My letters, I think, are rather eras than journals.  Three days ago commenced another date—­the establishment of a family for the Prince of Wales.  I do not know all the names, and fewer of the faces that compose it; nor intend.  I, who kissed the hand of George I., have no colt’s tooth for the Court of George IV.  Nothing is so ridiculous as an antique face in a juvenile drawing-room.  I believe that they who have spirits enough to be absurd in their decrepitude, are happy, for they certainly are not sensible of their folly; but I, who have never forgotten what I thought in my youth of such superannuated idiots, dread nothing more than misplacing myself in my old age.  In truth, I feel no such appetite; and, excepting the young of my own family, about whom I am interested, I have mighty small satisfaction in the company of posterity; for so the present generation seem to me.  I would contribute anything to their pleasure, but what cannot contribute to it—­my own presence.  Alas! how many of this age are swept away before me:  six thousand have been mowed down at once by the late hurricane at Barbadoes alone!  How Europe is paying the debts it owes to America!  Were I a poet, I would paint hosts of Mexicans and Peruvians crowding the shores of Styx, and insulting the multitudes of the usurpers of their continent that have been sending themselves thither for these five or six years.  The poor Africans, too, have no call to be merciful to European ghosts.  Those miserable slaves have just now seen whole crews of men-of-war swallowed by the late hurricane.

We do not yet know the extent of our loss.  You would think it very slight, if you saw how little impression it makes on a luxurious capital.  An overgrown metropolis has less sensibility than marble; nor can it be conceived by those not conversant in one.  I remember hearing what diverted me then; a young gentlewoman, a native of our rock, St. Helena, and who had never stirred beyond it, being struck with the emotion occasioned there by the arrival of one or two of our China ships, said to the captain, “There must be a great solitude in London as often as the China ships come away!” Her imagination could not have compassed the idea, if she had been told that six years of war, the absence of an army of fifty or sixty thousand men of all our squadrons, and a new debt of many, many millions, would not make an alteration in the receipts at the door of a single theatre in London.  I do not boast of, or applaud, this profligate apathy.  When pleasure is our business, our business is never pleasure; and, if four wars cannot awaken us, we shall die in a dream!

NAVAL MOVEMENTS—­SIEGE OF GIBRALTAR—­FEMALE FASHIONS.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

BERKELEY SQUARE, Sept. 7, 1781.