TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, July 10, 1774.

The month is come round, and I have, besides, a letter of yours to answer; and yet if I were not as regular as a husband or a merchant in paying my just dues, I think I should not perform the function, for I certainly have no natural call to it at present.  Nothing in yours requires a response, and I have nothing new to tell you.  Yet, if one once breaks in upon punctuality, adieu to it!  I will not give out, after a perseverance of three-and-thirty years; and so far I will not resemble a husband.

The whole blood royal of France is recovered from the small-pox.  Both Choiseul and Broglie are recalled, and I have some idea that even the old Parliament will be so.  The King is adored, and a most beautiful compliment has been paid to him:  somebody wrote under the statue of Henri Quatre, Resurrexit.

Lord Holland is at last dead, and Lady Holland is at the point of death.  His sons would still be in good circumstances, if they were not his sons; but he had so totally spoiled the two eldest, that they would think themselves bigots if they were to have common sense.  The prevailing style is not to reform, though Lord Lyttelton [the bad Lord] pretends to have set the example.  Gaming, for the last month, has exceeded its own outdoings, though the town is very empty.  It will be quite so to-morrow, for Newmarket begins, or rather the youth adjourn thither.  After that they will have two or three months of repose; but if they are not severely blooded and blistered, there will be no alteration.  Their pleasures are no more entertaining to others, than delightful to themselves; one is tired of asking every day, who has won or lost? and even the portentous sums they lose, cease to make impression.  One of them has committed a murder, and intends to repeat it.  He betted L1,500 that a man could live twelve hours under water; hired a desperate fellow, sunk him in a ship, by way of experiment, and both ship and man have not appeared since.  Another man and ship are to be tried for their lives, instead of Mr. Blake, the assassin.

Christina, Duchess of Kingston, is arrived, in a great fright, I believe, for the Duke’s nephews are going to prove her first marriage, and hope to set the Will aside.  It is a pity her friendship with the Pope had not begun earlier; he might have given her a dispensation.  If she loses her cause, the best thing he can do will be to give her the veil.

I am sorry all Europe will not furnish me with another paragraph.  Africa is, indeed, coming into fashion.  There is just returned a Mr. Bruce, who has lived three years in the Court of Abyssinia, and breakfasted every morning with the Maids of Honour on live oxen.  Otaheite and Mr. Banks are quite forgotten; but Mr. Blake, I suppose, will order a live sheep for supper at Almack’s, and ask whom he shall help to a piece of the shoulder.  Oh, yes; we shall have negro butchers, and French cooks will be laid aside.  My Lady Townshend [Harrison], after the Rebellion, said, everybody was so bloodthirsty, that she did not dare to dine abroad, for fear of meeting with a rebel-pie ­now one shall be asked to come and eat a bit of raw mutton.  In truth, I do think we are ripe for any extravagance.  I am not wise enough to wish the world reasonable ­I only desire to have follies that are amusing, and am sorry Cervantes laughed chivalry out of fashion.  Adieu!