set them right. Who them are I don't know; the highest, I believe, are Dr. Smollet, or some chaplain of my uncle.

Adieu! I was very silly to alarm you so; but the wisest of us, from Solomon to old Carr's cousin, are poor souls! May be you don't know any thing of Carr's cousin. Why then, Carr's cousin was-I don't know who; but Carr was very ill, and had a cousin, as I may be, to sit up with her. Carr had not slept for many nightsat last she dozed-her cousin jogged her: "Cousin, cousin!" Well!" said Carr, "what would you have ?"-" Only, cousin, if you die where will you be buried?" be buried?" This resemblance mortifies me ten times more than a thousand reviews could do: there is nothing in being abused by Carr's cousin, but it is horrid to be like Carr's cousin! Good night!

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

Arlington Street, Feb. 9, 1759.

THE Dutch have not declared war and interrupted our correspondence, and yet it seems ceased as if we had declared war with one another. I have not heard from you this age-how happens it? I have not seized any ships of yours--you carry on no counterband trade-oh! perhaps you are gone incognito to Turin, are determined to have a King of Prussia of your own! I expect to hear that the King of Sardinia, accompanied by Sir Horace Mann, the British

Mr. Spence's Parallel of Magliabechi and Hill.—E.

minister, suddenly appeared before Parma at the head of an hundred thousand men, that had been privately landed at Leghorn. I beg, as Harlequin did when he had a house to sell, that you will send me a brick, as a sample of the first town you take-the Strawberry-press shall be preparing a congratulatory ode.

The Princess Royal has been dead some time: and yet the Dutch and we continue in amity, and put on our weepers together. In the mean time our warlike eggs have been some time under the hen, and one has hatched and produced Gorée. The expedition, called to Quebec, departs on Tuesday next, under Wolfe, and George Townshend, who has thrust himself again into the service, and as far as wrongheadedness will go, very proper for a hero. Wolfe, who was no friend of Mr. Conway last year, and for whom I consequently have no affection, has great merit, spirit, and alacrity, and shone extremely at Louisbourg. I am not such a Juno but I will forgive him after eleven more labours. Prince Edward asked to go with them, but was refused. It is clever in him to wish to distinguish himself; I, who have no partiality to royal blood, like his good-nature and good-breeding.

Except the horrid Portuguese histories, that between Jesuits and executions make one's blood run hot and cold, we have no news. The Parliament has taken a quieting-draught. Of private story, the Duchess of Hamilton is going to marry Colonel Campbell, Lady Ailesbury's brother. It is a match that would not disgrace Arcadia. Her beauty has made sufficient noise, and in some people's eyes is even improved he has a most pleasing countenance, person, and manner, and if they could but carry to Scotland some of our sultry English weather, they might restore the ancient pastoral life, when fair Kings and Queens reigned at once over their subjects and their sheep. Besides, exactly like antediluvian lovers, they reconcile contending clans, the great houses of Hamilton and Campbell-and all this is brought about by a Gunning! I talked of our sultry weather, and this is no air. While Italy, I suppose, is buried in snow, we are extinguishing fires, and panting for breath. In short, we have had a wonderful winter-beyond an earthquake winter-we shall soon be astonished at frost, like an Indian. Shrubs and flowers and blossoms are all in their pride; I am not sure that in some counties the corn is

not cut.

I long to hear from you; I think I never was so long without a letter. I hope it is from no bad reason. Adieu!

a

Speaking of Wolfe in his Memoires, Walpole says, "Ambition, industry, passion for the service, were conspicuous in him. He seemed to breathe for nothing but fame, and lost no moments in qualifying himself to compass that object. Presumption on himself was necessary for his object, and he had it. He was formed to execute the designs of such a master as Pitt."-E.

b The strange and mysterious conspiracy against the life of the King of Portugal, which was attempted as he was going one night through the streets of Lisbon in his coach. Many Jesuits were put to death for it, and also several of the noble families of the Dukes d'Aveiro, and Marquises of Tavora.-D. [See antè, p. 456.]

TO MR. GRAY.

Arlington Street, Feb. 15, 1759.

THE enclosed, which I have this minute received from Mr. Bentley, explains much that I had to say to you-yet I have a question or

two more.

Who and what sort of a man is a Mr. Sharp of Benet? I have received a most obliging and genteel letter from him, with the very letter of Edward VI. which you was so good as to send me. I have answered his, but should like to know a little more about him. Pray thank the Dean of Lincoln too for me: I am much obliged to him for his offer, but had rather draw upon his Lincolnship than his Cambridgehood. In the library of the former are some original letters of Tiptoft, as you will find in my Catalogue. When Dr. Greene is there,

I shall be glad if he will let me have them copied.

