is couple is to be published, full
of sad scandalous relations, of which you may be sure scarcely a word
is true. In former times, the Duchess of St. A---s made use of these
elegant epistles in order to intimidate Lady Johnstone: but that ruse
would not avail; so in spite, they are to be printed. What a cargo
of amiable creatures! Yet will some people scarcely believe in the
existence of Pandemonium.

"Tuesday Morning.--You are perfectly right respecting the hot rooms
here, which we all cry out against, and all find very comfortable--much
more so than the cold sands and bleak neighborhood of the sea; which
looks vastly well in one of Vander Velde's pictures hung upon crimson
damask, but hideous and shocking in reality. H--- and his 'elle'
(talking of parties) were last night at Cholmondeley House, but seem
not to ripen in their love. He is certainly good-humored, and I believe,
good-hearted, so deserves a good wife; but his cara seems a genuine
London miss made up of many affectations. Will she form a comfortable
helpmate? For me, I like not her origin, and deem many strange things to
run in blood, besides madness and the Hanoverian evil.

"Thursday.--I verily do believe that I shall never get to the end of
this small sheet of paper, so many unheard of interruptions have I had;
and now I have been to Vauxhall, and caught the toothache. I was of Lady
E. B---m and H---'s party: very dull--the Lady giving us all a supper
after our promenade--

'Much ado was there, God wot
She would love, but he would not.'

He ate a great deal of ice, although he did not seem to require it: and
she 'faisoit les yeux doux' enough not only to have melted all the ice
which he swallowed, but his own hard heart into the bargain. The thing
will not do. In the meantime, Miss Long hath become quite cruel to
Wellesley Pole, and divides her favor equally between Lords Killeen and
Kilworth, two as simple Irishmen as ever gave birth to a bull. I wish
to Hymen that she were fairly married, for all this pother gives one a
disgusting picture of human nature."

A disgusting pictur of human nature, indeed--and isn't he who moralizes
about it, and she to whom he writes, a couple of pretty heads in
the same piece? Which, Mr. Yorke, is the wust, the scandle or the
scandle-mongers? See what it is to be a moral man of fashn. Fust,
he scrapes togither all the bad stoaries about all the people of
his acquentance--he goes to a ball, and laff