This is a hint to you, that as Phoebus, who was certainly your superior, could take up with a chestnut garland, or any crown he found, you must have the humility to be content without laurels, when none are to be had:  you have hunted far and near for them, and taken true pains to the last in that old nursery-garden Germany, and by the way have made me shudder with your last journal:  but you must be easy with qualibet other arbore; you must come home to your own plantations.  The Duke of Bedford is gone in a fury to make peace,[1] for he cannot be even pacific with temper; and by this time I suppose the Duke de Nivernois is unpacking his portion of olive dans la rue de Suffolk Street.  I say, I suppose—­for I do not, like my friends at Arthur’s, whip into my post-chaise to see every novelty.  My two sovereigns, the Duchess of Grafton and Lady Mary Coke, are arrived, and yet I have seen neither Polly nor Lucy.  The former, I hear, is entirely French; the latter as absolutely English.

[Footnote 1:  “On the 6th of September the Duke of Bedford embarked as ambassador from England; on the 12th the Duc de Nivernois landed as ambassador from France.  Of these two noblemen, Bedford, though well versed in affairs, was perhaps by his hasty temper in some degree disqualified for the profession of a Temple or a Gondomar; and Nivernois was only celebrated for his graceful manners and his pretty songs” (Lord Stanhope, “History of England,” c. 38).]

Well! but if you insist on not doffing your cuirass, you may find an opportunity of wearing it.  The storm thickens.  The City of London are ready to hoist their standard; treason is the bon-ton at that end of the town; seditious papers pasted up at every corner:  nay, my neighbourhood is not unfashionable; we have had them at Brentford and Kingston.  The Peace is the cry;[1] but to make weight, they throw in all the abusive ingredients they can collect.  They talk of your friend the Duke of Devonshire’s resigning; and, for the Duke of Newcastle, it puts him so much in mind of the end of Queen Anne’s time, that I believe he hopes to be Minister again for another forty years.

[Footnote 1:  “The Peace is the cry.” This was the peace of Paris, not absolutely concluded till February of the next year.  The conditions in our favour were so inadequate to our successes in the war, that the treaty caused general indignation; so great, indeed, that Lord Bute, the Prime Minister, was afraid to face the meeting of Parliament, and resigned his office, in which he was succeeded by Mr. George Grenville.  It was the subject of severe, but not undeserved comment in the celebrated North Briton, No. 45, by Wilkes.]

In the mean time, there are but dark news from the Havannah; the Gazette, who would not fib for the world, says, we have lost but four officers; the World, who is not quite so scrupulous, says, our loss is heavy.—­But what shocking notice to those who have Harry Conways there!  The Gazette breaks off with saying, that they were to storm the next day!  Upon the whole, it is regarded as a preparative to worse news.