ARLINGTON STREET, _Dec._ 9, 1745.
I am glad I did not write to you last post as I intended; I should have
sent you an account that would have alarmed you, and the danger would
have been over before the letter had crossed the sea. The Duke, from
some strange want of intelligence, lay last week for four-and-twenty
hours under arms at Stone, in Staffordshire, expecting the rebels every
moment, while they were marching in all haste to Derby. The news of this
threw the town into great consternation; but his Royal Highness repaired
his mistake, and got to Northampton, between the Highlanders and London.
They got nine thousand pounds at Derby, and had the books brought to
them, and obliged everybody to give them what they had subscribed
against them. Then they retreated a few miles, but returned again to
Derby, got ten thousand pounds more, plundered the town, and burnt a
house of the Countess of Exeter. They are gone again, and go back to
Leake, in Staffordshire, but miserably harassed, and, it is said, have
left all their cannon behind them, and twenty waggons of sick. The Duke
has sent General Hawley with the dragoons to harass them in their
retreat, and despatched Mr. Conway to Marshal Wade, to hasten his march
upon the back of them. They must either go to North Wales, where they
will probably all perish, or to Scotland, with great loss. We dread them
no longer. We are threatened with great preparations for a French
invasion, but the coast is exceedingly guarded; and for the people, the
spirit against the rebels increases every day. Though they have marched
thus into the heart of the kingdom, there has not been the least symptom
of a rising, nor even in the great towns of which they possessed
themselves. They have got no recruits since their first entry into
England, excepting one gentleman in Lancashire, one hundred and fifty
common men, and two parsons, at Manchester, and a physician from York.
But here in London, the aversion to them is amazing: on some thoughts of
the King's going to an encampment at Finchley,[1] the weavers not only
offered him a thousand men, but the whole body of the Law formed
themselves into a little army, under the command of Lord Chief Justice
Willes, and were to have done duty at St. James's, to guard the royal
family in the King's absence.
[Footnote 1: The troops which were being collected for the Duke of
Cumberland, as soon as he should arrive from the Continent, to march
with against the Pretender, were in the meantime encamped on Finchley
Common near London. The march of the Guards to the camp is the subject
of one of Hogarth's best pictures.]
But the greatest demonstration of loyalty appeared on the prisoners
being brought to town from the Soleil prize: the young man is certainly
Mr. Radcliffe's son; but the mob, persuaded of his being the youngest
Pretender, could scarcely be restrained from tearing him to pieces all
the way on the road, and at his arrival. He said he had heard of English
mobs, but could not conceive they were so dreadful, and wished he had
been shot at the battle of Dettingen, where he had been engaged. The
father, whom they call Lord Derwentwater, said, on entering the Tower,
that he had never expected to arrive there alive. For the young man, he
must only be treated as a French captive; for the father, it is
sufficient to produce him at the Old Bailey, and prove that he is the
individual person condemned for the last Rebellion, and so to Tyburn.
We begin to take up people, but it is with as much caution and timidity
as women of quality begin to pawn their jewels; we have not ventured
upon any great stone yet! The Provost of Edinburgh is in custody of a
messenger; and the other day they seized an odd man, who goes by the
name of Count St. Germain. He has been here these two years, and will
not tell who he is, or whence, but professes that he does not go by his
right name. He sings, plays on the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad,
and not very sensible. He is called an Italian, a Spaniard, a Pole; a
somebody that married a great fortune in Mexico, and ran away with her
jewels to Constantinople; a priest, a fiddler, a vast nobleman. The
Prince of Wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain.
However, nothing has been made out against him;[1] he is released; and,
what convinces me that he is not a gentleman, stays here, and talks of
his being taken up for a spy.
[Footnote 1: In the beginning of the year 1755, on rumours of a great
armament at Brest, one Virette, a Swiss, who had been a kind of
toad-eater to this St. Germain, was denounced to Lord Holdernesse for a
spy; but Mr. Stanley going pretty surlily to his lordship, on his
suspecting a friend of his, Virette was declared innocent, and the
penitent secretary of state made him the _amende honorable_ of a dinner
in form. About the same time, a spy of ours was seized at Brest, but,
not happening to be acquainted with Mr. Stanley, was broken upon the
wheel.--WALPOLE.]
I think these accounts, upon which you may depend, must raise your
spirits, and figure in Mr. Chute's loyal journal.--But you don't get my
letters: I have sent you eleven since I came to town; how many of these
have you received? Adieu!
_BATTLE OF CULLODEN._