ortunity of being more exact. Of the caution
necessary in adjusting narratives there is no end. Some tell what they
do not know, that they may not seem ignorant, and others from mere
indifference about truth. All truth is not, indeed, of equal importance;
but, if little violations are allowed, every violation will in time be
thought little; and a writer should keep himself vigilantly on his guard
against the first temptations to negligence or supineness. I had ceased
to write, because respecting you I had no more to say, and respecting
myself could say little good. I cannot boast of advancement, and in
cases of convalescence it may be said, with few exceptions, _non
progredi, est regredi_. I hope I may be excepted. My great difficulty
was with my sweet Fanny[1118], who, by her artifice of inserting her
letter in yours, had given me a precept of frugality[1119] which I was
not at liberty to neglect; and I know not who were in town under whose
cover I could send my letter[1120]. I rejoice to hear that you are all
so well, and have a delight particularly sympathetick in the recovery of
Mrs. Burney.'

To MR. LANGTON:--

Aug. 25. 'The kindness of your last letter, and my omission to answer
it, begins to give you, even in my opinion, a right to recriminate, and
to charge me with forgetfulness for the absent. I will, therefore, delay
no longer to give an account of myself, and wish I could relate what
would please either myself or my friend. On July 13, I left London,
partly in hope of help from new air and change of place, and partly
excited by the sick man's impatience of the present. I got to Lichfield
in a stage vehicle, with very little fatigue, in two days, and had the
consolation[1121] to find, that since my last visit my three old
acquaintance are all dead. July 20, I went to Ashbourne, where I have
been till now; the house in which we live is repairing. I live in too
much solitude, and am often deeply dejected: I wish we were nearer, and
rejoice in your removal to London. A friend, at once cheerful and
serious, is a great acquisition. Let us not neglect one another for the
little time which Providence allows us to hope. Of my health I cannot
tell you, what my wishes persuaded me to expect, that it is much
improved by the season or by remedies. I am sleepless; my legs grow
weary with a very few steps, and the water breaks its boundaries in some
degree. The asthma, however, has remitted; my breath is still much
obstru