He died in his vocation, of a high fever, after the celebration of some orgies.  Though but six hours in his senses, he gave a proof of his usual good humour, making it his last request to the sister Tuftons to be reconciled; which they are.  His pretty villa, in my neighbourhood, I fancy he has left to the new Lord Lorn.  I must tell you an admirable bon mot of George Selwyn, though not a new one; when there was a malicious report that the eldest Tufton was to marry Dr. Duncan, Selwyn said, “How often will she repeat that line of Shakspeare,

    Wake Duncan with this knocking—­would thou couldst!”

I enclose the receipt from your lawyer.  Adieu!

CAPTURE OF BELLEISLE—­GRAY’S POEMS—­HOGARTH’S VANITY.

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

ARLINGTON STREET, May 5, 1761.

We have lost a young genius, Sir William Williams; an express from Belleisle, arrived this morning, brings nothing but his death.  He was shot very unnecessarily, riding too near a battery; in sum, he is a sacrifice to his own rashness, and to ours.  For what are we taking Belleisle?[1] I rejoiced at the little loss we had on landing; for the glory, I leave it the common council.  I am very willing to leave London to them too, and do pass half the week at Strawberry, where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in full bloom.  I spent Sunday as if it were Apollo’s birthday; Gray and Mason were with me, and we listened to the nightingales till one o’clock in the morning.  Gray has translated two noble incantations from the Lord knows who, a Danish Gray, who lived the Lord knows when.  They are to be enchased in a history of English bards, which Mason and he are writing; but of which the former has not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he rides Pegasus at his usual footpace, will finish the first page two years hence.

[Footnote 1:  Belleisle was of no value to us to keep; but Pitt sent an expedition against it, that in any future treaty of peace he might be able to exchange it for Minorca.]

But the true frantic Oestus resides at present with Mr. Hogarth; I went t’other morning to see a portrait he is painting of Mr. Fox.  Hogarth told me he had promised, if Mr. Fox would sit as he liked, to make as good a picture as Vandyke or Rubens could.  I was silent—­“Why now,” said he, “you think this very vain, but why should not one speak truth?” This truth was uttered in the face of his own Sigismonda, which is exactly a maudlin street-walker, tearing off the trinkets that her keeper had given her, to fling at his head.  She has her father’s picture in a bracelet on her arm, and her fingers are bloody with the heart, as if she had just bought a sheep’s pluck in St. James’s Market.  As I was going, Hogarth put on a very grave face, and said, “Mr. Walpole, I want to speak to you.”  I sat down, and said, I was ready to receive his commands.  For shortness, I will mark this wonderful dialogue by initial letters.