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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 897 pages of information about The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford Volume 4.

I am sorry you sent me the old manuscript; because, as I told you, I have so little time left to enjoy any thing, that I should think myself a miser if I coveted for a moment what I must leave so soon.  I shall be very glad, Sir, to see you here again, whenever it is convenient to you.

(528) This is the first of the series of letters addressed by Mr. Walpole to Mr. Pinkerton.  They are taken from his " Literary Correspondence,” first printed in 1830, in two volumes octavo, by Dawson Turner, Esq.  M.A.  F.R.S. from the originals in his valuable collection.  Mr. Pinkerton was born at Edinburgh, in February 1758, and died at Paris in May 1826.  “He was,” says Mr. Dawson Turner, “a man of a capacious mind, great acuteness, strong memory, restless activity, and extraordinary perseverance:  the anecdotes contained in this correspondence afford a striking proof of the power of talent,, and industry to raise their possessor in the scale of society, as well as in the opinion of the world:  unfortunately, they are also calculated to read us another and not less instructive lesson, that somewhat more is required to turn such advantages to their full account; and that the endowments of the mind, unless accompanied by sound and consistent principles, can tend but little to the happiness of the individual, or to the good of society."-E.

(529) In 1781, Mr. Pinkerton had published an octavo volume entitled “Rimes;” a second edition of which, with additions, appeared in the following year.-E.

Letter 281 To The Earl Of Strafford.  Strawberry Hill, Sept. 7, 1784. (page 351)

The summer is come at last, my lord, drest as fine as a birthday, though with not so many flowers on its head.  In truth, the sun is an old fool, who apes the modern people of fashion by arriving too late:  the day is going to bed before he makes his appearance; and one has scarce time to admire his embroidery of green and gold.  It was cruel to behold such expanse of corn every where, and yet see it all turned to a water-souchy.  If I could admire Dante,—­which, asking Mr. Hayley’s pardon, I do not,—­I would have written an olio of jews and Pagans, and sent Ceres to reproach Master Noah with breaking his promise of the world never being drowned again.  But this last week has restored matters to their old channel; and I trust we shall have bread to eat next winter, or I think we must have lived on apples, of which to be sure there is enough to prevent a famine.  This is all I know, my lord; and I hope no news to your lordship.  I have exhausted the themes of air-balloons and highwaymen; and if you will have my letters, you must be content with my commonplace chat on the seasons.  I do nothing worth repeating, nor hear that others do:  and though I am content to rust myself, I should be glad to tell your lordship any thing that would amuse you.  I dined two days ago at Mrs. Garrick’s -with Sir William Hamilton, who is returning to the

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