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