Bless your stars that you are not here, to be worn out with the details of lord George’s court-martial! One hears of nothing else. It has already lasted much longer than could be conceived, and now the end of it is still at a tolerable distance. The colour of it is more favourable for him than it looked at first. Prince Ferdinand’s narrative has proved to set out with a heap of lies. There is an old gentleman(42) of the same family who has spared no indecency to give weight to them—but, you know, general officers are men of strict honour, and nothing can bias them. Lord Charles Hay’s court-martial is dissolved, by the death of one of the members—and as no German interest is concerned to ruin him, it probably will not be re-assumed. Lord Ferrers’s trial is fixed for the 16th of next month. Adieu!
P. S. Don’t mention it from me, but if you have a mind you may make your court to my Lady Orford, by announcing the ancient barony of Clinton, which is fallen to her, by the death of the last incumbentess.(43)
(40) Nephew of Baron Stosch, a well-known virtuoso and antiquary, who died at Florence.
(41) Edward Louisa Mann, the eldest brother.
(42) George the Second.
(43) Mrs. Fortescue, sister of Hugh last Lord Clinton.
I should have thought that you might have learnt by this time, that when a tradesman promises any thing on Monday, Or Saturday, or any particular day of the week, he means any Monday or any Saturday of any week, as nurses quiet children and their own consciences by the refined salvo of to-morrow is a new day. When Mr. Smith’s Saturday and the frame do arrive, I will pay the one and send you the other.
Lord George’s trial is not near being finished. By its draggling beyond the term of the old Mutiny-bill, they were forced to make out a new warrant: this lost two days, as all the depositions were forced to be read over again to, and resworn by, the witnesses; then there will be a contest, whether Sloper(44) shall re-establish his own credit by pawning it farther. Lord Ferrers comes on the stage on the sixteenth of next month.
I breakfasted the day before yesterday at Elia laelia Chudleigh’s. There was a concert for Prince Edward’s birthday, and at three, a vast cold collation, and all the town. The house is not fine, nor in good taste, but loaded with finery. Execrable varnished pictures, chests, cabinets, commodes, tables, stands, boxes, riding on One another’s backs, and loaded with terrenes, filigree, figures, and every thing upon earth. Every favour she has bestowed is registered by a bit of Dresden china. There is a glass-case full of enamels, eggs, ambers, lapis lazuli, cameos, toothpick-cases, and all kinds of trinkets, things that she told me were her playthings; another cupboard, full of the finest japan, and candlesticks and vases of rock crystal, ready to be thrown down, in every corner. But of all curiosities, are the conveniences in every bedchamber: great mahogany projections, with brass handles, cocks, etc. I could not help saying, it was the loosest family I ever saw. Adieu!