if you are not as detached from every thing as I am, you will wonder at my tranquillity, to be able to write such variety in the midst of hurricanes.  It costs me nothing; so I shall write on, and tell you an adventure of my own.  The town has been trying all this winter to beat pantomimes off the stage, very boisterously; for it is the way here to make even an affair of taste and sense a matter of riot and arms.  Fleetwood, the master of Drury-Lane, has omitted nothing to support them, as they supported his house.  About ten days ago, he let into the pit great numbers of Bear-garden bruisers (that is the term), to knock down every body that hissed.  The pit rallied their forces, and drove them out:  I was sitting very quietly in the side-boxes, contemplating all this.  On a sudden the curtain flew up, and discovered the whole stage filled with blackguards, armed with bludgeons and clubs, to menace the audience.  This raised the greatest uproar; and among the rest, who flew ’into a passion, but your friend the philosopher.  In short, one of the actors, advancing to the front of the stage to make an apology for the manager, he had scarce begun to say, “Mr. Fleetwood—­” when your friend, with a most audible voice and dignity of anger, called out, “He is an impudent rascal!” The whole pit huzzaed, and repeated the words.  Only think of my being a popular orator!  But what was still better, while my shadow of a person was dilating to the consistence of a hero, One of the chief ringleaders of the riot, coming under the box where I sat, and pulling off his hat, said, “Mr. Walpole, what would you please to have us do next?” It is impossible to describe to you the confusion into which this apostrophe threw me.  I sank down into the box, and have never since ventured to set my foot into the playhouse.  The next night, the uproar was repeated with greater violence, and nothing was heard but voices calling out, “Where’s Mr. W.? where’s Mr. W.?” In short, the whole town has been entertained with my prowess, and Mr. Conway has given me the name of Wat Tyler; which, I believe, would have stuck by me, if this new episode of Lord Granville had not luckily interfered.

We every minute expect news of the Mediterranean engagement for, besides your account, Birtles has written the same from Genoa.  We expect good news, too, from Prince Charles, who is driving the King of Prussia before him.  In the mean time, his wife the Archduchess is dead, which may be a signal loss to him.

I forgot to tell you that, on Friday, Lord Charles Hay,(989) who has more of the parts of an Irishman than of a Scot, told my Lady Granville at the drawing-room, on her seeing so full a court, “that people were come out of curiosity.”  The Speaker,(990) is the happiest of any man in these bustles:  he says, “this Parliament has torn two favourite ministers from the throne.”  His conclusion is, that the power of the Parliament will in the end be so great, that nobody can be minister but their own speaker.