TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

ARLINGTON STREET, Jan. 14, 1760.

How do you contrive to exist on your mountain in this rude season?  Sure you must be become a snowball!  As I was not in England in forty-one, I had no notion of such cold.  The streets are abandoned; nothing appears in them:  the Thames is almost as solid.  Then think what a campaign must be in such a season!  Our army was under arms for fourteen hours on the twenty-third, expecting the French; and several of the men were frozen when they should have dismounted.  What milksops the Marlboroughs and Turennes, the Blakes and the Van Tromps appear now, who whipped into winter quarters and into port, the moment their noses looked blue.  Sir Cloudesley Shovel said that an admiral would deserve to be broke, who kept great ships out after the end of September, and to be shot if after October.  There is Hawke in the bay weathering this winter, after conquering in a storm.  For my part, I scarce venture to make a campaign in the Opera-house; for if I once begin to freeze, I shall be frozen through in a moment.  I am amazed, with such weather, such ravages, and distress, that there is anything left in Germany, but money; for thither, half the treasure of Europe goes:  England, France, Russia, and all the Empress can squeeze from Italy and Hungary, all is sent thither, and yet the wretched people have not subsistence.  A pound of bread sells at Dresden for eleven-pence.  We are going to send many more troops thither; and it is so much the fashion to raise regiments, that I wish there were such a neutral kind of beings in England as abbes,[1] that one might have an excuse for not growing military mad, when one has turned the heroic corner of one’s age.  I am ashamed of being a young rake, when my seniors are covering their grey toupees with helmets and feathers, and accoutering their pot-bellies with cuirasses and martial masquerade habits.  Yet rake I am, and abominably so, for a person that begins to wrinkle reverendly.  I have sat up twice this week till between two and three with the Duchess of Grafton, at loo, who, by the way, has got a pam-child this morning, and on Saturday night I supped with Prince Edward at my Lady Rochford’s, and we stayed till half an hour past three.  My favour with that Highness continues, or rather increases.  He makes everybody make suppers for him to meet me, for I still hold out against going to court.  In short, if he were twenty years older, or I could make myself twenty years younger, I might carry him to Campden House, and be as impertinent as ever my Lady Churchill was; but, as I dread being ridiculous, I shall give my Lord Bute no uneasiness.  My Lady Maynard, who divides the favour of this tiny court with me, supped with us.  Did you know she sings French ballads very prettily?  Lord Rochford played on the guitar, and the Prince sung; there were my two nieces, and Lord Waldegrave, Lord Huntingdon, and Mr. Morrison the groom, and the evening was pleasant; but I had a much more agreeable supper last night at Mrs. Clive’s, with Miss West, my niece Cholmondeley, and Murphy, the writing actor, who is very good company, and two or three more.  Mrs. Cholmondeley is very lively; you know how entertaining the Clive is, and Miss West is an absolute original.