proselytes?  I am ready to believe you have no ambition now—­ but may you not have hereafter?  Are bishops corrigible or placable?  Few men are capable of forgiving being told their faults in private; who can bear being told of them publicly?- -Then, you propose to write in Latin:  that is, you propose to be read by those only whom you intend to censure, and whose interest it will be to find faults in your work.  If I proposed to attack the clergy, I would at least call in the laity to hear my arguments, and I fear the laity do not much listen to Latin.  In Short, Sir, I wish much to see something of your writing, and consequently I wish to see it in a shape in which it would give me most pleasure.

You will say, that your concealing your name is an answer to all I have said.  A bad author may be concealed, but then what good does he do?  I am persuaded you would write well-ask your heart, Sir, if you then would like to conceal yourself.  Forgive my frankness; I am not old, but I have lived long enough to be sure that I give you good advice.  There -is lately published a voluminous history of Gustavus Adolphus, sadly written, yet very amusing from the matter.

(1031) Mr. Walpole, in his dedication of the “Anecdotes of painting,” says, he is rather an Editor than an Author; but much as he certainly derived from Vertue, his own share in this interesting work entitles him to the thanks of every lover of the fine arts, and of British antiquities.-C.

(1032) The French were at this time attempting to play the farce of invasion.  Flat-bottomed boats were building in all the ports of Normandy and Brittany, calculated to transport an army of a hundred thousand men.-C.

489 Letter 315 To George Montagu, Esq.  Arlington Street, May 16, 1759.

I packed up a long letter to you in the case with the Earl of Manchester, which I suppose did not arrive at Greatworth before you left it.  Don’t send for it, for there are private histories in it, that should not travel post, and which will be full as new to you a month hence.

Well!  Maria was married yesterday.  Don’t we manage well! the original day was not once put off:  lawyers and milliners were all ready canonically.  It was as sensible a wedding as ever was.  There was neither form nor indecency, both which generally meet on such occasions.  They were married at my brother’s in Pall-Mall, just before dinner, by Mr. Keppel; the company, my brother, his son, Mrs. Keppel, and Charlotte, Lady Elizabeth Keppel, Lady Betty Waldegrave, and I. We dined there; the Earl and new Countess got into their postchaise at eight o’clock, and went to Navestock alone, where they stay till Saturday night:  on Sunday she is to be presented, and to make my Lady Coventry distracted, who, t’other day, told Lady Anne Connolly how she dreaded Lady Louisa’s arrival; “But,” said she, “now I have seen her, I am easy.”

Maria was in a white silver gown, with a hat pulled very much over her face; what one could see of it was handsomer than ever; a cold maiden blush gave her the sweetest delicacy in the world.  I had liked to have demolished the solemnity of the ceremony by laughing, when Mr. Keppel read the words, “Bless thy servant and thy handmaid;” it struck me how ridiculous it would have been, had Miss Drax been the handmaid, as she was once to have been.