another and less satisfactory, it must be digging a hole out of which to kill your brother mortals; and thinking he should amuse himself better at the court, he set off for Madrid.  Here the king, by way of reward for his brilliant services in doing nothing, made him colonel-aggregate—­whatever that may be—­of an Irish regiment; a very poor aggregate, we should think.  But my lord duke wanted something livelier than the command of a band of Hispaniolized Milesians; and having found the military career somewhat uninteresting, wished to return to that of politics.  He remembered with gusto the frolic life of the Holy City, and the political excitement in the Chevalier’s court, and sent off a letter to ‘His Majesty James III.,’ expressing, like a rusticated Oxonian, his penitence for having been so naughty the last time, and offering to come and be very good again.  It is to the praise of the Chevalier de St. George that he had worldly wisdom enough not to trust the gay penitent.  He was tired, as everybody else was, of a man who could stick to nothing, and did not seem to care about seeing him again.  Accordingly, he replied in true kingly style, blaming him for having taken up arms against their common country, and telling him in polite language—­as a policeman does a riotous drunkard—­that he had better go home.  The duke thought so too, was not at all offended at the letter, and set off, by way of returning towards his Penates, for Paris, where he arrived in May, 1728.

Horace Walpole—­not the Horace—­but ‘Uncle Horace,’ or ‘old Horace,’ as he was called, was then ambassador to the court of the Tuileries.  Mr. Walpole was one of the Houghton ‘lot,’ a brother of the famous minister Sir Robert, and though less celebrated, almost as able in his line.  He had distinguished himself in various diplomatic appointments, in Spain, at Hanover and the Hague, and having successfully tackled Cardinal Fleury, the successor of the Richelieus and Mazarins at Paris, he was now in high favour at home.  In after years he was celebrated for his duel with Chetwynd, who, when ‘Uncle Horace’ had in the House expressed a hope that the question might be carried, had exclaimed, ’I hope to see you hanged first!’ ‘You hope to see me hanged first, do you?’ cried Horace, with all the ferocity of the Walpoles; and thereupon, seizing him by the most prominent feature of his face, shook him violently.  This was matter enough for a brace of swords and coffee for four, and Mr. Chetwynd had to repent of his remark after being severely wounded.  In those days our honourable House of Commons was as much an arena of wild beasts as the American senate of to-day.

To this minister our noble duke wrote a hypocritical letter, which, as it shows how the man could write penitently, is worth transcribing.

    ’Lions, June 28, 1728.

’Sir,—­Your excellency will be surpris’d to receive a letter from me; but the clemency with which the government of England has treated me, which is in a great measure owing to your brother’s regard to my father’s memory, makes me hope that you will give me leave to express my gratitude for it.