footman, a cloak-bag, and a couple of books.  My old Tom is even reduced upon the article of my journey; he is at the Bath, patching together some very bad remains of a worn-out constitution.  I always travel without company; for then I take my own hours and my own humours, which I don’t think the most tractable to shut up in a coach with any body else.  You know, St. Evremont’s rule for conquering the passions, was to indulge them mine for keeping my temper in order, is never to leave it too long with another person.  I have found out that it will have its way, but I make it take its way by itself.  It is such sort of reflection as this, that makes me hate the country:  it is impossible in one house with one set of company, to be always enough upon one’s guard to make one’s self agreeable, which one ought to do, as one always expects it from others.  If I had a house of my own in the country, and could live there now and then alone, or frequently changing my company, I am persuaded I should like it; at least, I fancy I should; for when one begins to reflect why one don’t like the country, I believe one grows near liking to reflect in it.  I feel very often that I grow to correct twenty things in myself, as thinking them ridiculous at my age; and then with my spirit of whim and folly, I make myself believe that this is all prudence, and that I wish I were young enough to be as thoughtless and extravagant as I used to be.  But if I know any thing of the matter, this is all flattering myself.  I grow older, and love my follies less-if I did not, alas! poor prudence and reflection!

I think I have pretty well exhausted the chapter of myself.  I will now go talk to YOU Of another fellow, who makes me look upon myself as a very perfect character; for as I have little merit naturally, and only pound a stray virtue now @ind then by chance, the other gentleman seems to have no vice, rather no villainy, but what he nurses in himself and metliodizes with as much pains as a stoic would patience.  Indeed his pains are not thrown away.  This painstaking person’s name is Frederic, King of Prussia.  Pray remember for the future never to speak of him and H. W. without giving the latter the preference.  Last week we were all alarm!  He was before Prague with fifty thousand men, and not a man in Bohemia to ask him, “What dost thou?” This week we have raised a hundred thousand Hungarians, besides vast militias and loyal nobilities.  The King of Poland is to attack him on his march, and the Russians to fall on Prussia.(964) In the mean time, his letter or address to the people of England(965) has been published here:  it is a poor performance!  His Voltaires and his litterati should correct his works before they are printed.  A careless song, with a little nonsense in it now and then, does not misbecome a monarch; but to pen manifestoes worse than the lowest commis that is kept jointly by two or three margraves, is insufferable!

We are very strong in Flanders, but still expect to do nothing this campaign.  The French are so entrenched, that it is impossible to attack them.  There is talk of besieging Maubeuge; I don’t know how certainly.