There is what is called a change of the ministry here; but it is only a crossing over and figuring in.  The Duc de Praslin has wished to retire for some time; and for this last fortnight there has been much talk of his being replaced by the Duc d’Aiguillon, the Duc de Nivernois, &c.; but it is plain, though not believed till now, that the Duc de Choiseul is all-powerful.  To purchase the stay of his cousin Praslin, on whom he can depend, and to leave no cranny open, he has ceded the marine and colonies to the Duc de Praslin, and taken the foreign and military department himself.  His cousin is, besides, named chef du conseil des finances; a very honourable, very dignified, and very idle place, and never filled since the Duc de Bethune had it.  Praslin’s hopeful cub, the Viscount, whom you saw in England last year, goes to Naples; and the Marquis de Durfort to Vienna—­a cold, dry, proud man, with the figure and manner of Lord Cornbury.

Great matters are expected to-day from the Parliament, which re-assembles.  A mousquetaire, his piece loaded with a lettre de cachet, went about a fortnight ago to the notary who keeps the parliamentary registers, and demanded them.  They were refused—­but given up, on the lettre de cachet being produced.  The Parliament intends to try the notary for breach of trust, which I suppose will make his fortune; though he has not the merit of perjury, like Carteret Webb.

There have been insurrections at Bourdeaux and Toulouse on the militia, and twenty-seven persons were killed at the latter; but both are appeased.  These things are so much in vogue, that I wonder the French do not dress a la revolte.  The Queen is in a very dangerous way.  This will be my last letter; but I am not sure I shall set out before the middle of next week.  Yours ever.

THE BATH GUIDE—­SWIFT’S CORRESPONDENCE.

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

STRAWBERRY HILL, June 20, 1766.

I don’t know when I shall see you, but therefore must not I write to you? yet I have as little to say as may be.  I could cry through a whole page over the bad weather.  I have but a lock of hay, you know, and I cannot get it dry, unless I bring it to the fire.  I would give half-a-crown for a pennyworth of sun.  It is abominable to be ruined in coals in the middle of June.

What pleasure have you to come! there is a new thing published, that will make you burst your cheeks with laughing.  It is called the “New Bath Guide."[1] It stole into the world, and for a fortnight no soul looked into it, concluding its name was its true name.  No such thing.  It is a set of letters in verse, in all kind of verses, describing the life at Bath, and incidentally everything else; but so much wit, so much humour, fun, and poetry, so much originality, never met together before.  Then the man has a better ear than Dryden or Handel. Apropos to Dryden, he has burlesqued his St. Cecilia, that you will never read it again without laughing.  There is a description of a milliner’s box in all the terms of landscape, painted lawns and chequered shades, a Moravian ode, and a Methodist ditty, that are incomparable, and the best names that ever were composed.  I can say it by heart, though a quarto, and if I had time would write it you down; for it is not yet reprinted, and not one to be had.