of defending one's own religion. I have read an admirable story of the
Duke of Buckingham, who, when James II. sent a priest to him to persuade
him to turn Papist, and was plied by him with miracles, told the doctor,
that if miracles were proofs of a religion, the Protestant cause was as
well supplied as theirs. We have lately had a very extraordinary one
near my estate in the country. A very holy man, as you might be, Doctor,
was travelling on foot, and was benighted. He came to the cottage of a
poor dowager, who had nothing in the house for herself and daughter but
a couple of eggs and a slice of bacon. However, as she was a pious
widow, she made the good man welcome. In the morning, at taking leave,
the saint made her over to God for payment, and prayed that whatever she
should do as soon as he was gone she might continue to do all day. This
was a very unlimited request, and, unless the saint was a prophet too,
might not have been very pleasant retribution. The good woman, who
minded her affairs, and was not to be put out of her way, went about her
business. She had a piece of coarse cloth to make a couple of shifts for
herself and child. She no sooner began to measure it but the yard fell
a-measuring, and there was no stopping it. It was sunset before the good
woman had time to take breath. She was almost stifled, for she was up to
her ears in ten thousand yards of cloth. She could have afforded to have
sold Lady Mary Wortley a clean shift, of the usual coarseness she wears,
for a groat halfpenny.

I wish you would tell the Princess this story. Madame Riccardi, or the
little Countess d'Elbenino, will doat on it. I don't think it will be
out of Pandolfini's way, if you tell it to the little Albizzi. You see I
have not forgot the tone of my Florentine acquaintance. I know I should
have translated it to them: you remember what admirable work I used to
make of such stories in broken Italian. I have heard old Churchill tell
Bussy English puns out of jest-books: particularly a reply about eating