hate any mortal should be diverted but themselves, especially by any thing relative to harmony.  It is, I own, betraying my country and my patriotism to be concerned in a job of this kind.  I am sensible that there is not a weaver in Spitalfields but can dance better than the first performer in the French Opera; and yet, how could I refuse this commission?  Mrs. George Pitt delivered it to me just now, at Lord Holderness’s at Sion, and as my virtue has not yet been able to root out all my good-breeding—­though I trust it will in time—­I could not help promising that I would write to you—­nay, and engaged that you would undertake it.  When I venture, sure you may, who are out of the reach of a mob!

I believe this letter will go by Monsieur Beaumont.  He breakfasted here t’other morning, and pleased me exceedingly:  he has great spirit and good-humour.  It is incredible what pains he has taken to see.  He has seen Oxford, Bath, Blenheim, Stowe, Jews, Quakers, Mr. Pitt, the Royal Society, the Robinhood, Lord Chief-Justice Pratt, the Arts-and-Sciences, has dined at Wildman’s, and, I think, with my Lord Mayor, or is to do.  Monsieur de Guerchy is full of your praises; I am to go to Park-place with him next week, to make your brother a visit.

You know how I hate telling you false news:  all I can do, is to retract as fast as I can.  I fear I was too hasty in an article I sent you in my last, though I then mentioned it only as a report.  I doubt, what we wish in a private family(695) will not be exactly the event.

The Duke of Cumberland has had a dangerous sore-throat, but is recovered.  In one of the bitterest days that could be felt, he would go upon the course at Newmarket with the windows of his landau down.  Newmarket-heath, at no time of the year, is placed under the torrid zone.  I can conceive a hero welcoming death, or at least despising it; but if I was covered with more laurels than a boar’s head at Christmas, I should hate pain, and Ranby, and an operation.  His nephew of York has been at Blenheim, where they gave him a ball, but did not put themselves to much expense in dancers; the figurantes were the maid-servants.  You will not doubt my authority, when I tell you my Lady Bute was my intelligence.  I heard to-day, at Sion, of some bitter verses made at Bath, on both their graces of Bedford.  I have not seen them, nor, if I had them, would I send them to you before they are in print, which I conclude they will be, for I am sorry to say, scandalous abuse is not the commodity which either side is sparing of.  You can conceive nothing beyond the epigrams which have been in the papers, on a pair of doves and a parrot that Lord Bute has sent to the Princess.(696)

I hear-but this is another of my paragraphs that I am far from giving you for sterling—­that Lord Sandwich is to have the Duke of Devonshire’s garter; Lord Northumberland stands against Lord Morton,(697) for president of the Royal Society, in the room of Lord Macclesfield.  As this latter article will have no bad consequences if it should prove true, you may believe it.  Earl Poulet is dead, and Soame, who married Mrs. Naylor’s sister.