Another King, I know, has had a little blow:  the Prince de Soubise has beat some Isenbourgs and Obergs, and is going to be Elector of Hanover this winter.  There has been a great sickness among our troops in the other German army; the Duke of Marlborough has been in great danger, and some officers are dead.  Lord Frederick Cavendish is returned from France.  He confirms and adds to the amiable accounts we had received of the Duc d’Aiguillon’s[1] behaviour to our prisoners.  You yourself, the pattern of attentions and tenderness, could not refine on what he has done both in good-nature and good-breeding:  he even forbad any ringing of bells or rejoicings wherever they passed—­but how your representative blood will curdle when you hear of the absurdity of one of your countrymen:  the night after the massacre at St. Cas, the Duc d’Aiguillon gave a magnificent supper of eighty covers to our prisoners—­a Colonel Lambert got up at the bottom of the table, and asking for a bumper, called out to the Duc, “My Lord Duke, here’s the Roy de Franse!” You must put all the English you can crowd into the accent. My Lord Duke was so confounded at this preposterous compliment, which it was impossible for him to return, that he absolutely sank back into his chair and could not utter a syllable:  our own people did not seem to feel more.

[Footnote 1:  The Duc d’Aiguillon was governor of Brittany when the disastrous attempt of the Duke of Marlborough on St. Cast was repulsed.  But he did not get much credit for the defeat.  Lacretelle mentions that:  “Les Bretons qui le considerent comme leur tyran pretendent qu’il l’etait tenu cache pendant le combat” (iii. 345).  He was subsequently prosecuted on charges of peculation and subornation, which the Parliament declared to be fully established, but Mme. de Barri persuaded Louis to cancel their resolution.]

You will read and hear that we have another expedition sailing, somewhither in the West Indies.  Hobson, the commander, has in his whole life had but one stroke of a palsy, so possibly may retain half of his understanding at least.  There is a great tranquillity at home, but I should think not promising duration.  The disgust in the army on the late frantic measures will furnish some warmth probably to Parliament—­and if the French should think of returning our visits, should you wonder?  There are even rumours of some stirring among your little neighbours at Albano—­keep your eye on them—­if you could discover anything in time, it would do you great credit. Apropos to them, I will send you an epigram that I made the other day on Mr. Chute’s asking why Taylor the oculist called himself Chevalier?[1]

[Footnote 1:  Walpole was proud of the epigram, for the week before he had sent it to Lady Hervey.  It was—­

    Why Taylor the quack calls himself Chevalier
     ’Tis not easy a reason to render,
    Unless blinding eyes that he thinks to make clear
      Demonstrates he’s but a Pretender.