Have I not reason to fear on George’s account since he has been made King of England, and knowing as I do the desire he had to be King of another country?  I know the accursed English too well to trust them.  May God protect their Majesties the Princes, and all the family, but I confess I fear for them greatly (1715).

The poor Princess of Wales

[Wilhelmina-Dorothea-Charlotte, daughter of John Frederick, Margrave of Anspach, born in 1682, married to the Prince of Wales in 1706.  The particulars of the quarrel between George I. and his son, the Prince of Wales, will be found in Cose’s “Memoirs of Sir Robert Walpole.”]

has caused me great uneasiness since her letter of the 3rd (15th) of February (1718).  She has implored the King’s pardon as one implores the pardon of God, but without success.  I know nothing about it, but dread lest the Prince should partake his mother’s disgrace.  I think, however, since the King has declared the Prince to be his son, he should treat him as such, and not act so haughtily against the Princess, who has never offended him, but has always treated him with the respect due to a father.  Nothing good can result from the present state of affairs; and the King had better put an end to a quarrel which gives occasion to a thousand impertinences, and revives awkward stories which were better forgotten.

The King of England has returned to London in good health (1719).  The Prince of Wales causes me great anxiety.  He thought he should do well to send one of his gentlemen to his father, to assure him in most submissive terms of the joy he felt at his happy return.  The King not only would not receive the letter, but he sent back the gentleman with a very harsh rebuke, revoking at the same time the permission, which before his journey he had given to the Prince of Wales, to see his daughter, whom the Prince loves very tenderly; this really seems too severe.  It may be said that the King is rather descended from the race of the Czar than from that of Brunswick and the Palatinate.  Such conduct can do him no good.

M. d’Entremont, the last Ambassador from Sicily, was upon the point of departing, and had already had his farewell audience, when some circumstance happened which compelled him to stay some time longer.  He found himself without a lodging, for his hotel had been already let.  A lady seeing the embarrassment in which Madame d’Entremont was thus placed, said to her, “Madame, I have pleasure in offering you my house, my own room, and my own bed.”  The Ambassador’s lady not knowing what to do, accepted the offer with great readiness.  She went to the lady’s house, and as she is old and in ill health, she went to bed immediately.  Towards midnight she heard a noise like that of some person opening a secret door.  In fact, a door in the wall by the bedside was opened.  Some one entered, and began to undress.  The lady called out, “Who is there?” A voice replied, “It is I; be quiet.”  “Who are you?” asked the lady.  “What is the matter with you?” was the reply.  “You were not wont to be so particular.  I am undressing, and shall come to bed directly.”  At these words the lady cried out, “Thieves!” with all her might, and the unknown person dressed himself quickly, and withdrew.