I have received yours of the 27th of last month, with the capitulation of Genoa, and the kind conduct of the Austrians to us their allies, so extremely like their behaviour whenever they are fortunate.  Pray, by the way, has there been any talk of my cousin, the Commodore, being blameable in letting slip some Spanish ships?—­don’t mention it as from me, but there are whispers of court-martial on him.  They are all the fashion now; if you miss a post to me, I will have you tried by a court-martial.  Cope is come off most gloriously, his courage ascertained, and even his conduct, which everybody had given up, justified.  Folkes and Lascelles, two of his generals, are come off too; but not so happily in the opinion of the world.  Oglethorpe’s sentence is not yet public, but it is believed not to be favourable.  He was always a bully, and is now tried for cowardice.  Some little dash of the same sort is likely to mingle with the judgment on il furibondo Matthews; though his party rises again a little, and Lestock’s acquittal begins to pass for a party affair.  In short, we are a wretched people, and have seen our best days!

I must have lost a letter, if you really told me of the sale of the Duke of Modena’s pictures, as you think you did; for when Mr. Chute told it me, it struck me as quite new.  They are out of town, good souls; and I shall not see them this fortnight; for I am here only for two or three days, to inquire after the battle, in which not one of my friends were.  Adieu!

ON CONWAY’S VERSES—­NO SCOTCHMAN_ IS CAPABLE OF SUCH DELICACY OF THOUGHT, THOUGH A SCOTCHWOMAN MAY BE—­AKENSIDE’S, ARMSTRONG’S, AND GLOVER’S POEMS._

TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

WINDSOR, Oct. 24, 1746.

Well, Harry, Scotland is the last place on earth I should have thought of for turning anybody poet:  but I begin to forgive it half its treasons in favour of your verses, for I suppose you don’t think I am the dupe of the Highland story that you tell me:  the only use I shall make of it is to commend the lines to you, as if they really were a Scotchman’s.  There is a melancholy harmony in them that is charming, and a delicacy in the thoughts that no Scotchman is capable of, though a Scotchwoman might inspire it.[1] I beg, both for Cynthia’s sake and my own, that you would continue your De Tristibus till I have an opportunity of seeing your muse, and she of rewarding her:  Reprens la musette, berger amoureux!  If Cynthia has ever travelled ten miles in fairy-land, she must be wondrous content with the person and qualifications of her knight, who in future story will be read of thus:  Elmedorus was tall and perfectly well made, his face oval, and features regularly handsome, but not effeminate; his complexion sentimentally brown, with not much colour; his teeth fine, and forehead agreeably low, round which his black hair curled naturally and beautifully.  His eyes were black too, but had nothing of fierce