LONDON,February 13,1767.
MY DEAR FRIEND:It is so long since I have had a letter from you,that Iam alarmed about your health;and fear that the southern parts of France have not done so well by you as they did by me in the year 1741,when they snatched me from the jaws of death.Let me know,upon the receipt of this letter,how you are,and where you are.
I have no news to send you from hence;for everything seems suspended,both in the court and in the parliament,till Lord Chatham's return from the Bath,where he has been laid up this month,by a severe fit of the gout;and,at present,he has the sole apparent power.In what little business has hitherto been done in the House of Commons,Charles Townshend has given himself more ministerial airs than Lord Chatham will,I believe,approve of.However,since Lord Chatham has thought fit to withdraw himself from that House,he cannot well do without Charles'
abilities to manage it as his deputy.
I do not send you an account of weddings,births,and burials,as I take it for granted that you know them all from the English printed papers;some of which,I presume,are sent after you.Your old acquaintance,Lord Essex,is to be married this week to Harriet Bladen,who has L20,000down,besides the reasonable expectation of as much at the death of her father.My kinsman,Lord Strathmore,is to be married in a fortnight,to Miss Bowes,the greatest heiress perhaps in Europe.In short,the matrimonial frenzy seems to rage at present,and is epidemical.The men marry for money,and I believe you guess what the women marry for.God bless you,and send you health!
