not suffer little things to disturb you. The brew-house must be
the scene of action, and the subject of speculation. The first
consequence of our late trouble ought to be, an endeavour to brew at
a cheaper rate; an endeavour not violent and transient, but steady
and continual, prosecuted with total contempt of censure or wonder,
and animated by resolution not to stop while more can be done. Unless
this can be done, nothing can help us; and if this be done, we shall
not want help. Surely there is something to be saved; there is to be
saved whatever is the difference between vigilance and neglect,
between parsimony and profusion. The price of malt has risen again.
It is now two pounds eight shillings the quarter. Ale is sold in the
public-houses at sixpence a quart, a price which I never heard of
before."

In November of the same year, from Ashbourne:

"DEAR MADAM,--So many days and never a letter!--_Fugere fides,
pietasque pudorque_. This is Turkish usage. And I have been hoping
and hoping. But you are so glad to have me out of your mind.[1]

"I think you were quite right in your advice about the thousand
pounds, for the payment could not have been delayed long; and a short
delay would have lessened credit, without advancing interest. But in
great matters you are hardly ever mistaken."

[Footnote 1: This tone of playful reproach, when adopted by Johnson
at a later period, has been cited as a proof of actual
ill-treatment.]

In May 17, 1773:

"Why should Mr. T---- suppose, that what I took the liberty of
suggesting was concerted with you? He does not know how much I
revolve his affairs, and how honestly I desire his prosperity. I hope
he has let the hint take some hold of his mind."

In the copy of the printed letters presented by Mrs. Thrale to Sir
James Fellowes, the blank is filled up with the name of Thrale, and
the passage is thus annotated in her handwriting:

"Concerning his (Thrale's) connection with quack chemists, quacks of
all sorts; jumping up in the night to go to Marlbro' Street from
Southwark, after some advertising mountebank, at hazard of his life,"
In "Thraliana":

"18_th July_, 1778.--Mr. Thrale overbrewed himself last winter and
made an artificial scarcity of money in the family which has
extremely lowered his spirits. Mr. Johnson endeavoured last night,
and so did I, to make him promise that he would never more brew a
larger quantity of beer in one winter than 80,000 barrels[1], but my
Ma