We have not yet taken the galleons, nor destroyed the Spanish fleet.  Nor have they enslaved Portugal, nor you made a triumphant entry into Naples.  My dear sir, you see how lucky you were not to go thither; you don’t envy Sir James Grey, do you?  Pray don’t make any categorical demands to Marshal Botta,[1] and be obliged to retire to Leghorn, because they are not answered.  We want allies; preserve us our friend the Great Duke of Tuscany.  I like your answer to Botta exceedingly, but I fear the Court of Vienna is shame-proof.  The Apostolic and Religious Empress is not a whit a better Christian, not a jot less a woman, than the late Russian Empress, who gave such proofs of her being a woman.

[Footnote 1:  Marshal Botta was the Commander-in-chief in Tuscany.]

We have a mighty expedition on the point of sailing; the destination not disclosed.  The German War loses ground daily; however, all is still in embryo.  My subsequent letters are not likely to be so barren, and indecisive.  I write more to prove there is nothing, than to tell you anything.

You were mistaken, I believe, about the Graftons; they do not remove from Turin, till George Pitt arrives to occupy their house there.  I am really anxious about the fate of my letter to the Duchess [of Grafton]; I should be hurt if it had miscarried; she would have reason to think me very ungrateful.

I have given your letter to Mr. T[homas] Pitt; he has been very unfortunate since his arrival—­has lost his favourite sister in child-bed.  Lord Tavistock, I hear, has written accounts of you that give me much pleasure.

I am ashamed to tell you that we are again dipped into an egregious scene of folly.  The reigning fashion is a ghost[1]—­a ghost, that would not pass muster in the paltriest convent in the Apennine.  It only knocks and scratches; does not pretend to appear or to speak.  The clergy give it their benediction; and all the world, whether believers or infidels, go to hear it.  I, in which number you may guess, go to-morrow; for it is as much the mode to visit the ghost as the Prince of Mecklenburgh, who is just arrived.  I have not seen him yet, though I have left my name for him.  But I will tell you who is come too—­Lady Mary Wortley.[2] I went last night to visit her; I give you my honour, and you who know her, would credit me without it, the following is a faithful description.  I found her in a little miserable bedchamber of a ready-furnished house, with two tallow candles, and a bureau covered with pots and pans.  On her head, in full of all accounts, she had an old black-laced hood, wrapped entirely round, so as to conceal all hair or want of hair.  No handkerchief, but up to her chin a kind of horseman’s riding-coat, calling itself a pet-en-l’air, made of a dark green (green I think it had been) brocade, with coloured and silver flowers, and lined with furs; boddice laced, a foul dimity petticoat sprig’d, velvet muffeteens on her