Lady Sophia Thomas,(754) has begged me to trouble you with a small commission.  It is to send me for her twelve little bottles of “le Baume de Vie, compos`e par le Sieur Lievre, apoticaire distillateur du Roi.”  If George Selwyn or Lord March are not set out, they would bring it with pleasure, especially as she lives at the Duke of Queensberry’s.

We have not a new book, play, intrigue, marriage, elopement, or quarrel; in short, we are very dull.  For politics, unless the ministers wantonly thrust their hands into some fire, I think there will not even be a smoke.  I am glad of it, for my heart is set on my journey to Paris, and I hate every thing that stops me.  Lord Byron’s foolish trial is likely to protract the session a little; but unless there is any particular business, I shall not stay for a puppet-show.  Indeed, I can defend my staying here by nothing but my ties to your brother.  My health, I am sure, would be better in another climate in winter.  Long days in the House kill me, and weary me into the bargain.  The individuals of each party are alike indifferent to me; nor can I at this time of day grow to love men whom I have laughed at all my lifetime—­no, I cannot alter;—­Charles Yorke or Charles Townshend are alike to me, whether ministers or patriots.  Men do not change in my eyes, because they quit a black livery for a white one.  When one has seen the whole scene shifted round and round so often, one only smiles, whoever is the present Polonius or the grave digger, whether they jeer the Prince, or flatter his frenzy.

Thursday night, 14th.

The new assembly-room at Almack’s was opened the night before last, and they say is very magnificent, but it was empty; half the town is ill With colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house is scarcely built yet.  Almack advertised that it was built with hot brick and boiling water—­think what a rage there must be for public places, If this notice, instead of terrifying, could draw any body thither.  They tell me the ceilings were dropping with wet—­but can you believe me, when I assure you the Duke of Cumberland was there?—­Nay, had had a levee in the morning, and went to the Opera before the assembly!  There is a vast flight of steps, and he was forced to rest two or three times.  If he dies of it—­and how should he not?—­it will sound very silly when Hercules or Theseus ask him what he died of, to reply, “I caught my death on a damp staircase at a new club-room.”

Williams, the reprinter of the North Briton, stood in the pillory to-day in Palace-yard.  He went in a hackney-coach, the number of which was 45.  The mob erected a gallows opposite to him, on which they hung a boot(755) with a bonnet of straw.  Then a collection was made for Williams, which amounted to near 200 pounds.(756) In short, every event informs the administration how thoroughly they are detested, and that they have not a friend whom they do not buy.  Who can wonder, when every man of virtue is proscribed,