The Letters of Horace Walpole - Volume II | Page 9

Pitti. My dear sir,
make no excuse; we each write what we have to write; and if our letters
remain, posterity will read the catastrophes of St. James's and the
Palace Pitti with equal indifference, however differently they affect you
and me now. For my part, though agitated like Ludlow or my Lord

Clarendon on the events of the day, I have more curiosity about
Havering in the Bower, the jointure house of ancient royal dowagers,
than about Queen Isabella herself. Mr. Wilkes, whom you mention, will
be still more interested, when he hears that his friend Lord Temple has
shaken hands with his foes Halifax and Sandwich; and I don't believe
that any amnesty is stipulated for the exile. Churchill, Wilkes's poet,
used to wish that he was at liberty to attack Mr. Pitt and Charles
Townshend,--the moment is come, but Churchill is gone! Charles
Townshend has got Lord Holland's place--and yet the people will again
and again believe that nothing is intended but their interest.
When I recollect all I have seen and known, I seem to be as old as
Methuselah: indeed I was born in politics,--but I hope not to die in
them. With all my experience, these last five weeks have taught me
more than any other ten years; accordingly, a retreat is the whole scope
of my wishes; but not yet arrived.
Your amiable sister, Mrs. Foote, is settled in town; I saw her last night
at the Opera with Lady Ailesbury. She is enchanted with
Manzuoli--and you know her approbation is a test, who has heard all
the great singers, learnt of all, and sings with as much taste as any of
them. Adieu!
PROSPECTS OF OLD AGE WHEN JOINED TO GOUT.
TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.
STRAWBERRY HILL, July 28, 1765.
The less one is disposed, if one has any sense, to talk of oneself to
people that inquire only out of compliment, and do not listen to the
answer, the more satisfaction one feels in indulging a self-complacency,
by sighing to those that really sympathise with our griefs. Do not think
it is pain that makes me give this low-spirited air to my letter. No, it is
the prospect of what is to come, not the sensation of what is passing,
that affects me. The loss of youth is melancholy enough; but to enter
into old age through the gate of infirmity most disheartening. My health
and spirits make me take but slight notice of the transition, and, under

the persuasion of temperance being a talisman, I marched boldly on
towards the descent of the hill, knowing I must fall at last, but not
suspecting that I should stumble by the way. This confession explains
the mortification I feel. A month's confinement to one who never kept
his bed a day is a stinging lesson, and has humbled my insolence to
almost indifference. Judge, then, how little I interest myself about
public events. I know nothing of them since I came hither, where I had
not only the disappointment of not growing better, but a bad return in
one of my feet, so that I am still wrapped up and upon a couch. It was
the more unlucky as Lord Hertford is come to England for a very few
days. He has offered to come to me; but as I then should see him only
for some minutes, I propose being carried to town to-morrow. It will be
so long before I can expect to be able to travel, that my French journey
will certainly not take place so soon as I intended, and if Lord Hertford
goes to Ireland, I shall be still more fluctuating; for though the Duke
and Duchess of Richmond will replace them at Paris, and are as eager
to have me with them, I have had so many more years heaped upon me
within this month, that I have not the conscience to trouble young
people, when I can no longer be as juvenile as they are. Indeed I shall
think myself decrepit, till I again saunter into the garden in my slippers
and without my hat in all weathers,--a point I am determined to regain
if possible; for even this experience cannot make me resign my
temperance and my hardiness. I am tired of the world, its politics, its
pursuits, and its pleasures; but it will cost me some struggles before I
submit to be tender and careful. Christ! Can I ever stoop to the regimen
of old age? I do not wish to dress up a withered person, nor drag it
about to public places; but to sit in one's room, clothed warmly,
expecting visits from folks I don't wish to see, and tended and nattered
by relations impatient for one's death! Let the gout do its