ked and looked wise at her sister. The dear S.S.
must be a little on her guard; nothing is so spiteful as a woman
robbed of a heart she thinks she has a claim upon. She will not lose
_that_ with temper, which she has taken perhaps no pains at all to
preserve: and I do not observe with any pleasure, I fear, that my
husband prefers Miss Streatfield to me, though I must acknowledge her
younger, handsomer, and a better scholar. Of her chastity, however, I
never had a doubt: she was bred by Dr. Collier in the strictest
principles of piety and virtue; she not only knows she will be always
chaste, but she knows why she will be so.[1] Mr. Thrale is now by
dint of disease quite out of the question, so I am a disinterested
spectator; but her coquetry is very dangerous indeed, and I wish she
were married that there might be an end on't. Mr. Thrale loves her,
however, sick or well, better by a thousand degrees than he does me
or any one else, and even now desires nothing on earth half so much
as the sight of his Sophia.

"'E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries!
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!'

"The Saturday before Mr. Thrale was taken ill, Saturday, 19th
February--he was struck Monday, 21st February--we had a large party
to tea, cards, and supper; Miss Streatfield was one, and as Mr.
Thrale sate by her, he pressed her hand to his heart (as she told me
herself), and said 'Sophy, we shall not enjoy this long, and to-night
I will not be cheated of my only comfort.' Poor soul! how shockingly
tender! On the first Fryday that he spoke after his stupor, she came
to see him, and as she sate by the bedside pitying him, 'Oh,' says
he, 'who would not suffer even all that I have endured to be pitied
by you!' This I heard myself."

[Footnote 1:

"Besides, her inborn virtue fortify,
They are most firmly good, who best know why."]

"Here is Sophy Streatfield again, handsomer than ever, and flushed
with new conquests; the Bishop of Chester feels her power, I am sure;
she showed me a letter from him that was as tender and had all the
tokens upon it as strong as ever I remember to have seen 'em; I
repeated to her out of Pope's Homer--'Very well, Sophy,' says I:

"'Range undisturb'd among the hostile crew,
But touch not Hinchliffe[1], Hinchliffe is my due.'

Miss Streatfield (says my master) could have quoted these lines in
the Greek; his saying so piqued me, and piqued me because it was
true. I wish I underst