performance on the morrow, because there was to be a battle,
but on the 12th the company would have the honour of presenting "The
Village Clock." (See the Editor's "France under the Bourbons," iii.
26.)]

I have received yours of the 27th of last month, with the capitulation
of Genoa, and the kind conduct of the Austrians to us their allies, so
extremely like their behaviour whenever they are fortunate. Pray, by the
way, has there been any talk of my cousin, the Commodore, being
blameable in letting slip some Spanish ships?--don't mention it as from
me, but there are whispers of court-martial on him. They are all the
fashion now; if you miss a post to me, I will have you tried by a
court-martial. Cope is come off most gloriously, his courage
ascertained, and even his conduct, which everybody had given up,
justified. Folkes and Lascelles, two of his generals, are come off too;
but not so happily in the opinion of the world. Oglethorpe's sentence is
not yet public, but it is believed not to be favourable. He was always a
bully, and is now tried for cowardice. Some little dash of the same sort
is likely to mingle with the judgment on _il furibondo_ Matthews; though
his party rises again a little, and Lestock's acquittal begins to pass
for a party affair. In short, we are a wretched people, and have seen
our best days!

I must have lost a letter, if you really told me of the sale of the
Duke of Modena's pictures, as you think you did; for when Mr. Chute told
it me, it struck me as quite new. They are out of town, good souls; and
I shall not see them this fortnight; for I am here only for two or three
days, to inquire after the battle, in which not one of my friends were.
Adieu!

_ON CONWAY'S VERSES--NO SCOTCH_MAN_ IS CAPABLE OF SUCH DELICACY OF
THOUGHT, THOUGH A SCOTCHWOMAN MAY BE--AKENSIDE'S, ARMSTRONG'S, AND
GLOVER'S POEMS._

TO THE HON. H.S. CONWAY.

WINDSOR, _Oct._ 24, 1746.

Well, Harry, Scotland is the last place on earth I should have thought
of for turning anybody poet: but I begin to forgive it half its treasons
in favour of your verses, for I suppose you don't think I am the dupe of
the Highland story that you tell me: the only use I shall make of it is
to commend the lines to you, as if they really were a Scotchman's. There
is a melancholy harmony in them that is charming, and a delicacy in the
thoughts that no Scotchman is capable of, though a _Scotchwoman_ might
inspire it.[1] I beg, both for Cynthia'