Whether the old Marischal informed him, That King Carlos hated the English; that he never had, in his royal mind, forgiven that insult of Commodore Martin's (watch laid on the table, in the Bay of Naples, long ago), I do not know; but that also was a fact.

A diligent, indignant kind of man, this Carlos, I am told; by no means an undeserving King of Spain, though his Portraits declare him an ugly: we will leave him in the discreet Marischal's hands, with the dear Old Friend shining equally on both.
Singular to see how, in so veracious an intellect as Friedrich's, so many fallacies of hope are constantly entertained.

War in Italy, on quarrel with King Carlos; Peace with France and the Pompadour, by help of Edelsheim and the Bailli de Froulay; Peace with Russia and the INFAME CATIN, by help of English briberies (Friedrich sent an agent this winter with plenty of English guineas, but he got no farther than the Frontier, not allowed even to try): sometimes, as again this winter, it is hope of Denmark joining him (in alarm against the Russian views on Holstein; but that, too, comes to nothing); above all, there is perennially, budding out yearly, the brighter after every disappointment, a hope in the Grand Turk and his adherencies.

Grand Turk, or failing him, the Cham of Tartary,--for certain, some of these will be got to fasten on the heels of Austria, of Russia; and create a favorable diversion?
Friedrich took an immense deal of trouble about this latter hope.

It is almost pathetic to see with what a fond tenacity he clings to it; and hopes it over again, every new Spring and Summer.