But to come to more real contests; Handel has set up an Oratorio against the Operas, and succeeds.  He has hired all the goddesses from farces and the singers of Roast Beef[1] from between the acts at both theatres, with a man with one note in his voice, and a girl without ever an one; and so they sing, and make brave hallelujahs; and the good company encore the recitative, if it happens to have any cadence like what they call a tune.  I was much diverted the other night at the opera; two gentlewomen sat before my sister, and not knowing her, discoursed at their ease.  Says one, “Lord! how fine Mr. W. is!” “Yes,” replied the other, with a tone of saying sentences, “some men love to be particularly so, your petit-maitres—­but they are not always the brightest of their sex.”—­Do thank me for this period!  I am sure you will enjoy it as much as we did.

[Footnote 1:  It was customary at this time for the galleries to call for a ballad called “The Roast Beef of Old England” between the acts, or before or after the play.—­WALPOLE.]

I shall be very glad of my things, and approve entirely of your precautions; Sir R. will be quite happy, for there is no telling you how impatient he is for his Dominchin.  Adieu!

BATTLE OF DETTINGEN—­DEATH OF LORD WILMINGTON.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

HOUGHTON, July 4, 1743.

I hear no particular news here, and I don’t pretend to send you the common news; for as I must have it first from London, you will have it from thence sooner in the papers than in my letters.  There have been great rejoicings for the victory; which I am convinced is very considerable by the pains the Jacobites take to persuade it is not.  My Lord Carteret’s Hanoverian articles have much offended; his express has been burlesqued a thousand ways.  By all the letters that arrive, the loss of the French turns out more considerable than by the first accounts:  they have dressed up the battle into a victory for themselves—­I hope they will always have such!  By their not having declared war with us, one should think they intended a peace.  It is allowed that our fine horse did us no honour:  the victory was gained by the foot.  Two of their princes of the blood, the Prince de Dombes, and the Count d’Eu his brother, were wounded, and several of their first nobility.  Our prisoners turn out but seventy-two officers, besides the private men; and by the printed catalogue, I don’t think many of great family.  Marshal Noailles’ mortal wound is quite vanished, and Duc d’Aremberg’s shrunk to a very slight one.  The King’s glory remains in its first bloom.

Lord Wilmington is dead.[1] I believe the civil battle for his post will be tough.  Now we shall see what service Lord Carteret’s Hanoverians will do him.  You don’t think the crisis unlucky for him, do you?  If you wanted a Treasury, should you choose to have been in Arlington Street, or driving by the battle of Dettingen?  You may imagine our Court wishes for Mr. Pelham.  I don’t know any one who wishes for Lord Bath but himself—­I believe that is a pretty substantial wish.