e brought home from the Havannah, as Walpole mentions in a
subsequent letter.]

You see I am a punctual correspondent when Empresses commit murders.

_NEGOTIATIONS FOR PEACE--CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES._

TO THE HON. H.S. CONWAY.

STRAWBERRY HILL, _Sept._ 9, 1762.

Nondum laurus erat, longoque decentia crine
Tempora cingebat de qualibet arbore Phoebus.[1]

[Footnote 1: The quotation is from Ovid, Met. i. 450.]

This is a hint to you, that as Phoebus, who was certainly your superior,
could take up with a chestnut garland, or any crown he found, you must
have the humility to be content without laurels, when none are to be
had: you have hunted far and near for them, and taken true pains to the
last in that old nursery-garden Germany, and by the way have made me
shudder with your last journal: but you must be easy with _qualibet_
other _arbore_; you must come home to your own plantations. The Duke of
Bedford is gone in a fury to make peace,[1] for he cannot be even
pacific with temper; and by this time I suppose the Duke de Nivernois is
unpacking his portion of olive _dans la rue de Suffolk Street_. I say, I
suppose--for I do not, like my friends at Arthur's, whip into my
post-chaise to see every novelty. My two sovereigns, the Duchess of
Grafton and Lady Mary Coke, are arrived, and yet I have seen neither
Polly nor Lucy. The former, I hear, is entirely French; the latter as
absolutely English.

[Footnote 1: "On the 6th of September the Duke of Bedford embarked as
ambassador from England; on the 12th the Duc de Nivernois landed as
ambassador from France. Of these two noblemen, Bedford, though well
versed in affairs, was perhaps by his hasty temper in some degree
disqualified for the profession of a Temple or a Gondomar; and Nivernois
was only celebrated for his graceful manners and his pretty songs" (Lord
Stanhope, "History of England," c. 38).]

Well! but if you insist on not doffing your cuirass, you may find an
opportunity of wearing it. The storm thickens. The City of London are
ready to hoist their standard; treason is the bon-ton at that end of the
town; seditious papers pasted up at every corner: nay, my neighbourhood
is not unfashionable; we have had them at Brentford and Kingston. The
Peace is the cry;[1] but to make weight, they throw in all the abusive
ingredients they can collect. They talk of your friend the Duke of
Devonshire's resigning; and, for the Duke of Newcastle, it puts him