The world had been civilising itself till one began to doubt whether ancient histories were not ancient legends.  Voltaire had unpoisoned half the victims to the Church and to ambition.  Oh! there never was such a man as Borgia[1]; the league seemed a romance.  For the honour of poor historians, the assassinations of the Kings of France and Portugal, majesties still living in spite of Damien and the Jesuits, and the dethronement and murder of the Czar, have restored some credibility to the annals of former ages.  Tacitus recovers his character by the edition of Petersburg.

[Footnote 1:  Borgia, the father, was Pope Sextus VI.; Caesar Borgia was the son—­both equally infamous for their crimes, and especially their murders by poison.]

We expect the definitive courier from Paris every day.  Now it is said that they ask time to send to Spain.  What? to ask leave to desert them!  The Spaniards, not so expeditious in usurpation as the Muscovites, have made no progress in Portugal.  Their absurd manifestoes appeared too soon.  The Czarina and Princess Daschkaw stay till the stroke is struck.  Really, my dear Sir, your Italy is growing unfashionably innocent,—­if you don’t take care, the Archbishop of Novgorod will deserve, by his crimes, to be at the head of the Christian Church.[1] I fear my friend, good Benedict, infected you all with his virtues.

[Footnote 1:  That is, Pope Benedict XIV.]

You see how this Russian revolution has seized every cell in my head—­a Prince of Wales is passed over in a line, the peace in another line.  I have not even told you that the treasure of the Hermione,[1] reckoned eight hundred thousand pounds, passed the end of my street this morning in one-and-twenty waggons.  Of the Havannah I could tell you nothing if I would; people grow impatient at not hearing from thence.  Adieu!

[Footnote 1:  In August, 1761, Sir G. Pocock took Havannah, the capital of Cuba.  In September Commodore Cornish and Colonel Draper took Manilla, the principal of the Philippine Islands; and the treasures found in Manilla alone exceeded the sum here mentioned by Walpole, and yet did not equal those brought home from the Havannah, as Walpole mentions in a subsequent letter.]

You see I am a punctual correspondent when Empresses commit murders.

NEGOTIATIONS FOR PEACE—­CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.

TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

STRAWBERRY HILL, Sept. 9, 1762.

    Nondum laurus erat, longoque decentia crine
    Tempora cingebat de qualibet arbore Phoebus.[1]

[Footnote 1:  The quotation is from Ovid, Met. i. 450.]