&c.

XII.--To THE SAME.

Tuesday, Jan. 26, 1773.

MADAM,--The inequalities of human life have always employed the
meditation of deep thinkers, and I cannot forbear to reflect on the
difference between your condition and my own. You live upon mock-turtle,
and stewed rumps of beef; I dined, yesterday, upon crumpets. You sit
with parish officers, caressing and caressed, the idol of the table, and
the wonder of the day. I pine in the solitude of sickness, not bad
enough to be pitied, and not well enough to be endured. You sleep away
the night, and laugh, or scold away the day. I cough and grumble, and
grumble and cough. Last night was very tedious, and this day makes no
promises of much ease. However, I have this day put on my shoe, and hope
that gout is gone. I shall have only the cough to contend with, and I
doubt whether I shall get rid of that without change of place. I caught
cold in the coach as I went away, and am disordered by very little
things. Is it accident or age? I am, dearest madam, &c.

XIII.--To MRS. THRALE.

March 17, 1773.

DEAR MADAM,--To tell you that I am sorry, both for the poor lady and for
you, is useless. I cannot help either of you. The weakness of mind is,
perhaps, only a casual interruption or intermission of the attention,
such as we all suffer when some weighty care or urgent calamity has
possession of the mind. She will compose herself. She is unwilling to
die, and the first conviction of approaching death raised great
perturbation. I think she has but very lately thought death close at
hand. She will compose herself to do that as well as she can, which
must, at last, be done. May she not want the divine assistance!

You, madam, will have a great loss; a greater than is common in the loss
of a parent. Fill your mind with hope of her happiness, and turn your
thoughts first to him who gives and takes away, in whose presence the
living and dead are standing together. Then remember, that when this
mournful duty is paid, others yet remain of equal obligation, and, we
may hope, of less painful performance. Grief is a species of idleness,
and the necessity of attention to the present preserves us, by the
merciful disposition of providence, from being lacerated and devoured by
sorrow for the past. You must think on your husband and your children,
and do what this dear lady has done for you.

Not to come to town while the great struggle continues is, undoubtedly,
well resolved. But do no