[Footnote 1:  Pope Benedict XIV. had died in September; but there was not any suspicion that his death had not been entirely natural.]

Our elections are almost over.  Wilkes has taken possession of Middlesex without an enemy appearing against him; and, being as puissant a monarch as Henry the Eighth, and as little scrupulous, should, like him, date his acts From our Palace of Bridewell, in the tenth year of our reign.  He has, however, met with a heroine to stem the tide of his conquests; who, though not of Arc, nor a pucelle, is a true Joan in spirit, style, and manners.  This is her Grace of Northumberland [Lady Elizabeth Seymour], who has carried the mob of Westminster from him; sitting daily in the midst of Covent Garden; and will elect her son [Earl Percy] and Lord Thomas Clinton,[1] against Wilkes’s two candidates, Lord Mahon[2] and Lord Mountmorris.  She puts me in mind of what Charles the Second said of a foolish preacher, who was very popular in his parish:  “I suppose his nonsense suits their nonsense.”

[Footnote 1:  Second son of Henry, Duke of Newcastle.—­WALPOLE.]

[Footnote 2:  Only son of Earl Stanhope.—­WALPOLE.]

Let me sweeten my letter by making you smile.  A Quaker has been at Versailles; and wanted to see the Comtes de Provence and D’Artois dine in public, but would not submit to pull off his hat.  The Princes were told of it; and not only admitted him with his beaver on, but made him sit down and dine with them.  Was it not very sensible and good-humoured?  You and I know one who would not have been so gracious:  I do not mean my nephew Lord Cholmondeley.[1] Adieu!  I am tired to death.

[Footnote 1:  He means the Duke of Gloucester.—­WALPOLE.]

P.S.—­I have seen the Duchess of Beaufort; who sings your praises quite in a tune I like.  Her manner is much unpinioned to what it was, though her person remains as stately as ever; and powder is vastly preferable to those brown hairs, of whose preservation she was so fond.  I am not so struck with the beauty of Lady Mary[1] as I was three years ago.  Your nephew, Sir Horace, I see, by the papers, is come into Parliament:  I am glad of it.  Is not he yet arrived at Florence?

[Footnote 1:  Lady Mary Somerset, youngest daughter of Charles Noel, Duke of Beaufort.  She was afterwards married to the Duke of Rutland.—­WALPOLE.]

BURKE’S ELECTION AT BRISTOL—­RESEMBLANCE OF ONE HOUSE OF COMMONS TO ANOTHER—­COMFORT OF OLD AGE.

TO THE COUNTESS OF AILESBURY.

STRAWBERRY HILL, Nov. 7, 1774.

I have written such tomes to Mr. Conway,[1] Madam, and so nothing new to write, that I might as well, methinks, begin and end like the lady to her husband; “Je vous ecris parceque je n’ai rien a faire:  je finis parceque je n’ai rien a vous dire.”  Yes, I have two complaints to make, one of your ladyship, the other of myself.  You tell me nothing of Lady Harriet [Stanhope]: