We are in hourly expectation of hearing that a nymph, more common still than the two I have mentioned, has occasioned what Wilkes has failed in now, a change in an administration.  I mean the Comtesse du Barri.[1] The grands habits are made, and nothing wanting for her presentation but—­what do you think? some woman of quality to present her.  In that servile Court and country, the nobility have had spirit enough to decline paying their court, though the King has stooped a des bassesses to obtain it.  The Duc de Choiseul will be the victim; and they pretend to say that he has declared he will resign a l’Anglaise, rather than be chasse by such a creature.  His indiscretion is astonishing:  he has said at his own table, and she has been told so, “Madame du Barri est tres mal informee; on ne parle pas des Catins chez moi.”  Catin diverts herself and King Solomon the wise with tossing oranges into the air after supper, and crying, “Saute, Choiseul! saute, Praslin!” and then Solomon laughs heartily.  Sometimes she flings powder in his sage face, and calls him Jean Farine!  Well! we are not the foolishest nation in Europe yet!  It is supposed that the Duc d’Aiguillon will be the successor.

[Footnote 1:  This woman, one of the very lowest of the low, had caught the fancy of Louis XV.; and, as according to the curious etiquette of the French Court, it was indispensable that a king’s mistress should be married, the Comte du Barri, a noble of old family, but ruined by gambling, was induced to marry her.]

I am going to send away this letter, because you will be impatient, and the House will not rise probably till long after the post is gone out.  I did not think last May that you would hear this February that there was an end of mobs, that Wilkes was expelled, and the colonies quieted.  However, pray take notice that I do not stir a foot out of the province of gazetteer into that of prophet.  I protest, I know no more than a prophet what is to come.  Adieu!

A GARDEN PARTY AT STRAWBERRY—­A RIDOTTO AT VAUXHALL.

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

ARLINGTON STREET, May 11, 1769.

You are so wayward, that I often resolve to give you up to your humours.  Then something happens with which I can divert you, and my good-nature returns.  Did not you say you should return to London long before this time?  At least, could you not tell me you had changed your mind? why am I to pick it out from your absence and silence, as Dr. Warburton found a future state in Moses’s saying nothing of the matter!  I could go on with a chapter of severe interrogatories, but I think it more cruel to treat you as a hopeless reprobate; yes, you are graceless, and as I have a respect for my own scolding, I shall not throw it away upon you.