the Duke would reserve the sole disposition of the secret service-money, his grace would bestow his entire confidence on Mr. Fox, and acquaint him with the most minute details of that service.  Mr. Fox bowed and obeyed--and, as a preliminary step, received the Chancellor’s(469) absolution.  From thence he attended his—­and our new master.  But either grief for his brother’s death, or joy for it, had so intoxicated the new maitre du palais, that he would not ratify any one of the conditions he had imposed:  and though my Lord Hartington’s virtue interposed, and remonstrated on the purport of the message he had carried, the Duke persisted in assuming the whole and undivided power himself, and left Mr. Fox no choice, but of obeying or disobeying, as he might choose.  This produced the next day a letter from Mr. Fox, carried by Lord Hartington, in which he refused secretary of state, and pinned down the lie with which the new ministry is to commence.  It was tried to be patched up at the Chancellor’s on Friday night, though ineffectually:  and yesterday morning Mr. Fox in an audience desired to remain secretary at war.  The Duke immediately kissed hands-declared, in the most unusual manner, universal minister.  Legge was to be chancellor of the exchequer:  but I can’t tell whether that disposition will hold, as Lord Duplin is proclaimed the acting favourite.  The German Sir Thomas Robinson was thought on for the secretary’s seals; but has just sense enough to be unwilling to accept them under so ridiculous an administration.  This is the first act of the comedy.

On Friday this august remnant of the Pelhams went to court for the first time.  At the foot of the stairs he cried and sunk down:  the yeomen of the guard were forced to drag him up under the arms.  When the closet-door opened, he flung himself at his length at the King’s feet, sobbed, and cried “God bless your Majesty!  God preserve your Majesty,” and lay there howling and embracing the King’s knees, with one foot so extended, that Lord Coventry, who was luckily in waiting, and begged the standers-by to retire with “For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t look at a great man in distress,” endeavouring to shut the door, caught his grace’s foot, and made him roar out with pain.

You can have no notion of what points of ceremony have been agitated about the ears of the family.  George Selwyn was told that my Lady Catharine had not shed one tear:  “And pray,” said he, “don’t she intend it?” It is settled that Mrs. Watson is not to cry till she is brought-to-bed.

You love George Selwyn’s bon-mots:  this crisis has redoubled them:  here is one of his best.  My Lord Chancellor is to be Earl of Clarendon—­“Yes,” said Selwyn, from the very summit of the whites of his demure eyes; “and I suppose he will get the title of Rochester for his son-in-law, my Lord Anson.”  Do you think he will ever lose the title of Lord Rochester?