Now you are gone, I wonder how long you design to stay; pray let me know when you write to Lichfield, for I have not lost hope of coming to you, yet that purpose may chance to fail. But my comfort is, that you cannot charge me with forgetting you when I am away. You perhaps do not think how eagerly I expect the post.

Mrs. * * * * * grows old, and has loft much of her undulation and mobility. Her voice likewife is fpoiled; fhe can come upon the stage now only for her own benefit. But Juliet is airy and cheerful, and has I hope done lamenting the inconftancy of man. My mistress is reprefented as unable to bear them company. There was not time for many queftions, and no opportunity of winding and winding them, as Mr. Richardson has it, fo as to get truth out without questions. I do not indeed know that I am any great winder. I fufpect a winder to be always a man vacant, and commonly little-minded. I think my dear little mistress no great proficient at winding, though she could wind if the would, contemnit potius quam nefcit.

Dr. Taylor defires always to have his compliments fent. He is, in his ufual way, very Cc 3 bufy;

bufy; getting a bull to his cows, and a dog to his bitches. His waterfall runs very well. Old Shakespeare is dead, and he wants to buy another horfe for his mares. He is one of those who finds every hour fomething new to wish or to enjoy.

Bofwell while he was here faw Keddleftone and the filk mills, and took Chatsworth in his way home. He says, his wife does not love me quite well yet, though we have made a formal peace. He kept his journal very diligently; but then what was there to journalize. 1 should be glad to see what he says of *********. I think I told that I took him to Ham.

you

Why should you fufpect me of forgetting lilly lolly? Now you will fee the Shellys, and perhaps hear fomething about the Cottons; and you will bathe, and walk, and drefs, and dance, and who knows how little you will think on, Madam,

Your, &c.

LETTER CLXXXI.

Mrs. THRALE to Dr. JOHNSON.

DEAR SIR,

T was because

October 1, 1777.

you

teized me fo about Bolt

IT court intelligence, that I fancied Mrs. Desmoulines' letter would be as good, or better than mine; she was certainly more qualified than I could be, to write upon the fubject. Her discontent is no new thing; if it proceeds from no new cause, she must bear without complaining, that which probably does not mend while fhe fays nothing of the matter; but people will not endure to be teized for ever with fruitlefs lamentations for evils they

cannot remove.

In fome letter lately you wonder at my ufing black wax- -for the paper was only not gilt- —as if you had forgotten my numberless reasons for mourning, because you are not perpetually hearing me recall them to your Affliction however is very good

memory.

for us all I doubt not, or it would hardly be bestowed fo liberally. The flower of an aloe tree is, I am told, fo peculiarly fweet, that bees, beft judges in fuch a cafe, seek it from an immenfe diftance; we know how bitter the ftem is, and how rarely we are indulged with the bloffom. If a good parallel may be drawn from this reflection to human life, let us add another: a turnip is fweet to the tafte, but gives a rancid and unpleasant flavour to every animal that feeds upon it. it. A life of peace and pleasure would probably have as bad an effect upon the mind of man. And now I think you will run to Mrs. Defmoulines, or any other Miftrefs, as a refuge from your true Mistress's pedantry. Does that word remind me of Lord * * * *? I hope not he has feen much, read much, and travelled much; he talks a great deal, and from a very fashionably furnished mind.—When we faw him laft, he bid me afk you whether there are three volumes, or only two, of Parker's Hiftory, or Parker's Memoirs, or fome fuch thing. It was in Latin, and very fine, Latin too he faid. I knew not from beginning to end what he meant; and my ignorance reminded me of the maid fervant Mr.

Pepys tells of, who let her master know onę morning that a gentleman had called when he was out the evening before, and begged he would lend him three oxen and a bogfhead. You won't understand me, child, added he, but your master will; it was Theocritus and Horace's works that were wanted; and I am much in the girl's cafe, for I comprehend not a fyllable of * * * *'s request—and perhaps have transmitted it as wildly.

We have feen nothing but Mrs. * * * * here. She fays all * * * * *'s faults should be charged upon his mother, but then she is nobody's mother herself. How dreadful, instead of delightful, would it be, to contemplate one's house full of children, if all the future errors of each were to go to the mother's account! Yet would not my lot be heavy even then, for better babies breathe not-could I but keep them! than mine. Queeney fhall send you a proof-fheet of her excellence to-morrow.

Poor Sy Bw is dying, they tell me; you liked her vaftly that summer we were so much together with her at this place; -how happy Mr. Beauclerc is got better!he is a prodigious favourite I know; but when

you