and that the great mechanics and mathematicians of this age have not invented a flying bridge to fling over the sea and land from the coast of France to the north of Ireland, it was not easy to conceive how the French should conquer Carrickfergus—­and yet they have.  But how I run on! not reflecting that by this time the old Pretender must have hobbled through Florence on his way to Ireland, to take possession of this scrap of his recovered domains; but I may as well tell you at once, for to be sure you and the loyal body of English in Tuscany will slip over all this exordium to come to the account of so extraordinary a revolution.  Well, here it is.  Last week Monsieur Thurot—­oh! now you are au fait!—­Monsieur Thurot, as I was saying, landed last week in the isle of Islay, the capital province belonging to a great Scotch King, who is so good as generally to pass the winter with his friends here in London.  Monsieur Thurot had three ships, the crews of which burnt two ships belonging to King George, and a house belonging to his friend the King of Argyll—­pray don’t mistake; by his friend, I mean King George’s, not Thurot’s friend.  When they had finished this campaign, they sailed to Carrickfergus, a poorish town, situate in the heart of the Protestant cantons.  They immediately made a moderate demand of about twenty articles of provisions, promising to pay for them; for you know it is the way of modern invasions to make them cost as much as possible to oneself, and as little to those one invades.  If this was not complied with, they threatened to burn the town, and then march to Belfast, which is much richer.  We were sensible of this civil proceeding, and not to be behindhand, agreed to it; but somehow or other this capitulation was broken; on which a detachment (the whole invasion consists of one thousand men) attack the place.  We shut the gates, but after the battle of Quebec, it is impossible that so great a people should attend to such trifles as locks and bolts, accordingly there were none—­and as if there were no gates neither, the two armies fired through them—­if this is a blunder, remember I am describing an Irish war.  I forgot to give you the numbers of the Irish army.  It consisted of four companies—­indeed they consisted but of seventy-two men, under Lieut.-colonel Jennings, a wonderful brave man—­too brave, in short, to be very judicious.  Unluckily our ammunition was soon spent, for it is not above a year that there have been any apprehensions for Ireland, and as all that part of the country are most protestantly loyal, it was not thought necessary to arm people who would fight till they die for their religion.  When the artillery was silenced, the garrison thought the best way of saving the town was by flinging it at the heads of the besiegers; according they poured volleys of brickbats at the French, whose commander, Monsieur Flobert, was mortally knocked down, and his troops began to give way.  However, General Jennings thought it most prudent to retreat to the castle, and the French again advanced.  Four or five raw recruits still bravely kept the gates, when the garrison, finding no more gunpowder in the castle than they had had in the town, and not near so good a brick-kiln, sent to desire to surrender.  General Thurot accordingly made them prisoners of war, and plundered the town.