LETTER CCCLXV. DEAR SIR, To the Same. Afhbourne, Sept. 16, 1784. WHAT you have told me of your landlord and his lady at Brompton, has made them fuch favourites, that I am not forry to hear how you are turned out of your lodgings, because the good is greater to them than the evil is to you. The death of dear Mr. Allen gave me pain. When after fome time of abfence I vifit a town, I find my friends dead; when I leave a place, I am followed with intelligence, that the friend whom I hope to meet at my return is swallowed in the grave. This is a gloomy scene; but let us learn from it to prepare for our own removal. Allen is gone; Saftres and Johnfon are hafting after him; may we be both as well prepared! I again with your next fpecimen fuccefs. Paymiftrefs can hardly be faid without a preface, (it may be expreffed by a word perhaps not in ufe, Pay mistress). The club is, it feems, totally deferted; but as the forfeits go on, the houfe does not fuffer; and all clubs I fuppofe are unattended in the fummer. We fhall I hope meet in winter, and be cheerful, After this week, do not write to me till you hear again from me, for I know not well where I fhall be; I have grown weary of the folitude of this place, and think of removal. ou have abundance of naughty tricks; is You this your way of writing to a poor fick friend twice a week? Poft comes after poft, and brings no letter from Mr. Saftres. If you know any thing, write and tell it; if you know nothing, write and fay that you know nothing. What What comes of the specimen? If the bookfellers want a fpecimen, in which a keen critick can spy no faults, they must wait for another generation. Had not the Crusca faults? Did not the Academicians of France commit many faults? It is enough that a dictionary is better than others of the fame kind. A perfect performance of any kind is not to be expected, and certainly not a perfect dictionary. Mrs. Defmoulines never writes, and I know not how things go on at home; tell me, dear Sir, what you can. If Mr. Seward be in town tell me his direction, for I ought to write to him. I am very weak, and have bad nights. I am, dear Sir, Your, &c. LETTER CCCLXVII. To the Same. DEAR SIR, Lichfield, Nov. 1, 1784. I BEG you to continue the frequency of your letters; every letter is a cordial; but you must not wonder that I do not answer with exact punctuality. You may always have fomething to tell: you live among the various orders of mankind, and may make a letter from the exploits, fometimes of the philofopher, and fometimes of the pickpocket. You fee fome ballons fucceed and fome miscarry, and a thousand strange and a thousand foolish things. But I fee nothing; I must make my letter from what I feel, and what I feel with fo little delight, that I cannot love to talk of it. I am certainly not to come to town, but do not omit to write; for I know not when I fhall come, and the lofs of a letter is not much. I am, dear Sir, Your, &c. END OF THE LETTERS. |