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