(330) Son of the Duke de Chaulnes.-E.
(331) The Hereditary Prince of Brunswick was at this time betrothed to the King’s eldest sister; and Mr. Walpole, a constant friend and admirer of Lady Mary, affects to think that her beauty and vivacity might have seduced his Serene Highness from his royal bride. Lady Mary lived till 1810.-C.
(332) This gentleman was travelling tutor to Lord Hertford’s eldest son, and had been lately residing with him at Rheims.-C.
(333) Francis, afterwards second Marquis of Hertford, who died in the year 1822.-E.
(334) David Hume, the historian. He was at first private secretary to Lord Hertford, and afterwards secretary of embassy.-E.
I send you the catalogue as you desired; and as I told you, you will, I think, find nothing to your purpose: the present lord bought all the furniture at Navestock;(335) the few now to be sold are the very fine ones of the best masters, and likely to go at vast prices, for there are several people determined to have some one thing that belonged to Lord Waldegrave. I did not get the catalogue till the night before last, too late to send by the post, for I had dined with Sir Richard Lyttelton at Richmond, and was forced to return by Kew-bridge, for the Thames was swelled so violently that the ferry could not work. I am here quite alone in the midst of a deluge, without Mrs. Noah, but with half as many animals. The waters are as much out as they were last year, when her vice-majesty of Ireland,(336) that now is sailed to Newmarket with both legs out at the fore glass, was here. Apropos, the Irish court goes on ill; they lost a question by forty the very first day on the address. The Irish, not being so absurd or so complimental as Mr. Allen, they would not suffer the word “adequate” to pass.(337) The prime minister is so unpopular that they think he must be sent back. His patent and Rigby’s are called in question. You see the age is not favourable to prime ministers: well! I am going amidst it all, very unwillingly; I had rather stay here, for I am sick of the storms, that once loved them so cordially: over and above, I am not well; this is the third winter my nightly fever has returned; it comes like the bellman before Christmas, to put me in mind of my mortality.
Sir Michael Foster(338) is dead, a Whig of the old rock: he is a greater loss to his country than the prim attorney-general,(339) who has resigned, or than the attorney’s father, who is dying, will be.
My gallery is still in such request, that, though the middle of November, I give out a ticket to-day for seeing it. I see little of it myself, for I cannot sit alone in such state; I should think myself like the mad Duchess of Albemarle,(340) who fancied herself Empress of China. Adieu!