come and write this
letter, in which I have nothing to tell, but that my nights are very
tedious. I cannot persuade myself to forbear trying something.

As you have now little to do, I suppose you are pretty diligent at the
Thraliana; and a very curious collection posterity will find it. Do not
remit the practice of writing down occurrences as they arise, of
whatever kind, and be very punctual in annexing the dates. Chronology,
you know, is the eye of history; and every man's life is of importance
to himself. Do not omit painful casualties, or unpleasing passages; they
make the variegation of existence; and there are many transactions, of
which I will not promise, with Aeneas, "et haec olim meminisse juvabit;"
yet that remembrance which is not pleasant, may be useful. There is,
however, an intemperate attention to slight circumstances, which is to
be avoided, lest a great part of life be spent in writing the history of
the rest. Every day, perhaps, has something to be noted; but in a
settled and uniform course, few days can have much.

Why do I write all this, which I had no thought of when I began! The
Thraliana drove it all into my head. It deserves, however, an hour's
reflection, to consider how, with the least loss of time, the loss of
what we wish to retain may be prevented.

Do not neglect to write to me, for when a post comes empty, I am really
disappointed.

Boswell, I believe, will meet me here. I am, dearest lady, your, &c.

XXXV.--To MRS. THRALE.

Lichfield, October 3, 1777,

DEAR MADAM,--This is the last time that I shall write, in this
excursion, from this place. To-morrow I shall be, I hope, at Birmingham;
from which place I shall do my best to find the nearest way home. I come
home, I think, worse than I went; and do not like the state of my
health. But, "vive hodie," make the most of life. I hope to get better,
and--sweep the cobwebs. But I have sad nights. Mrs. Aston has sent me to
Mr. Greene, to be cured.

Did you see Foote at Brighthelmstone?--Did you think he would so soon be
gone?--Life, says Falstaff, is a shuttle. He was a fine fellow in his
way; and the world is really impoverished by his sinking glories. Murphy
ought to write his life, at least, to give the world a Footeiana. Now,
will any of his contemporaries bewail him? Will genius change _his sex_
to weep? I would really have his life written with diligence.

It will be proper for me to work pretty diligently now for some time.