artibus infidelium_.

_BREVITY OF MODERN ADDRESSES--THE OLD DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH._

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Oct._ 4, 1785.

I don't love to transgress my monthly regularity; yet, as you must
prefer facts to words, why should I write when I have nothing to tell
you? The newspapers themselves in a peaceable autumn coin wonders from
Ireland, or live on the accidents of the Equinox. They, the newspapers,
have been in high spirits on the prospect of a campaign in Holland; but
the Dutch, without pity for the gazetteers of Europe, are said to have
submitted to the Emperor's terms: however, the intelligence-merchants
may trust that _he_ will not starve them long!

Your neighbour, the Queen of Sardinia, it seems, is dead: but, if there
was anything to say about her, you must tell it to me, not I to you;
for, till she died, I scarce knew she had been alive.

Our Parliament is put off till after Christmas; so, I have no more
resource from domestic politics than from foreign wars. For my own
particular, I desire neither. I live here in tranquillity and idleness,
can content myself with trifles, and think the world is much the happier
when it has nothing to talk of. Most people ask, "Is there any
news?"--How can one want to know one does not know what? when anything
has happened, one hears it.

There is one subject on which I wish I had occasion to write; I think it
long since I heard how you go on: I flatter myself, as I have no letter
from you or your nephew, prosperously. I should prefer a letter from
him, that you may not have the trouble; and I shall make this the
shorter, as a precedent for his not thinking more than a line necessary.
The post does not insist on a certain quantity; it is content with being
paid for whatever it carries--nay, is a little unreasonable, as it
doubles its price for a cover that contains nothing but a direction: and
now it is the fashion to curtail the direction as much as possible.
Formerly, a direction was an academy of compliments: "To the most noble
and my singularly respected friend," &c., &c.--and then, "Haste! haste,
for your life, haste!" Now, we have banished even the monosyllable _To_!
Henry Conway,[1] Lord Hertford's son, who is very indolent, and has much
humour, introduced that abridgment. Writing to a Mr. Tighe at the
Temple, he directed his letter only thus: "T. Ti., Temple"[2]--and it
was delivered! Dr. Bentley was mightily flattered on receiving a letter
s