[Footnote 2:  Louis pretending to think he had said pansen.]

BATH—­WESLEY.

TO JOHN CHUTE, ESQ.

BATH, Oct. 10, 1766.

I am impatient to hear that your charity to me has not ended in the gout to yourself—­all my comfort is, if you have it, that you have good Lady Brown to nurse you.[1]

[Footnote 1:  In a letter of the preceding week he mentions having gone to Bath to drink the waters there, but “is disappointed in the city.  Their new buildings, that are so admired, look like a collection of little hospitals.  The rest is detestable, and all crammed together, and surrounded with perpendicular hills that have no beauty.  The river [the Avon] is paltry enough to be the Seine or the Tiber.  Oh! how unlike my lovely Thames!”]

My health advances faster than my amusement.  However, I have been to one opera, Mr. Wesley’s.  They have boys and girls with charming voices, that sing hymns, in parts, to Scotch ballad tunes; but indeed so long, that one would think they were already in eternity, and knew how much time they had before them.  The chapel is very neat, with true Gothic windows (yet I am not converted); but I was glad to see that luxury is creeping in upon them before persecution:  they have very neat mahogany stands for branches, and brackets of the same in taste.  At the upper end is a broad hautpas of four steps, advancing in the middle:  at each end of the broadest part are two of my eagles, with red cushions for the parson and clerk.  Behind them rise three more steps, in the midst of which is a third eagle for pulpit.  Scarlet armed chairs to all three.  On either hand, a balcony for elect ladies.  The rest of the congregation sit on forms.  Behind the pit, in a dark niche, is a plain table within rails; so you see the throne is for the apostle.  Wesley is a lean elderly man, fresh-coloured, his hair smoothly combed, but with a soupcon of curl at the ends.  Wondrous clean, but as evidently an actor as Garrick.  He spoke his sermon, but so fast, and with so little accent, that I am sure he has often uttered it, for it was like a lesson.  There were parts and eloquence in it; but towards the end he exalted his voice, and acted very ugly enthusiasm; decried learning, and told stories, like Latimer, of the fool of his college, who said, “I thanks God for everything.”  Except a few from curiosity, and some honourable women, the congregation was very mean.  There was a Scotch Countess of Buchan, who is carrying a pure rosy vulgar face to heaven, and who asked Miss Rich, if that was the author of the poets.  I believe she meant me and the “Noble Authors.”

The Bedfords came last night.  Lord Chatham was with me yesterday two hours; looks and walks well, and is in excellent political spirits.

MINISTERIAL DIFFICULTIES—­RETURN OF LORD CLIVE.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, July 20, 1767.