I had an intention of deferring writing to you, my dear Sir, till I could wish you joy on the completion of your approaching dignity:(543) but as the Duke of Newcastle is not quite so expeditious as my friendship is earnest; and as your brother tells me that you have had some very unnecessary qualms, from your silence to me on this chapter, I can no longer avoid telling you how pleased I am with any accession of distinction to you and your family; I should like nothing better but an accession of appointments:  but I shall say no more on this head, where wishes are so barren as mine.  Your brother, who had not time to write by this post, desires me to tell you that the Duke will be obliged to you, if you will send him the new map of Rome and of the patrimony of St. Peter, which his Royal Highness says is just published.

You will have heard long before you receive this, of Lord Albemarle’s(544) sudden death at Paris:  every body is so sorry for him!—­without being so:  yet as sorry as he would have been for any body, or as he deserved.  Can one really regret a man, who, with the most meritorious wife(545) and sons(546) in the world, and with near 15,000 pounds a year from the government, leaves not a shilling to his family, lawful or illegitimate, (and both very numerous,) but dies immensely in debt, though, when he married, he had 90,000 pounds, in the funds, and my Lady Albemarle brought him 25,000 pounds more, all which is dissipated to 14,000 pounds!  The King very handsomely, and tired with having done so much for a man who had so little pretensions to it, immediately gave my Lady Albemarle 1200 pounds a year pension, and I trust will take care of this Lord, who is a great friend of mine, and what is much better for him, the first favourite of the Duke.  If I were as grave an historian as my Lord Clarendon, I should now without any scruple tell you a dream; you would either believe it from my dignity of character, or conclude from my dignity of character that I did not believe it myself.  As neither of these important evasions will serve my turn, I shall relate the following, only prefacing, that I do believe the dream happened, and happened right among the millions of dreams that do not hit.  Lord Bury was at Windsor with the Duke when the express of his father’s death arrived:  he came to town time enough to find his mother and sisters at breakfast.  “Lord! child,” said my Lady Albemarle, “what brings you to town so early?” He said he had been sent for.  Says she “You are not well!” “Yes,” replied Lord Bury, “I am, but a little flustered with something I have heard.”  “Let me feel your pulse,” said Lady Albemarle:  “Oh!” continued she, “your father is dead!” “Lord Madam,” said Lord Bury, “how could that come into your head?  I should rather have imagined that you would have thought it was my poor brother William” (who is just gone to Lisbon for his health).  “No,” said my Lady Albemarle, “I know it is your father; I dreamed last night that he was dead, and came to take leave of me!” and immediately swooned.