My Lord Anson, at the Admiralty, sends word to Chatham, then confined to his chamber by one of his most violent attacks of the gout, that it is impossible for him to fit out a naval expedition within the period to which he is limited. Impossible! cried Chatham, glaring at the messenger; who talks to me of impossibilities? Then starting to his feet, and forcing out great drops of agony on his brow with the excruciating torment of the effort, he exclaimed, Tell Lord Anson that he serves under a minister who treads on impossibilities!