With regard to writing, this is exactly the case.- I had nothing to tell you; nothing has happened; and where you are I was cautious of writing.  Having neither hopes nor fears, I always write the thoughts of the moment, and even laugh to divert the person I am writing to, without any ill will on the subjects I mention.  But in your situation that frankness might be prejudicial to you:  and to write grave unmeaning letters, I trusted you was too secure of’ me either to like them or desire them.  I knew no news, nor could:  I have lived quite alone at Strawberry; am connected with no court, ministers, or party; consequently heard nothing, and events there have been none.  I have not even for this month heard my Lady Townshend’s extempore gazette.  All the morning I play with my workmen or animals, go regularly every evening to the meadows with Mrs. Clive, or sit with my Lady Suffolk, and at night scribble my Painters-What a journal to send you!  I write more trifling letters than any man living; am ashamed of them, and yet they are expected of me.  You, my Lady Ailesbury, your brother, Sir Horace Mann, George Montagu, Lord Strafford-all expect I should write—­Of what?  I live less and less in the world, care for it less and less, and yet am thus obliged to inquire what it is doing.  Do make these allowances for me, and remember half your letters go to my Lady Ailesbury.  I writ to her of the King’s marriage, concluding she would send it to you:  tiresome as it would be, I will copy my own letters, if you it; for I will do any thing rather than disoblige you.  I will send you a diary of the Duke of York’s balls and Ranelaghs, inform you of how many children my Lady Berkeley is with child, and how many races my nephew goes to.  No; I will not, you do not want such proofs of my friendship.

The papers tell us you are retiring, and I was glad?  You seem to expect an action—­Can this give me spirits?  Can I write to you joyfully, and fear?  Or is it fit Prince Ferdinand should know you have a friend that is as great a coward about you as your wife?  The only reason for my silence that can not be true, is, that I forget you.  When I am prudent or cautious, it is no symptom of my being indifferent.  Indifference does not happen in friendships, as it does in passions; and if I was young enough, or feeble enough to cease to love you, I would not for my own sake let it be known.  Your virtues are my greatest pride; I have done myself so much honour by them, that I will not let it be known you have been peevish with me unreasonably.  Pray God we may have peace, that I may scold you for it!