[Footnote 1:  Mme. d’Albany was the widow of Prince Charles Edward, who had died in 1788 in Italy.  She was presented at Court, and was graciously received by the Queen.  She was generally believed to be married to the great Italian tragic poet, Alfieri.  Since her husband’s death she had been living in Paris, but had now fled to England for safety.]

[Footnote 2:  Mrs. Fitzherbert, the Roman Catholic lady whom the Prince of Wales had married.]

I am glad you are dis_franchised_ of the exiles.  We have several, I am told, here; but I strictly confine myself to those I knew formerly at Paris, and who all are quartered on Richmond-green.  I went to them on Sunday evening, but found them gone to Lord Fitzwilliam’s, the next house to Madame de Boufflers’, to hear his organ; whither I followed them, and returned with them.  The Comtesse Emilie played on her harp; then we all united at loto.  I went home at twelve, unrobbed; and Lord Fitzwilliam, who asked much after you both, was to set out the next morning for Dublin, though intending to stay there but four days, and be back in three weeks.

I am sorry you did not hear all Monsieur de Lally Tollendal’s[1] Tragedy, of which I have had a good account.  I like his tribute to his father’s memory.  Of French politics you must be tired; and so am I. Nothing appears to me to promise their chaos duration; consequently I expect more chaos, the sediment of which is commonly despotism.  Poland ought to make the French blush; but that, they are not apt to do on any occasion....

[Footnote 1:  M. de Lally Tollendal was the son of that unfortunate Count Lally, so iniquitously condemned for his conduct in the government of India, as is mentioned in a former note.]

The Duke of St. Albans has cut down all the brave old trees at Hanworth, and consequently reduced his park to what it issued from—­Hounslow-heath:  nay, he has hired a meadow next to mine, for the benefit of embarkation; and there lie all the good old corpses of oaks, ashes, and chestnuts, directly before your windows, and blocking up one of my views of the river! but so impetuous is the rage for building, that his Grace’s timber will, I trust, not annoy us long.  There will soon be one street from London to Brentford; ay, and from London to every village ten miles round!  Lord Camden has just let ground at Kentish Town for building fourteen hundred houses—­nor do I wonder; London is, I am certain, much fuller than ever I saw it.  I have twice this spring been going to stop my coach in Piccadilly, to inquire what was the matter, thinking there was a mob—­not at all; it was only passengers.  Nor is there any complaint of depopulation from the country:  Bath shoots out into new crescents, circuses, and squares every year:  Birmingham, Manchester, Hull, and Liverpool would serve any King in Europe for a capital, and would make the Empress of Russia’s mouth water.  Of the war with Catherine Slay-Czar I hear not a breath, and thence conjecture it is dozing into peace.