Part 11

ARLINGTON STREET, March 29, 1745.

I begged your brother to tell you what it was impossible for me to tell you. You share nearly in our common loss! Don't expect me to enter at all upon the subject. After the melancholy two months that I have passed, and in my situation, you will not wonder I shun a conversation which could not be bounded by a letter--a letter that would grow into a panegyric, or a piece of moral; improper for me to write upon, and too distressful for us both!--a death is only to be felt, never to be talked over by those it touches!

I had yesterday your letter of three sheets: I began to flatter myself that the storm was blown over, but I tremble to think of the danger you are in! a danger, in which even the protection of the great friend you have lost could have been of no service to you. How ridiculous it seems for me to renew protestations of my friendship for you, at an instant when my father is just dead, and the Spaniards just bursting into Tuscany! How empty a charm would my name have, when all my interest and significance are buried in my father's grave! All hopes of present peace, the only thing that could save you, seem vanished. We expect every day to hear of the French declaration of war against Holland. The new Elector of Bavaria is French, like his father; and the King of Spain is not dead. I don't know how to talk to you. I have not even a belief that the Spaniards will spare Tuscany. My dear child, what will become of you? whither will you retire till a peace restores you to your ministry? for upon that distant view alone I repose!

We are every day nearer confusion. The King is in as bad humour as a monarch can be; he wants to go abroad, and is detained by the Mediterranean affair; the inquiry into which was moved by a Major Selwyn, a dirty pensioner, half-turned patriot, by the Court being overstocked with votes. This inquiry takes up the whole time of the House of Commons, but I don't see what conclusion it can have. My confinement has kept me from being there, except the first day; and all I know of what is yet come out is, as it was stated by a Scotch member the other day, "that there had been one (Matthews) with a bad head, another (Lestock) with a worse heart, and four (the captains of the inactive ships) with na heart at all." Among the numerous visits of form that I have received, one was from my Lord Sandys: as we two could only converse upon general topics, we fell upon this of the Mediterranean, and I made him allow, "that, to be sure, there is not so bad a court of justice in the world as the House of Commons; and how hard it is upon any man to have his cause tried there!"...

The town flocks to a new play of Thomson's called "Tancred and Sigismunda:" it is very dull; I have read it. I cannot bear modern poetry; these refiners of the purity of the stage, and of the incorrectness of English verse, are most wofully insipid. I had rather have written the most absurd lines in Lee, than "Leonidas" or "The Seasons;" as I had rather be put into the round-house for a wrong-headed quarrel, than sup quietly at eight o'clock with my grandmother. There is another of these tame genius's, a Mr. Akenside, who writes Odes: in one he has lately published, he says, "Light the tapers, urge the fire." Had not you rather make gods "jostle in the dark," than light the candles for fear they should break their heads? One Russel, a mimic, has a puppet-show to ridicule Operas; I hear, very dull, not to mention its being twenty years too late: it consists of three acts, with foolish Italian songs burlesqued in Italian.

Urge the warm bowl, and ruddy fire.]

There is a very good quarrel on foot between two duchesses: she of Queensberry sent to invite Lady Emily Lenox to a ball: her Grace of Richmond, who is wonderfully cautious since Lady Caroline's elopement [with Mr. Fox], sent word, "she could not determine." The other sent again the same night: the same answer. The Queensberry then sent word, that she had made up her company, and desired to be excused from having Lady Emily's: but at the bottom of the card wrote, "too great a trust." You know how mad she is, and how capable of such a stroke. There is no declaration of war come out from the other Duchess; but, I believe it will be made a national quarrel of the whole illegitimate royal family.

It is the present fashion to make conundrums: there are books of them printed, and produced at all assemblies: they are full silly enough to be made a fashion. I will tell you the most renowned: "Why is my uncle Horace like two people conversing?--Because he is both teller and auditor." This was Winnington's....

I will take the first opportunity to send Dr. Cocchi his translated book; I have not yet seen it myself.

Adieu! my dearest child! I write with a house full of relations, and must conclude. Heaven preserve you and Tuscany.

