The Duke of Norfolk[7] is an extraordinary instance of the impossibility of _situation_ being sufficient to secure happiness: he, however, finds in his own good temper an antidote to all the vexations of his life. He has all that rank, dignity, and wealth can give; he married a beautiful woman whose person he liked, possessed of 15,000_l._ pr. anm. About eight years after she became mad, and from being intestate her immense possessions escheat to the Crown, there being no male heir to the Scudamores. It appears to be a hardship that the laws afford no relief to a person united to one insane, as no pretext can be more valid towards the dissolution of a marriage than an obstacle of that nature that impedes the fulfilling of every function belonging to the institution. He maintains with solid magnificence the splendour of his rank; everything about him bespeaks wealth and luxurious comfort. His servants are old domestics, fat, sleek, and happy; his table is profuse and exquisite. His taste is bad; he loves society, but has no selection, and swallows wine for quantity, not quality: he is gross in everything. The Dss.’s madness has taken a sombre, _farouche_ turn; she hates all mankind. The clergyman during a lucid interval advised her to read religious books, supplied her with some, and mingled his advice with pious exhortations. She acquiesced, and took the books. A few days after she returned them with scorn, saying, ‘I wish I could believe your d----d trumpery, as I should then be certain two-thirds of mankind would roast in H----! It was curious that in the Gospels she could find matter to gratify her malignity. The Duke behaves uncommonly well to her. [Sidenote: DR. INGENHOUSZ] Mrs. Clive, Ly. Plymouth’s sister, went there to meet me. She is a shrewd, sensible woman. Her husband is a Jacobin of the worst sort, envy actuating all his equalising principles.[8] Wm. Scott, Ly. O.’s brother, another Jacobin, was there: he is merry and good-humoured, and tho’ a zealous disciple of Horne Tooke’s a few good briefs to get him a _pied à terre_ will cure him of his democracy. I knew him many years ago at Nice. Capt. Morris,[9] the famous singer of his own witty songs, entertained us with some of them; he is drunken and dull, and since the death of a favourite son, has renounced singing any of his _light_ songs. He made a superstitious vow to God Almighty that he would not.