Our house affords no revolutions.  The great bull is well.  But I write, not merely to think on you, for I do that without writing, but to keep you a little thinking on me.  I perceive that I have taken a broken piece of paper, but that is not the greatest fault that you must forgive in, madam, your, &c.

XI.—­To MRS. THRALE.

November 27, 1772.

DEAR MADAM,—­If you are so kind as to write to me on Saturday, the day on which you will receive this, I shall have it before I leave Ashbourne.  I am to go to Lichfield on Wednesday, and purpose to find my way to London, through Birmingham and Oxford.

I was yesterday at Chatsworth.  It is a very fine house.  I wish you had been with me to see it; for then, as we are apt to want matter of talk, we should have gained something new to talk on.  They complimented me with playing the fountain, and opening the cascade.  But I am of my friend’s opinion, that when one has seen the ocean, cascades are but little things.

I am in hope of a letter to-day from you or Queeney, but the post has made some blunder, and the packet is not yet distributed.  I wish it may bring me a little good of you all.  I am, &c.

XII.—­To THE SAME.

Tuesday, Jan. 26, 1773.

MADAM,—­The inequalities of human life have always employed the meditation of deep thinkers, and I cannot forbear to reflect on the difference between your condition and my own.  You live upon mock-turtle, and stewed rumps of beef; I dined, yesterday, upon crumpets.  You sit with parish officers, caressing and caressed, the idol of the table, and the wonder of the day.  I pine in the solitude of sickness, not bad enough to be pitied, and not well enough to be endured.  You sleep away the night, and laugh, or scold away the day.  I cough and grumble, and grumble and cough.  Last night was very tedious, and this day makes no promises of much ease.  However, I have this day put on my shoe, and hope that gout is gone.  I shall have only the cough to contend with, and I doubt whether I shall get rid of that without change of place.  I caught cold in the coach as I went away, and am disordered by very little things.  Is it accident or age?  I am, dearest madam, &c.

XIII.—­To MRS. THRALE.

March 17, 1773.

DEAR MADAM,—­To tell you that I am sorry, both for the poor lady and for you, is useless.  I cannot help either of you.  The weakness of mind is, perhaps, only a casual interruption or intermission of the attention, such as we all suffer when some weighty care or urgent calamity has possession of the mind.  She will compose herself.  She is unwilling to die, and the first conviction of approaching death raised great perturbation.  I think she has but very lately thought death close at hand.  She will compose herself to do that as well as she can, which must, at last, be done.  May she not want the divine assistance!