There is another point, Sir, on which, with all your address, you will persuade me as little.  Can I think that we want writers of history while Mr. Hume and Mr. Robertson are living?  It is a truth, and not a compliment, that I never heard objections made to Mr. Hume’s History without endeavouring to convince the persons who found fault with it, of its great merit and beauty; and for what I saw of Mr. Robertson’s work, it is one of the purest styles, and of the greatest impartiality, that I ever read.  It is impossible for me to recommend a subject to him; because I cannot judge of what materials he can obtain.  His present performance will undoubtedly make him so well known and esteemed, that he will have credit to obtain many new lights for a future history; but surely those relating to his own country will always lie most open to him.  This is much my way of thinking with regard to myself.  Though the Life of Christina[1] is a pleasing and a most uncommon subject, yet, totally unacquainted as I am with Sweden and its language, how could I flatter myself with saying anything new of her?  And when original letters and authentic papers shall hereafter appear, may not they contradict half one should relate on the authority of what is already published? for though Memoirs written nearest to the time are likely to be the truest, those published nearest to it are generally the falsest.

[Footnote 1:  Queen Christina of Sweden was the daughter and heiress of the great Gustavus Adolphus.  After a time she abdicated the throne and lived for some time in Paris, where she acted in one respect as if still possessed of royal authority, actually causing her equerry, Monaldeschi, to be hung in one of her sitting-rooms.]

But, indeed, Sir, I am now making you only civil excuses; the real one is, I have no kind of intention of continuing to write.  I could not expect to succeed again with so much luck,—­indeed, I think it so,—­as I have done; it would mortify me more now, after a little success, to be despised, than it would have done before; and if I could please as much as I should wish to do, I think one should dread being a voluminous author.  My own idleness, too, bids me desist.  If I continued, I should certainly take more pains than I did in my Catalogue; the trouble would not only be more than I care to encounter, but would probably destroy what I believe the only merit of my last work, the ease.  If I could incite you to tread in steps which I perceive you don’t condemn, and for which it is evident you are so well qualified, from your knowledge, the grace, facility, and humour of your expression and manner, I shall have done a real service, where I expected at best to amuse.

THE BATTLE OF MINDEN—­LORD G. SACKVILLE.

TO THE HON.  H.S.  CONWAY.

ARLINGTON STREET, Aug. 14, 1759.

I am here in the most unpleasant way in the world, attending poor Mrs. Leneve’s death-bed, a spectator of all the horrors of tedious suffering and clear sense, and with no one soul to speak to—­but I will not tire you with a description of what has quite worn me out.