1043. We read more of pearls than of diamonds in ancient authors. The ancients had not skill enough to make the most of diamonds; and the art of engraving on them is not older than the sixteenth century. The most remarkable of modern pearls is that in the Spanish treasury, called The Pilgrim. It was in the possession of a merchant, who had paid for it 100,000 crowns. When he went to offer it for sale to Philip IV. the king said, How could you venture to give so much for a pearl? The merchant replied, I knew there was a king of Spain in the world. Philip, pleased with the flattery, ordered him his own price. 1044. Mr. Pennant, the ingenious and pleasing historian, had many peculiarities and eccentricities in his private character, among the latter may be classed his singular antipathy to a wig―which, however, he can suppress, till reason yields a little to wine. But when this is the case, off goes the wig next to him, and into the fire!―Dining once at Chester with an officer who wore a wig, Mr. Pennant became half seas over; and another friend that was in company carefully placed himself between Pennant and wig, to prevent mischief. After much patience, and many a wistful look, Pennant started up, seized the wig, and threw it into the fire. It was in flames in a moment, and so was the officer, who ran to his sword. Down stairs ran Pennant, and the officer after him, through all the streets of Chester. But Pennant escaped, from superior local knowledge. A wag called this “Pennant’s Tour in Chester.” 1045. The harengères, or fish-women at Paris, form a sort of body-corporate. In the time of Louis XIV. the Dauphin having recovered from a long illness, the fish-women deputed four of their troop to offer their congratulations. After some difficulties, the ladies were admitted by the king’s special command, and conducted to the dauphin’s apartment. One of them began a sort of harangue, What would have become of us if our dear dauphin had died? We should have lost our all. The king meanwhile had entered behind, and being extremely jealous of his power and glory, frowned at this ill-judged compliment; when another of the deputation, with a ready wit, regained his good graces, by adding, True; we should have lost our all―for our good king could never have survived his son, and would doubtless have died of grief. The _naïf_ policy of this unexpected turn was much admired. 1046. Lord William Poulet, though often chairman of committees of the House of Commons, was a great dunce, and could scarce read. Being to read a bill for naturalizing Jemima, Duchess of Kent, he called her, Jeremiah, Duchess of Kent. Having heard south walls commended for ripening fruit, he showed all the four sides of his garden for south walls. 1047. Queen Caroline spoke of shutting up St. James’s Park, and converting it into a noble garden for the palace of that name. She asked Sir Robert Walpole what it might probably cost? who replied, Only three crowns.