[Footnote 1:  Formerly Sir Spencer Compton, and successor of Sir R. Walpole at the Treasury.  He was succeeded by Mr. Pelham, a brother of the Duke of Newcastle.]

I have got the Life of King Theodore, but I don’t know how to convey it—­I will inquire for some way.

We are quite alone.  You never saw anything so unlike as being here five months out of place, to the congresses of a fortnight in place; but you know the “Justum et tenacem propositi virum"[1] can amuse himself without the “Civium ardor!” As I have not so much dignity of character to fill up my time, I could like a little more company.  With all this leisure, you may imagine that I might as well be writing an ode or so upon the victory; but as I cannot build upon the Laureate’s[2] place till I know whether Lord Carteret or Mr. Pelham will carry the Treasury, I have bounded my compliments to a slender collection of quotations against I should have any occasion for them.  Here are some fine lines from Lord Halifax’s[3] poem on the battle of the Boyne—­

    The King leads on, the King does all inflame,
    The King;—­and carries millions in the name.

[Footnote 1:  A quotation from Horace, Odes iii. 3.]

[Footnote 2:  The Poet Laureate was Colley Cibber.]

[Footnote 3:  The celebrated Chancellor of the Exchequer, Charles Montagu, was raised to the peerage as Earl of Halifax.  In conjunction with Prior, he wrote the “Country and City Mouse,” in ridicule of Dryden’s “Hind and Panther.”]

Then follows a simile about a deluge, which you may imagine; but the next lines are very good: 

    So on the foe the firm battalions prest,
    And he, like the tenth wave, drove on the rest. 
    Fierce, gallant, young, he shot through ev’ry place,
    Urging their flight, and hurrying on the chase,
    He hung upon their rear, or lighten’d in their face.

The next are a magnificent compliment, and, as far as verse goes, to be sure very applicable.

    Stop, stop! brave Prince, allay that generous flame;
    Enough is given to England and to Fame. 
    Remember, Sir, you in the centre stand;
    Europe’s divided interests you command,
    All their designs uniting in your hand. 
    Down from your throne descends the golden chain
    Which does the fabric of our world sustain,
    That once dissolved by any fatal stroke,
    The scheme of all our happiness is broke.

Adieu! my dear Sir; pray for peace!

FRENCH ACTORS AT CLIFDEN—­A NEW ROMAN CATHOLIC MIRACLE—­LADY MARY WORTLEY.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

HOUGHTON, Sept. 7, 1743.

My letters are now at their ne plus ultra of nothingness; so you may hope they will grow better again.  I shall certainly go to town soon, for my patience is worn out.  Yesterday, the weather grew cold; I put on a new waistcoat for its being winter’s birthday—­the season I am forced to love; for summer has no charms for me when I pass it in the country.