[Footnote 1:  Madame du Boccage published a poem in imitation of Milton, and another founded on Gesner’s “Death of Abel.”  She also translated Pope’s “Temple of Fame;” but her principal work was “La Columbiade.”  It was at the house of this lady, at Paris, in 1775, that Johnson was annoyed at her footman’s taking the sugar in his fingers and throwing it into his coffee.  “I was going,” says the Doctor, “to put it aside, but hearing it was made on purpose for me, I e’en tasted Tom’s fingers.”  She died in 1802.]

Mr. Whithed has taken my Lord Pembroke’s house at Whitehall; a glorious situation, but as madly built as my lord himself was.  He has bought some delightful pictures too, of Claude, Caspar and good masters, to the amount of four hundred pounds.

Good night!  I have nothing more to tell you, but that I have lately seen a Sir William Boothby, who saw you about a year ago, and adores you, as all the English you receive ought to do.  He is much in my favour.

DEATH OF WALPOLE’S BROTHER, AND OF THE PRINCE OF WALES—­SPEECH OF THE YOUNG PRINCE—­SINGULAR SERMON ON HIS DEATH.

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

ARLINGTON STREET, April 1, 1751.

How shall I begin a letter that will—­that must—­give you as much pain as I feel myself?  I must interrupt the story of the Prince’s death, to tell you of two more, much more important, God knows! to you and me!  One I had prepared you for—­but how will you be shocked to hear that our poor Mr. Whithed is dead as well as my brother!...

I now must mention my own misfortune.  Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings, the physicians and all the family of painful death (to alter Gray’s phrase), were persuaded and persuaded me, that the bark, which took great place, would save my brother’s life—­but he relapsed at three o’clock on Thursday, and died last night.  He ordered to be drawn and executed his will with the greatest tranquillity and satisfaction on Saturday morning.  His spoils are prodigious—­not to his own family! indeed I think his son the most ruined young man in England.  My loss, I fear, may be considerable, which is not the only motive of my concern, though, as you know, I had much to forgive, before I could regret:  but indeed I do regret.  It is no small addition to my concern, to fear or foresee that Houghton and all the remains of my father’s glory will be pulled to pieces!  The widow-Countess immediately marries—­not Richcourt, but Shirley, and triumphs in advancing her son’s ruin by enjoying her own estate, and tearing away great part of his.