The Prince is recovered; that is all the domestic news, except a most memorable debate last Friday, in the House of Commons.  Mr. Fox had most imprudently thrown out a panegyric on the French revolution.(788) His most considerable friends were much hurt, and protested to him against such sentiments.  Burke went much farther, and vowed to attack these opinions.  Great pains were taken to prevent such altercation, and the Prince of Wales is said to have written a dissuasive letter to Burke:  but he was immovable; and on Friday, on the Quebec Bill, he broke out and sounded a trumpet against the plot, which he denounced as carrying on here.  Prodigious clamours and interruption arose from Mr. Fox’s friends:  but he, though still applauding the French, burst into tears and lamentations on the loss of Burke’s friendship, and endeavoured to make atonement; but in vain, though Burke wept too.  In short, it was the most affecting scene possible; and undoubtedly an unique one, for both the commanders were earnest and sincere.(789) Yesterday, a second act was expected; but mutual friends prevailed, that the contest should not be renewed:  nay, on the same bill, Mr. Fox made a profession of his faith, and declared he would venture his life in support of the present constitution by King, Lords, and Commons.  In short, I never knew a wiser dissertation, if the newspapers deliver it justly; and I think all the writers in England cannot give more profound sense to Mr. Fox than he possesses.  I know no more particulars, having seen nobody this morning yet.  What shall I tell you else?  We have expected Mrs. Damer from last night; and perhaps she may arrive before this sets out to-morrow.

Friday morning, May 13th.

Last night we were at Lady Frederick Campbell’s,—­the usual cribbage party, Conways, Mount-Edgcumbes, Johnstones.  At past ten Mrs. Damer was announced!  Her parents ran down into the hall, and I scrambled down some of the stairs.  She looks vastly well, was in great spirits, and not at all fatigued; though she came from Dover, had been twelve hours at sea from Calais, and had rested but four days at Paris from Madrid.  We supped, and stayed till one o’clock; and I shall go to see her as soon as I am dressed.  Madrid and the Escurial she owns have gained her a proselyte to painting, which her statuarism had totally engrossed in her, no wonder.  Of Titian she had no idea, nor have I a just one, though great faith, as at Venice all his works are now coal-black:  but Rubens, she says, amazed her, and that in Spain he has even grace.  Her father, yesterday morning, from pain remaining still in his shoulder from his fall, had it examined by Dr. Hunter, and a little bone of the collar was found to be broken, and he must wear his arm for some time in a sling.  Miss Boyle, I heard last night, had consented to marry Lord Henry Fitzgerald.  I think they have both chosen well—­but I have chosen better.  Adieu!  Care spose!