Soon after the Prince died, an unlucky discovery had been made. George Lyttelton had written a lamentation, on that occasion, to his father,[179] an antiquated Baronet in Worcestershire, telling him that he and his friends had just renewed their connexions with the Prince of Wales, by the mediation of Dr. Ayscough, which, though not ripe for discovery, was the true secret of their oblique behaviour this session in Parliament. This letter he had delivered to a gentleman’s servant, who was going into that county; but the fellow having some other letters for the post, had by mistake given in the private negotiation, which was only subscribed _To Sir Thomas Lyttelton_. It was opened at the Post-office, and carried to Mr. Pelham. Had it been seen by no other person, the secret had been safe, and the treachery concealed, as carefully as if he had been in the conspiracy himself, instead of being the object of it; but it was talked of from the Post-office, though obscurely for some time, till at last it was nursed up somehow or other, and arrived at the King’s ears, who grew outrageous, and could not be hindered from examining Shelvocke, the Secretary of the Post-office, himself. Here he got very little further light; for Shelvocke had been instructed to affirm that the letter was sent back to Mr. Lyttelton, unopened; but Lyttelton, who had not been so well instructed in his own secret, avowed it; and as if there were nothing to be ashamed of but the discovery, he took pains to palliate no other part of the story. Absurdity was predominant in Lyttelton’s composition: it entered equally into his politics, his apologies, his public pretences, his private conversations. With the figure of a spectre, and the gesticulations of a puppet, he talked heroics through his nose, made declamations at a visit, and played at cards with scraps of history, or sentences of Pindar. He had set out on a poetical love plan, though with nothing of a lover but absence of mind, and nothing of poet but absence of meaning; yet he was far from wanting parts; spoke well when he had studied his speeches; and loved to reward and promote merit in others. His political apostasy was as flagrant as Pitt’s: the latter gloried in it: but Lyttelton, when he had been forced to quit virtue, took up religion, and endeavoured to persuade mankind that he had just fixed his views on heaven, when he had gone the greatest lengths to promote his earthly interest; and so finished was his absurdity, that he was capable of believing himself honest and agreeable.