Lady Lyttelton, who, you know, never hears any thing that has happened, wrote to me two days ago, to ask if it would not be necessary for you to come over for the meeting of the Parliament.  I answered, very gravely, that to be sure you ought:  but though Sir James Morgan threatened you loudly with a petition, yet, as it could not be heard till after Christmas, I was afraid you could not be persuaded to come sooner.  I hope she will inquire who Sir James Morgan is, and that people will persuade her she has made a confusion about Sir James Peachy.  Now for your letter.

I have been in the Chambre de Parlement, I think they call it the Grande Chambre; and was shown the corner in which the monarchs sit, and do not wonder you did not guess where it was they sat.  It is just like the dark corner, under the window, where I always sat in the House of Commons.  What has happened, has passed exactly according to my ideas.  When one King breaks one parliament, and another, what can the result be but despotism? or of what else is it a proof?  If a Tory King displaces his father’s Whig lord chamberlain, neither lord chamberlain has the more or the less power ,over the theatres and court mournings and birthday balls.  All that can arrive is, that the people will be still more attached to the old parliament, from this seeming restitution of a right—­but the people must have some power before their attachment can signify a straw.  The old parliament, too, may some time or other give itself more airs on this confession of right; but that too cannot be but in a minority, when the power of the crown is lessened by reasons that have nothing to do with the parliament.  I will answer for it, they will be too grateful to give umbrage to their restorer.  Indeed, I did not think the people would be so quick-sighted at once, as to see the distinction of old and new was without difference.  Methinks France and England are like the land and the sea; one gets a little sense when the other loses it.

I am quite satisfied with all you tell me about my friend.  My intention is certainly to see her again, if I am able; but I am too old to lay plans, especially when it depends on the despot gout to register or cancel them.  It is even melancholy to see her, when it will probably be but once more; and still more melancholy, when we ought to say to one another, in a different sense from the common, au revoir!  However, as mine is a pretty cheerful kind of philosophy, I think the best way is to think of dying, but to talk and act as if one was not to die; or else one tires other people, and dies before one’s time.  I have truly all the affection and attachment for her that she deserves from me, or I should not be so very thankful as I am for your kindness to her.  The Choiseuls will certainly return at Christmas, and will make her life much more agreeable.  The Duchess has as much attention to her as I could have; but that will not keep me from making her a visit.