shall only serve to terrify schoolboys, and for lessons of morality!  “Here stood St. Stephen’s Chapel; here young Catiline spoke; here was Lord Clive’s diamond-house; this is Leadenhall Street, and this broken column was part of the palace of a company of merchants[1] who were sovereigns of Bengal!  They starved millions in India by monopolies and plunder, and almost raised a famine at home by the luxury occasioned by their opulence, and by that opulence raising the price of everything, till the poor could not purchase bread!” Conquest, usurpation, wealth, luxury, famine—­one knows how little farther the genealogy has to go.  If you like it better in Scripture phrase, here it is:  Lord Chatham begot the East India Company; the East India Company begot Lord Clive; Lord Clive begot the Maccaronis, and they begot poverty; all the race are still living; just as Clodius was born before the death of Julius Caesar.  There is nothing more like than two ages that are very like; which is all that Rousseau means by saying, “give him an account of any great metropolis, and he will foretell its fate.”  Adieu!

[Footnote 1:  “A company of merchants.” “A mighty prince held domination over India; his name was Koompanee Jehan.  Although this monarch had innumerable magnificent palaces at Delhi and Agra, at Benares, Boggleywallah, and Ahmednuggar, his common residence was in the beautiful island of Ingleez, in the midst of the capital of which, the famous city of Lundoon, Koompanee Jehan had a superb castle.  It was called the Hall of Lead, and stood at the foot of the mountain of Corn, close by the verdure-covered banks of the silvery Tameez, where the cypresses wave, and zendewans, or nightingales, love to sing” (Thackeray, “Life of Sir C. Napier,” iv. p. 158).]

AN ANSWER TO HIS “HISTORIC DOUBTS”—­HIS EDITION OF GRAMMONT.

TO THE REV.  WILLIAM COLE.

ARLINGTON STREET, Jan. 8, 1773.

In return to your very kind inquiries, dear Sir, I can let you know, that I am quite free from pain, and walk a little about my room, even without a stick:  nay, have been four times to take the air in the Park.  Indeed, after fourteen weeks this is not saying much; but it is a worse reflection, that when one is subject to the gout and far from young, one’s worst account will probably be better than that after the next fit.  I neither flatter myself on one hand, nor am impatient on the other—­for will either do one any good? one must bear one’s lot whatever it be.

I rejoice Mr. Gulston has justice,[1] though he had no bowels.  How Gertrude More escaped him I do not guess.  It will be wrong to rob you of her, after she has come to you through so many hazards—­nor would I hear of it either, if you have a mind to keep her, or have not given up all thoughts of a collection since you have been visited by a Visigoth.

[Footnote 1:  Mr. Gulston now fully remunerated Mr. Cole in a valuable present of books.—­WALPOLE.]