[Footnote 1:  Lord North succeeded Townshend as Chancellor of the Exchequer; and, when the Duke of Grafton retired, he became First Lord of the Treasury also, and continued to hold both offices till the spring of 1782.]

While that eccentric genius, Charles Townshend, whom no system could contain, is whirled out of existence, our more artificial meteor, Lord Chatham, seems to be wheeling back to the sphere of business—­at least his health is declared to be re-established; but he has lost his adorers, the mob, and I doubt the wise men will not travel after his light.

You, my dear Sir, will be most concerned for the poor Duke of York,[1] who has ended his silly, good-humoured, troublesome career, in a piteous manner.  He had come to the camp at Compiegne, without his brother’s approbation, but had been received here not only with every proper mark of distinction, but with the utmost kindness.  He had succeeded, too, was attentive, civil, obliging, lively, pleased, and very happy in his replies.  Charmed with a Court so lively in comparison of the monastic scene at home, he had promised to return for Fontainebleau, and then scampered away as fast as he could ride or drive all round the South of France, intending to visit a lady at Genoa, with whom he was in love, whenever he had a minute’s time.  The Duc de Villars gave him a ball at his country-house, between Aix and Marseilles; the Duke of York danced at it all night as hard as if it made part of his road, and then in a violent sweat, and without changing his linen, got into his postchaise.  At Marseilles the scene changed.  He arrived in a fever, and found among his letters, which he had ordered to meet him there, one from the King his brother, forbidding him to go to Compiegne, by the advice of the Hereditary Prince.  He was struck with this letter, which he had ignorantly disobeyed, and by the same ignorance had not answered.  He proceeded, however, on his journey, but grew so ill that his gentlemen carried him to Monaco, where he arrived on the third, and languished with great suffering until the seventeenth.  He behaved with the most perfect tranquillity and courage, made a short will, and the day before he died dictated to Colonel St. John, a letter to the King, in which he begged his forgiveness for every instance in which he had offended him, and entreated his favour to his servants.  He would have particularly recommended St. John, but the young man said handsomely, “Sir, if the letter were written by your Royal Highness yourself, it would be most kind to me; but I cannot name myself.”  The Prince of Monaco, who happened to be on the spot, was unbounded in his attentions to him, both of care and honours; and visited him every hour till the Duke grew too weak to see him.  Two days before he died the Duke sent for the Prince, and thanked him.  The Prince burst into tears and could not speak, and retiring, begged the Duke’s officers to prevent his being sent for again, for the shock was too great.  They