I did not.  Why, I have done nothing but laugh since last Sunday; though on Tuesday I was one of a hundred and eleven, who were outvoted by three hundred; no laughing matter generally to a true patriot, whether he thinks his country undone or himself.  Nay, I am still:  more absurd; even for my dear country’s sake I cannot bring myself to connect with Lord Hardwicke, or the Duke of Newcastle, though they are in the minority-an unprecedented case, not to love every body one despises, when they are of the same side.  On the contrary, I fear I resembled a fond woman, and dote on the dear betrayer.  In short, and to write something that you can understand, you know I have long had a partiality for your cousin Sandwich, who has out-Sandwiched himself.  He has impeached Wilkes for a blasphemous poem, and has been expelled for blasphemy himself by the Beefsteak Club at Covent-garden.  Wilkes has been shot by Martin, and instead of being burnt at an auto da fe, as the Bishop of Gloucester intended, is reverenced as a saint by the mob, and if he dies, I suppose, the people will squint themselves into convulsions at his tomb, in honour of his memory.  Now is not this better than feeding one’s birds and one’s bantams, poring one’s eyes out over old histories, not half so extraordinary as the present, or ambling to Squire Bencow’s on one’s padnag, and playing at cribbage with one’s brother John and one’s parson?  Prithee come to town, and let us put off taking the veil for another year:  besides by this time twelvemonth we are sure the world will be a year older in wickedness, and we shall have more matter for meditation.  One would not leave it methinks till it comes to the worst, and that time cannot be many months off.  In the mean time, I have bespoken a dagger, in case the circumstances should grow so classic as to make it becoming to kill oneself; however, though disposed to quit the world, as I have no mind to leave it entirely, I shall put off my death to the last minute, and do nothing rashly, till I see Mr. Pitt and Lord Temple place themselves in their curule chairs in St. James’s-market, and resign their throats to the victors.  I am determined to see them dead first, lest they should play me a trick, and be hobbling to Buckingham-house, while I am shivering and waiting for them on the banks of Lethe.  Adieu!  Yours, Horatius.

Letter 181
To The Earl Of Hertford. 
Arlington Street, Nov. 25, 1763. (page 251)

You tell me, my dear lord, in a letter I have this moment received from you, that you have had a comfortable one from me; I fear it was not the last:  you will not have been fond of your brother’s voting against the court.  Since that, he has been told by different channels that they think of taking away regiments from opposers.  He heard it, as he would the wind whistle:  while in the shape of a threat, he treats it with contempt; if put into execution his scorn would subside into indifference.  You know he has but one object—­doing what