to be learned therein than to master all the charac ters of the Chinese. You did me the honour of asking me for my "Castle of Otranto" for your library at Cowslip Green. May I, as a printer, rather than as an author, beg leave to furnish part of a shelf there? and as I must fetch some of the books from Strawberry Hill, will you wait till I can send them all together? And will you be so good as to tell me whither I shall send them, or how direct and convey them to you at Bristol? I shall have a satisfaction in thinking that they will remain in your rising cottage (in which, I hope, you will enjoy a long series of happy hours), and that they will sometimes, when they and I shall be forgotten in other places, recall to Miss More's memory Her very sincere humble servant, Mrs. Chapone to Miss More. DEAR MADAM, 1790. THE same good gentleman who some time ago gave his excellent thoughts to "the Great" has again made a powerful effort for their reformation. which they receive with as much avidity as if they meant to be amended by it; indeed he has wisely recommended it to their taste by every charm and ornament of eloquence. He has been so obliging as to send me a copy of his admirable book, and as I do not know his name and address, I take the liberty of applying to you (who are, I believe pretty well acquainted with him, though probably not aware of half his merits), to beg you will convey to him my grateful acknow ledgments for his favour, and assure him that he continually rises in my esteem, by the faithful zeal with which he lays out the talents intrusted to him at the highest interest; and I will venture to confess (gentleman though he be) that I sincerely love and honour him, and wish the most perfect success to all his laudable undertakings. We long for you in town, my dear Miss More : hasten and enjoy the applause your lay friend has gained, and to which his own heart must bear testimony. I am, my dear madam, and affectionate servant, H. CHAPONE. The Bishop of London to Miss H. More. St. James's-square, 1790. Aut Erasmus, aut Diabolus, was, you know, the laconic and expressive speech of Sir Thomas More to a certain stranger who had astonished him with a torrent of wit, eloquence, and learning. Aut Morus, aut Angelus, exclaimed the Bishop of London, before he had read six pages of a certain delicate little book that was sent to him a few days ago. Such precisely was the note I was sitting down to write to you, at the very moment I received your full and true confession of that mortal sin, of presuming once more to disturb the sweet repose and tranquillity of the fashionable world. Indeed, my dear friend (if you will allow me to call you so), it is in vain to think of concealing yourself. Your style and manner are so marked, and so confessedly superior to those of any other moral writer of the present age, that you will be immediately detected by every one that pretends to any taste in judging of composition, or any skill in discriminating the characteristic excellences of one author from another. You have certainly taken that wise bird the ostrich for your model on this occasion, who, in order to conceal himself from his pursuers, runs his head into the sands, and though his whole body stands out behind him, is perfectly convinced that nobody can see him.There are but few persons, I will venture to say, in Great Britain, that could write such a bookthat could convey so much sound, evangelical morality, and so much genuine Christianity, in such neat and elegant language. It will, if I mistake not, soon find its way into every fine lady's library, and if it does not find its way into her heart and her manners, the fault will be her own. Mrs. Kennicott has been in town for a day, and has just called here. She means to come soon and make a little stay. Pray bring with you some "Bonner's Ghosts." Mrs. Porteus desires to be very affectionately and gratefully remembered to you-gratefully for the pleasure she received from the "Estimate;" for I read it to her last night, and we thought the evening as well and as pleasantly spent as if we had been at the Pantheon. I am, dear madam, Your very sincere and obliged B. LONDON. Hon. Horace Walpole to Sir Horace Mann. Downing-street, May 26, 1742. TO-DAY calls itself May the 26th, as you perceive by the date, but I am writing to you by the fireside, instead of going to Vauxhall. If we have one warm day in seven, we bless our stars, and think it luxury. And yet we have as much water-works and fresco diversions, as if we lay ten degrees nearer warmth. Two nights ago Ranelagh gardens were opened at Chelsea; the Prince, Princess, Duke, much nobility, and much mob besides, were there. There is a vast amphitheatre, finely gilt, painted, and illuminated, into which everybody that loves eating, drinking, staring, or crowding, is admitted for twelve-pence. The building and disposition of the gardens cost sixteen thousand pounds. Twice a week there are to be ridottos, at guinea tickets, for which you are to have a supper and music. I was there last night, but did not find the joy of it. Vauxhall is a little better, for the garden is pleasanter, and one goes by water. Our operas are almost over; there were but three-and-forty people last night in the pit and boxes. There is a little simple farce at Drury-Lane, called Miss Lucy in Town, in which Mrs. Clive mimics the Muscovita admirably, and Beard, Amorevoli intolerably. But all the run is now after Garrick, a wine-merchant, who is turned player at Goodman's fields. He plays all parts, and is a very good mimic. His acting I have seen, and may say to you, who will not tell it again here, I see nothing wonderful in it; but it is heresy to say so: the Duke of Argyll says, he is superior to Betterton. Now I talk of players, tell Mr. Chute, that his friend Bracegirdle breakfasted with me this morning. As she went out and wanted her clogs, she turned to me, and said, “J remember at the playhouse, they used to call Mrs. Oldfield's chair! Mrs. Barry's clogs! and Mrs. Bracegirdle's pattens!" I did, indeed, design the letter of this post for Mr. Chute; but I have received two such charming long ones from you of the 15th and 20th of May, (N. S.) that I must answer them, and beg him to excuse me till another post; so must the Prince, Princess, the Grifona, and Countess Galli. For the Princess's letter, I am not sure I shall answer it so soon, for hitherto I have not been able to read above every third word; however, you may thank her as much as if I understood it all. I am very happy that mes bagatelles (for I still insist they were so) pleased. You, my dear child, are very good to be pleased with the snuff-box. I am much obliged to the superior lumières of old Sarasin about the Indian ink: if she meant the black, I am sorry to say I had it into the bargain with the rest of the Japan: for the coloured, it is only a curiosity, because it has seldom been brought over. I remember Sir Hans Sloane was the first who ever had any of it, and would on no account give my mother the least morsel of it. She afterwards got a good deal of it from China; and since that, more has come over; but it is even less valuable than the other, for we never could tell how to use it; however, let it make its figure. I am sure you hate me all this time, for chatting about so many trifles, and telling you no politics. I own to you, I am so wearied, so worn with them, that I scarce know how to turn my hand to them; but you shall know all I know. I told you of the meeting at the Fountain tavern: Pultney had pro |