inst this fury of the
north, nothing could bribe me to set my foot in her dominions. Had she
been priestess of the Scythian Diana, she would have sacrificed her
brother by choice. It seems she does not degenerate; her mother was
ambitious and passionate for intrigues; she went to Paris, and dabbled
in politics with all her might.

The world had been civilising itself till one began to doubt whether
ancient histories were not ancient legends. Voltaire had unpoisoned half
the victims to the Church and to ambition. Oh! there never was such a
man as Borgia[1]; the league seemed a romance. For the honour of poor
historians, the assassinations of the Kings of France and Portugal,
majesties still living in spite of Damien and the Jesuits, and the
dethronement and murder of the Czar, have restored some credibility to
the annals of former ages. Tacitus recovers his character by the edition
of Petersburg.

[Footnote 1: Borgia, the father, was Pope Sextus VI.; Caesar Borgia was
the son--both equally infamous for their crimes, and especially their
murders by poison.]

We expect the definitive courier from Paris every day. Now it is said
that they ask time to send to Spain. What? to ask leave to desert them!
The Spaniards, not so expeditious in usurpation as the Muscovites, have
made no progress in Portugal. Their absurd manifestoes appeared too
soon. The Czarina and Princess Daschkaw stay till the stroke is struck.
Really, my dear Sir, your Italy is growing unfashionably innocent,--if
you don't take care, the Archbishop of Novgorod will deserve, by his
crimes, to be at the head of the _Christian_ Church.[1] I fear my
friend, good Benedict, infected you all with his virtues.

[Footnote 1: That is, Pope Benedict XIV.]

You see how this Russian revolution has seized every cell in my head--a
Prince of Wales is passed over in a line, the peace in another line. I
have not even told you that the treasure of the _Hermione_,[1] reckoned
eight hundred thousand pounds, passed the end of my street this morning
in one-and-twenty waggons. Of the Havannah I could tell you nothing if I
would; people grow impatient at not hearing from thence. Adieu!

[Footnote 1: In August, 1761, Sir G. Pocock took Havannah, the capital
of Cuba. In September Commodore Cornish and Colonel Draper took Manilla,
the principal of the Philippine Islands; and the treasures found in
Manilla alone exceeded the sum here mentioned by Walpole, and yet did
not equal thos