I will thank you if you will look in some provincial history of Ireland for Odo (Hugh) Oneil, King of Ulster. When did he live? I have got a most curious seal of his, and know no more of him than of Quacraw King of the Pawwaws.

I wanted to ask you, whether you, or any body that you believe in, believe in the Queen of Scots' letter to Queen Elizabeth. If it is genuine, I don't wonder she cut her head off-but I think it must be some forgery that was not made use of.

Now to my distress. You must have seen an advertisement, perhaps the book itself, the villanous book itself, that has been published to defend me against the Critical Review. I have been childishly unhappy about it, and had drawn up a protestation or affidavit of my knowing nothing of it; but my friends would not let me publish it. I sent to the printer, who would not discover the author-nor could I guess. They tell me nobody can suspect my being privy to it: but there is an intimacy affected that I think will deceive many-and yet I must be the most arrogant fool living, if I could know and suffer any body to speak of me in that style. For God's sake do all you can for me, and publish my abhorrence. To-day I am told that it is that puppy Dr. Hill, who has chosen to make war with the magazines through my sides. I could pardon him any abuse, but I never can forgive this friendship. Adieu!

a He was master of Benet College, Cambridge.

b See Murden's State Papers, p. 558, for this curious letter.

It was called "Observations on the account given of the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors of England, &c. &c. in article vi. of the Critical Review, No. XXV, for December, 1758, where the unwarrantable liberties taken with that work, and the honourable author of it, are examined and exposed."

TO THE RIGHT HON. LADY HERVEY.

Feb. 20, 1759.

I MET with this little book t'other day by chance, and it pleased me so much that I cannot help lending it to your ladyship, as I know it will amuse you from the same causes. It contains many of those important truths which history is too proud to tell, and too dull from not telling.

Here Grignon's soul the living canvass warms:
Here fair Fontagne assumes unfading charms:
Here Mignard's pencil bows to female wit;
Louis rewards, but ratifics Fayette:

The philosophic duke, and painter too,

Thought from her thoughts-from her ideas drew.

TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.a

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. Indeed, there is but one opinion about Mr. Robertson's History. 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 1 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,

a Now first collected.

Dr. Robertson's "History of Scotland during the Reigns of Mary and James the Sixth," was published in the beginning of this month.-E.

C

Allan Ramsay, the eminent portrait-painter, and eldest son of the poet; on whose death, in 1757, in somewhat embarrassed circumstances, he paid his debts. He was an excellent classical scholar, understood French and Italian, and had all the polish and liberal feeling of a highly instructed man. In Bouquet's pamphlet on "The Present State of the Fine Arts in England," published in 1755, he is described as "an able painter, who, acknowledging no other guide than nature, brought a rational taste of resemblance with him from Italy." He died in 1784.-E.

considering the numbers there are. A very few years ago there were computed two thousand portrait painters in London; I do not exagge. rate the computation, but diminish; 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.

I fear I neglected, Sir, to thank you for your present of the history of the conspiracy of the Gowries; but I shall never forget all the obligations I have to you. I don't doubt but in Scotland you approve what is liked here almost as much as Mr. Robertson's history; I mean the marriage of Colonel Campbell and the Duchess of Hamilton. If her fortune is singular, so is her merit. Such uncommon noise as her beauty made has not at all impaired the modesty of her behaviour. Adieu !

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

Strawberry Hill, March 4, 1759.

I KNOW you are ministerial enough, or patriot enough, (two words that it is as much the fashion to couple now as it was formerly to part them,) to rejoice over the least bit of a conquest, and therefore I hurry to send you a morsel of Martinico, which you may lay under your head, and dream of having taken the whole island. As dreams often go by contraries, you must not be surprised if you wake and find we have been beaten back; but at this present moment we are all dreaming of victory. A frigate has been taken going to France with an account that our troops landed on the island on the 16th of January, without opposition. A seventy-gun ship was dismissed at the same time, which is thought a symptom of their not intending to resist. It certainly is not Mr. Pitt's fault if we have not great success; and if we have, it is certainly owing to him. The French talk of invading us; I hope they will not come quite so near either to victory or defeat, as to land on our Martinico! But you are going to have a war of your own. Pray send me all your gazettes extraordinary. I wish the King of Sardinia's heroism may not be grown a little rusty. Time was when he was the only King in Europe that had fought in his waistcoat; but now the King of Prussia has almost made it part of their coronation oath. Apropos, pray remember that the Emperor's pavilion is not the Emperor's pavillon; though you are so far in the right, that he may have a pavilion, but I don't conceive how he comes by a pavillon. What Tuscan colours has he, unless a streamer upon the belfry at Leghorn? You was so deep in politics when you wrote your last letter, that it was almost in cipher, and as I don't happen to have a key to bad writing, I could not read a word

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