Poor lord Oxford is gone to those regions from whence travellers never return, unless in an airy visit to faithless lovers, as Margaret to William; or to cities devoted to destruction, as Hector amidst the flames of Troy. The deceased earl has left behind him many books, many manuscripts, and no money: his lady brought him five hundred thousand pounds, four of which have been sacrificed to indolence, good nature, and want of worldly wisdom: and there will still remain, after proper sales, and right management, five thousand pounds a year for his widow.
Mr. Cæsar died about two months ago. Mrs. Cæsar is still all tears and lamentations, although she certainly may be numbered inter felices, sua si bona norint.
Lord Bathurst is at Cirencester, erecting pillars and statues to queen Anne. Lord Bolingbroke lives in France: posterity, it is to be hoped, may be the better for his retirement. The duke of Argyll reigns or ought to reign in Scotland. — Such is the state of Europe; but our disappointment in America has cast a gloomy face over London and Westminster. The citizens have recourse to mum and tobacco, by which means they puff away care, and keep dismay at a proper distance; in the mean time, my friends the ducks and geese in the park cackle on, and join in chorus to the sounds of victory that are daily drummed forth on the parade, but reach no farther than the atmosphere of Whitehall. What news next? The weather — but you certainly know it is hot; for in truth, notwithstanding this letter comes from my heart, and is written in the