BATTLE OF FONTENOY--THE BALLAD OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

ARLINGTON STREET, May 11, 1745.

I stayed till to-day, to be able to give you some account of the battle of Tournay: the outlines you will have heard already. We don't allow it to be a victory on the French side: but that is, just as a woman is not called Mrs. till she is married, though she may have had half-a-dozen natural children. In short, we remained upon the field of battle three hours; I fear, too many of us remain there still! without palliating, it is certainly a heavy stroke. We never lost near so many officers. I pity the Duke [of Cumberland], for it is almost the first battle of consequence that we ever lost. By the letters arrived to-day, we find that Tournay still holds out. There are certainly killed Sir James Campbell, General Ponsonby, Colonel Carpenter, Colonel Douglas, young Ross, Colonel Montagu, Gee, Berkeley, and Kellet. Mr. Vanburgh is since dead. Most of the young men of quality in the Guards are wounded. I have had the vast fortune to have nobody hurt, for whom I was in the least interested. Mr. Conway, in particular, has highly distinguished himself; he and Lord Petersham, who is slightly wounded, are most commended; though none behaved ill but the Dutch horse. There has been but very little consternation here: the King minded it so little, that being set out for Hanover, and blown back into Harwich roads since the news came, he could not be persuaded to return, but sailed yesterday with the fair wind. I believe you will have the Gazette sent to-night; but lest it should not be printed time enough, here is a list of the numbers, as it came over this morning:

British foot 1237 killed. Ditto horse 90 ditto. Ditto foot 1968 wounded. Ditto horse 232 ditto. Ditto foot 457 missing. Ditto horse 18 ditto. Hanoverian foot 432 killed. Ditto horse 78 ditto. Ditto foot 950 wounded. Ditto horse 192 ditto. Ditto horse and foot 53 missing. Dutch 625 killed and wounded. Ditto 1019 missing.

So the whole hors de combat is above seven thousand three hundred. The French own the loss of three thousand; I don't believe many more, for it was a most rash and desperate perseverance on our side. The Duke behaved very bravely and humanely; but this will not have advanced the peace.

However coolly the Duke may have behaved, and coldly his father, at least his brother [the Prince of Wales] has outdone both. He not only went to the play the night the news came, but in two days made a ballad. It is in imitation of the Regent's style, and has miscarried in nothing but the language, the thoughts, and the poetry. Did not I tell you in my last that he was going to act Paris in Congreve's "Masque"? The song is addressed to the goddesses.

Venez, mes chères Déesses, Venez calmer mon chagrin; Aidez, mes belles Princesses, A le noyer dans le vin. Poussons cette douce Ivresse Jusqu'au milieu de la nuit, Et n'écoutons que la tendresse D'un charmant vis-à-vis.

II.

Quand le chagrin me dévore, Vite à table je me mets, Loin des objets que j'abhorre, Avec joie j'y trouve la paix. Peu d'amis, restes d'un naufrage Je rassemble autour de moi, Et je me ris de l'étalage Qu'a chez lui toujours un Roi.

III.

Que m'importe, que l'Europe Ait un, ou plusieurs tyrans? Prions seulement Calliope, Qu'elle inspire nos vers, nos chants Laissons Mars et toute la gloire; Livrons nous tous à l'amour; Que Bacchus nous donne à boire; A ces deux faisons la cour.

IV.

Passons ainsi notre vie, Sans rêver à ce qui suit; Avec ma chère Sylvie Le tems trop vîte me fuit. Mais si, par un malheur extrême, Je perdois cet objet charmant, Oui, cette compagnie même Ne me tiendroit un moment.

Me livrant à ma tristesse, Toujours plein de mon chagrin, Je n'aurois plus d'allégresse Pour mettre Bathurst en train: Ainsi pour vous tenir en joie Invoquez toujours les Dieux, Qu'elle vive et qu'elle soit Avec nous toujours heureuse!

Adieu! I am in great hurry.

M. DE GRIGNAN--LIVY'S PATAVINITY--THE MARÉCHAL DE BELLEISLE--WHISTON PROPHECIES THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD--THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.