What do you say in Italy on the assassination of the King of Portugal?  Do you believe that Portuguese subjects lift their hand against a monarch for gallantry?  Do you believe that when a slave murders an absolute prince, he goes a walking with his wife the next morning and murders her too’!  Do you believe the dead King is alive? and that the Jesuits are as wrongfully suspected of this assassination as they have been of many others they have committed?  If you do believe this, and all this, you are not very near turning Protestants.  It is scarce talked of here, and to save trouble, we admit just what the Portuguese minister is ordered to publish.  The King of Portugal murdered, throws us two hundred years back—­the King of Prussia not murdered, carries us two hundred years forward again.

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 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 France!” 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 scorn to feel more.

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 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 any thing 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.