vely
Sophia completed. Ambition was the characteristic of her family: and she
went, not unwillingly, to the altar. The whole affair is too amusingly
told to be given in other language than that of Horace:--

'I could tell you a great deal of news,' he writes to Horace Mann, 'but
it would not be what you would expect. It is not of battles, sieges, and
declarations of war; nor of invasions, insurrections and addresses: it
is the god of love, not he of war, who reigns in the newspapers. The
town has made up a list of six-and-thirty weddings, which I shall not
catalogue to you. But the chief entertainment has been the nuptials of
our great Quixote (Carteret) and the fair Sophia. On the point of
matrimony, she fell ill of a scarlet fever, and was given over, while he
had the gout, but heroically sent her word, that if she was well, he
_would_ be well. They corresponded every day, and he used to plague the
cabinet council with reading her letters to them. Last night they were
married; and as all he does must have a particular air in it, they
supped at Lord Pomfret's. At twelve, Lady Granville (his mother) and all
his family went to bed, but the porter: then my lord went home, and
waited for her in the lodge. She came alone, in a hackney chair, met him
in the hall, and was led up the back stairs to bed. What is ridiculously
lucky is, that Lord Lincoln goes into waiting to-day, and will be to
present her!'

The event was succeeded by a great ball at the Duchess of Richmond's, in
honour of the bride, Lady Carteret paying her ladyship the 'highest
honours,' which she received in the 'highest state.' 'I have seen her,'
adds Horace, 'but once, and found her just what I expected, _tres grande
dame_, full of herself, and yet not with an air of happiness. She looks
ill, and is grown lean, but is still the finest figure in the world. The
mother (Lady Pomfret) is not so exalted as I expected; I fancy Carteret
has kept his resolution, and does not marry her too.'

Whilst this game was being played out, one of Walpole's most valued
neighbours, Pope, was dying of dropsy, and every evening a gentle
delirium possessed him. Again does Horace return to the theme, ever in
his thoughts--the Carterets: again does he recount their triumphs and
their follies.

'I will not fail'--still to Horace Mann--'to make your compliments to
the Pomfrets and Carterets. I see them seldom but I am in favour; so I
conclude, for my Lady Pomfret told me the othe