ey will not be done, before
you come away.

Now you think yourself the first writer in the world for a letter about
nothing. Can you write such a letter as this? So miscellaneous, with
such noble disdain of regularity, like Shakespeare's works; such
graceful negligence of transition, like the ancient enthusiasts? The
pure voice of nature and of friendship. Now, of whom shall I proceed to
speak? Of whom but Mrs. Montague? Having mentioned Shakespeare and
nature, does not the name of Montague force itself upon me? Such were
the transitions of the ancients, which now seem abrupt, because the
intermediate idea is lost to modern understandings. I wish her name had
connected itself with friendship; but, ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain!
One thing, however, is left me, I have still to complain; but I hope I
shall not complain much, while you have any kindness for me. I am,
dearest, and dearest madam, your, &c.

London, April, 11, 1780.

XLIII.--To MRS. THRALE.

DEAREST MADAM,--Mr. Thrale never will live abstinently, till he can
persuade himself to abstain by rule. I lived on potatoes on Friday, and
on spinage to-day; but I have had, I am afraid, too many dinners of
late. I took physick too both days, and hope to fast to-morrow. When he
comes home, we will shame him, and Jebb shall scold him into regularity.
I am glad, however, that he is always one of the company, and that my
dear Queeney is again another. Encourage, as you can, the musical girl.

Nothing is more common than mutual dislike, where mutual approbation is
particularly expected. There is often on both sides a vigilance, not
over-benevolent; and as attention is strongly excited, so that nothing
drops unheeded, any difference in taste or opinion, and some difference,
where there is no restraint, will commonly appear, immediately generates
dislike.

Never let criticisms operate upon your face, or your mind; it is very
rarely that an author is hurt by his criticks. The blaze of reputation
cannot be blown out, but it often dies in the socket; a very few names
may be considered as perpetual lamps, that shine unconsumed. From the
author of Fitzosborne's Letters, I cannot think myself in much danger. I
met him only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some small dispute,
reduced him to whistle; having not seen him since, that is the last
impression. Poor Moore, the fabulist, was one of the company.

Mrs. Montague's long stay, against her own inclination, is very