lish, that dewy morning, Thursday, June 27th, 1743,
with cannon playing on their left flank; and such a fate ahead of them,
had they known it;--very short of breakfast, too, for most part. But
they have one fine quality, and Britannic George, like all his Welf race
from Henry the Lion down to these days, has it in an eminent degree:
they are not easily put into flurry, into fear. In all Welf Sovereigns,
and generally in Teuton Populations, on that side of the Channel or
on this, there is the requisite unconscious substratum of taciturn
inexpugnability, with depths of potential rage almost unquenchable, to
be found when you apply for it. Which quality will much stead them on
the present occasion: and, indeed, it is perhaps strengthened by their
'stupidity' itself, what neighbors call their 'stupidity;'--want of idle
imagining, idle flurrying, nay want even of knowing, is not one of the
worst qualities just now! They tramp on, paying a minimum of attention
to the cannon; ignorant of what is ahead; hoping only it may be
breakfast, in some form, before the day quite terminate. The day
is still young, hardly 8 o'clock, when their advanced parties find
Dettingen beset; find a whole French Army drawn up, on the scrubby moor
there; and come galloping back with this interesting bit of news! Pause
hereupon; much consulting; in fact, endless hithering and thithering,
the affair being knotty: 'Fight, YES, now at last! But how?' Impetuous
Stair was not wanting to himself; Neipperg too, they say, was useful
with advice; D'Ahremberg, I should imagine, good for little.

"Some six hours followed of thrice-intricate deploying, planting of
field-pieces, counter-batteries; ranking, re-ranking, shuffling hither
and then thither of horse and foot; Noailles's cannonade proceeding all
the while; the English, still considerably exposed to it, and standing
it like stones; chivalrous Grammont, and with better reason the English,
much wishing these preliminaries were done. A difficult business, that
of deploying here. The Pragmatic had no room, jammed so against the
Spessart Hills, and obliged to lean FROM the River and Noailles's
cannon; had to rank itself in six, some say in eight lines; horse behind
foot, as well as on flank; unsatisfactory to the military mind: and I
think had not done shuffling and re-shuffling at 2 P.M.,--when the
Enemy came bursting on, with a peremptory finish to it, 'Enough of
that, MESSIEUR'S LES ANGLAIS!' 'Too much of it