(165) This ballad does not appear.

(166) The tragedy of “Gustavus Vasa,” by Henry Brooke, author of “The Fool of Quality.”  It was rehearsed at Drury Lane; but, as it was supposed to satirize Sir Robert Walpole, it was prohibited to be acted.  This, however, did Brooke no injury, as he was encouraged to publish the play by subscription.-E.

134 Letter 12 To Richard West, Esq.  Rheims, July 20, 1739.

Gray says, Indeed you ought to write to West.-Lord, child, so I would, if I knew what to write about.  If I were in London and he at Rheims, I would send him volumes about peace and war, Spaniards, camps, and conventions; but d’ye think he cares sixpence to know who is gone to Compiegne, and when they come back, or who won and lost four livres at quadrille last night at Mr. Cockbert’s?—­No, but you may tell him what you have heard of Compiegne; that they have balls twice a week after the play, and that the Count d’Eu gave the king a most flaring entertainment in the camp, where the Polygone was represented in flowering shrubs.  Dear West, these are the things I must tell you; I don’t know how to make ’em look significant, unless you will be a Rhemois for a little moment.(167) I wonder you can stay out of the city so long, when we are going to have all manner of diversions.  The comedians return hither from Compiegne in eight days, for example; and in a very little of time one attends the regiment of the king, three battalions and an hundred of officers; all men of a certain fashion, very amiable, and who know their world.  Our women grow more gay, more lively, from day to day, in expecting them; Mademoiselle la Reine is brewing a wash of a finer dye, and brushing up her eyes for their arrival.  La Barone already counts upon fifteen of them:  and Madame Lelu, finding her linen robe conceals too many beauties, has bespoke one of gauze.

I won’t plague you any longer with people you don’t know, I mean French ones; for you must absolutely hear of an Englishman that lately appeared at Rheims.  About two days ago, about four o’clock in the afternoon, and about an hour after dinner,-from all which you may conclude we dine at two o’clock,-as we were picking our teeth round a littered table and in a crumby room, Gray in an undress, Mr. Conway in a morning gray coat, and I in a trim white night-gown and slippers, very much out of order, with a very little cold, a message discomposed us all of a sudden, with a service to Mr. Walpole from Mr. More, and that, if he pleased, he would wait on him.  We scuttled upstairs in great confusion, but with no other damage than the flinging down two or three glasses and the dropping a slipper by the way.  Having ordered the room to be cleaned out, and sent a very civil response to Mr. More, we began to consider who Mr. More should be.  Is it Mr. More of Paris!  No.  Oh, ’tis Mr. More, my Lady Teynham’s husband?  No, it can’t be he.  A Mr. More, then, that lives in the Halifax family?