cruits 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