The Letters of Horace Walpole - Volume II | Page 4

daughter, Lady Grosvenor. She came one
night to Northumberland House with such display of friz, that it

literally spread beyond her shoulders. I happened to say it looked as if
her parents had stinted her in hair before marriage, and that she was
determined to indulge her fancy now. This, among ten thousand things
said by all the world, was reported to Lady Harriot, and has occasioned
my disgrace. As she never found fault with anybody herself, I excuse
her. You will be less surprised to hear that the Duchess of Queensberry
has not yet done dressing herself marvellously: she was at Court on
Sunday in a gown and petticoat of red flannel....
We have not a new book, play, intrigue, marriage, elopement, or
quarrel; in short, we are very dull. For politics, unless the ministers
wantonly thrust their hands into some fire, I think there will not even be
a smoke. I am glad of it, for my heart is set on my journey to Paris, and
I hate everything that stops me. Lord Byron's[1] foolish trial is likely to
protract the session a little; but unless there is any particular business, I
shall not stay for a puppet-show. Indeed, I can defend my staying here
by nothing but my ties to your brother. My health, I am sure, would be
better in another climate in winter. Long days in the House kill me, and
weary me into the bargain. The individuals of each party are alike
indifferent to me; nor can I at this time of day grow to love men whom
I have laughed at all my lifetime--no, I cannot alter;--Charles Yorke or
a Charles Townshend are alike to me, whether ministers or patriots.
Men do not change in my eyes, because they quit a black livery for a
white one. When one has seen the whole scene shifted round and round
so often, one only smiles, whoever is the present Polonius or the
Gravedigger, whether they jeer the Prince, or flatter his phrenzy.
[Footnote 1: In a previous letter Walpole mentions the duel caused by a
dispute at cards, in which Lord Byron was so unfortunate as to kill his
cousin, Mr. Chaworth.]
Thursday night, 14th.
The new Assembly Room at Almack's[1] was opened the night before
last, and they say is very magnificent, but it was empty; half the town is
ill with colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house is scarcely built
yet. Almack advertized that it was built with hot bricks and boiling
water--think what a rage there must be for public places, if this notice,

instead of terrifying, could draw anybody thither. They tell me the
ceilings were dropping with wet--but can you believe me, when I
assure you the Duke of Cumberland was there?--Nay, had had a levée
in the morning, and went to the Opera before the assembly! There is a
vast flight of steps, and he was forced to rest two or three times. If he
dies of it,--and how should he not?--it will sound very silly when
Hercules or Theseus ask him what he died of, to reply, "I caught my
death on a damp staircase at a new club-room."
[Footnote 1: Almack was a Scotchman, who got up a sort of female
club in King Street, St. James's, at the place since known as Willis's
Rooms. In the first half of the present century the balls of Almack's
were the most fashionable and exclusive in London, under the
government of six lady patronesses, without a voucher from one of
whom no one could obtain admittance. For a long time after trousers
had become the ordinary wear they were proscribed at Almack's, and
gentlemen were required to adhere to the more ancient and showy attire
of knee-breeches; and it was said that in consequence of one having
attempted unsuccessfully to obtain admission in trousers the tickets for
the next ball were headed with a notice that "gentlemen would not be
admitted without breeches and stockings."]
Williams, the reprinter of the North Briton, stood in the pillory to-day
in Palace Yard.[1] He went in a hackney-coach, the number of which
was 45. The mob erected a gallows opposite him, on which they hung a
boot[2] with a bonnet of straw. Then a collection was made for
Williams, which amounted to near £200. In short, every public event
informs the Administration how thoroughly they are detested, and that
they have not a friend whom they do not buy. Who can wonder, when
every man of virtue is proscribed, and they have neither parts nor
characters to impose even upon the mob! Think to what a government
is sunk, when a Secretary of State is called in Parliament to his face
"the most profligate sad dog in the kingdom," and