I shall have quite a partiality for the post of Holland; it brought me two letters last week, and two more yesterday, of November 20th and 27th; but I find you have your perpetual headaches-how can you say that you shall tire me with talking Of them? you may make me suffer by your pains, but I will hear and insist upon your always telling me of your health.  Do you think I only correspond with you to know the posture of the Spaniards or the `epuisements of the Princess!  I am anxious, too, to know how poor Mr. Whithed does, and Mr. Chute’s gout.  I shall look upon our sea captains with as much horror as the King of Naples can, if they bring gouts, fits, and headaches.  You will have had a letter from me by this time, to give up sending the Dominichin by a man-of-war, and to propose its coming in a Dutch ship.  I believe that will be safe.

We have had another great day in the House on the army in Flanders, which the Opposition were for disbanding; but we carried ’it by a hundred and twenty.(741) Murray spoke for the first time, with the greatest applause; Pitt answered him with all his force and art of language, but on an ill-founded argument.  In all appearances, they will be great rivals.  Shippen was in great rage at Murray’s apostacy;(742) if any thing can really change his principles, possibly this competition may.  To-morrow we shall have a tougher battle on the sixteen thousand Hanoverians.  Hanover is the word given out for this winter:  there is a most bold pamphlet come out, said to be Lord Marchmont’s,(743) which affirms that in every treaty made since the accession of this family, England has been sacrificed to the interest of Hanover, and consequently insinuates the incompatibility of the two.  Lord Chesterfield says, “that if we have a mind effectually to prevent the Pretender from ever obtaining this crown, we should make him Elector of Hanover, for the people of England will never fetch another king from thence.”  Adieu! my dear child.  I am sensible that I write you short letters, but I write you all I know.  I don’t know how it is, but the wonderful seems worn out.  In this our day, we have no rabbit women-no elopements-no epic poems,(744) finer than Milton’s-no contest about harlequins and Polly Peachems.  Jansen (745) has won no more estates, and the Duchess of Queensberry is grown as tame as her neighbours.  Whist has spread an universal opium over the whole nation; it makes courtiers and patriots sit down to the same pack of cards.  The only thing extraordinary, and which yet did not seem to surprise any body, was the Barberina’s(746) being attacked by four men masqued, the other night, as she came out of the opera house, who would have forced her away, but she screamed, and the guard came.  Nobody knows who set them on, and I believe nobody inquired.

The Austrians in Flanders have separated from our troops a little out of humour, because it was impracticable for them to march without any preparatory provisions for their reception.  They will probably march in two months, if no peace prevents it.  Adieu!