LETTER CCIV

Bath, December 14, 1756.

My dear friend:  What can I say to you from this place, where every day is still but as the first, though by no means so agreeably passed, as Anthony describes his to have been?  The same nothings succeed one another every day with me, as, regularly and uniformly as the hours of the day.  You will think this tiresome, and so it is; but how can I help it?  Cut off from society by my deafness, and dispirited by my ill health, where could I be better?  You will say, perhaps, where could you be worse?  Only in prison, or the galleys, I confess.  However, I see a period to my stay here; and I have fixed, in my own mind, a time for my return to London; not invited there by either politics or pleasures, to both which I am equally a stranger, but merely to be at home; which, after all, according to the vulgar saying, is home, be it ever so homely.

The political settlement, as it is called, is, I find, by no means settled; Mr. Fox, who took this place in his way to his brother’s, where he intended to pass a month, was stopped short by an express, which he received from his connection, to come to town immediately; and accordingly he set out from hence very early, two days ago.  I had a very long conversation with him, in which he was, seemingly at least, very frank and communicative; but still I own myself in the dark.  In those matters, as in most others, half knowledge (and mine is at most that) is more apt to lead one into error, than to carry one to truth; and our own vanity contributes to the seduction.  Our conjectures pass upon us for truths; we will know what we do not know, and often, what we cannot know:  so mortifying to our pride is the bare suspicion of ignorance!

It has been reported here that the Empress of Russia is dying; this would be a fortunate event indeed for the King of Prussia, and necessarily produce the neutrality and inaction, at least, of that great power; which would be a heavy weight taken out of the opposite scale to the King of Prussia.  The ‘Augustissima’ must, in that case, do all herself; for though France will, no doubt, promise largely, it will, I believe, perform but scantily; as it desires no better than that the different powers of Germany should tear one another to pieces.

I hope you frequent all the courts:  a man should make his face familiar there.  Long habit produces favor insensibly; and acquaintance often does more than friendship, in that climate where ‘les beaux sentimens’ are not the natural growth.

Adieu!  I am going to the ball, to save my eyes from reading, and my mind from thinking.

LETTERS TO HIS SON

LETTER CCV

Bath, January 12, 1757