I
hope to get through, though so many weeks have passed. Little lives and
little criticisms may serve.

Having been in the country so long, with very little to detain me, I am
rather glad to look homewards. I am, &c.

XXXVI.--To MRS. THRALE.

October 13, 1777.

DEAR MADAM,--Yet I do love to hear from you: such pretty, kind letters
as you send. But it gives me great delight to find that my master misses
me, I begin to wish myself with you more than I should do, if I were
wanted less. It is a good thing to stay away, till one's company is
desired, but not so good to stay, after it is desired.

You know I have some work to do. I did not set to it very soon; and if I
should go up to London with nothing done, what would be said, but that I
was--who can tell what? I, therefore, stay till I can bring up something
to stop their mouths, and then--

Though I am still at Ashbourne, I receive your dear letters, that come
to Lichfield, and you continue that direction, for I think to get
thither as soon as I can.

One of the does died yesterday, and I am afraid her fawn will be
starved; I wish Miss Thrale had it to nurse; but the doctor is now all
for cattle, and minds very little either does or hens.

How did you and your aunt part? Did you turn her out of doors, to begin
your journey? or did she leave you by her usual shortness of visits? I
love to know how you go on.

I cannot but think on your kindness and my master's. Life has, upon the
whole, fallen short, very short, of my early expectation; but the
acquisition of such a friendship, at an age, when new friendships are
seldom acquired, is something better than the general course of things
gives man a right to expect. I think on it with great delight: I am not
very apt to be delighted. I am, &c.

XXXVII.--To MRS. THRALE.

Lichfield, October 27, 1777.

DEAR MADAM,--You talk of writing and writing, as if you had all the
writing to yourself. If our correspondence were printed, I am sure
posterity, for posterity is always the author's favourite, would say
that I am a good writer too.--"Anch'io sono pittore." To sit down so
often with nothing to say; to say something so often, almost without
consciousness of saying, and without any remembrance of having said, is
a power of which I will not violate my modesty by boasting, but I do not
believe that every body has it.

Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; some are wise
and sententious; some st