want cards or mirth.  Will you end like a fat farmer, repeating annually the price of oats, and discussing stale newspapers?  There have you got, I hear, into an old gallery, that has not been glazed since Queen Elizabeth, and under the nose of an infant Duke and Duchess, that will understand you no more than if you wore a ruff and a coif, and talk to them of a call of Serjeants the year of the Spanish Armada!  Your wit and humour will be as much lost upon them, as if you talked the dialect of Chaucer; for with all the divinity of wit, it grows out of fashion like a fardingale.  I am convinced that the young men at White’s already laugh at George Selwyn’s bon mots only by tradition.  I avoid talking before the youth of the age as I would dancing before them; for if one’s tongue don’t move in the steps of the day, and thinks to please by its old graces, it is only an object of ridicule, like Mrs. Hobart in her cotillon.  I tell you we should get together, and comfort ourselves with reflecting on the brave days that we have known—­not that I think people were a jot more clever or wise in our youth than they are now; but as my system is always to live in a vision as much as I can, and as visions don’t increase with years, there is nothing so natural as to think one remembers what one does not remember.

[Footnote 1:  Mrs. Clive was a celebrated comic actress and wit, and a near neighbour of Walpole at Twickenham.]

[Illustration:  STRAWBERRY HILL, FROM THE NORTH-WEST.]

I have finished my Tragedy ["The Mysterious Mother"], but as you would not bear the subject, I will say no more of it, but that Mr. Chute, who is not easily pleased, likes it, and Gray, who is still more difficult, approves it.  I am not yet intoxicated enough with it to think it would do for the stage, though I wish to see it acted; but, as Mrs. Pritchard[1] leaves the stage next month, I know nobody could play the Countess; nor am I disposed to expose myself to the impertinences of that jackanapes Garrick, who lets nothing appear but his own wretched stuff, or that of creatures still duller, who suffer him to alter their pieces as he pleases.  I have written an epilogue in character for the Clive, which she would speak admirably:  but I am not so sure that she would like to speak it.  Mr. Conway, Lady Aylesbury, Lady Lyttelton, and Miss Rich, are to come hither the day after to-morrow, and Mr. Conway and I are to read my play to them; for I have not strength enough to go through the whole alone.

[Footnote 1:  Mrs. Pritchard was the most popular tragic actress of the day.  Churchill gives her high praise—­

    In spite of outward blemishes, she shone
    For humour fam’d, and humour all her own.

("Rosciad,” 840.)]

My press is revived, and is printing a French play written by the old President Henault.[1] It was damned many years ago at Paris, and yet I think is better than some that have succeeded, and much better than any of our modern tragedies.  I print it to please the old man, as he was exceedingly kind to me at Paris; but I doubt whether he will live till it is finished.  He is to have a hundred copies, and there are to be but a hundred more, of which you shall have one.