DEAREST LADY,—­It is true, that I have loitered, and, what is worse, loitered with very little pleasure.  The time has run away, as most time runs, without account, without use, and without memorial.  But, to say this of a few weeks, though not pleasing, might be borne; but what ought to be the regret of him who, in a few days, will have so nearly the same to say of sixty-eight years?  But complaint is vain.

If you have nothing to say from the neighbourhood of the metropolis, what can occur to me, in little cities and petty towns; in places which we have both seen, and of which no description is wanted?  I have left part of the company with which you dined here, to come and write this letter, in which I have nothing to tell, but that my nights are very tedious.  I cannot persuade myself to forbear trying something.

As you have now little to do, I suppose you are pretty diligent at the Thraliana; and a very curious collection posterity will find it.  Do not remit the practice of writing down occurrences as they arise, of whatever kind, and be very punctual in annexing the dates.  Chronology, you know, is the eye of history; and every man’s life is of importance to himself.  Do not omit painful casualties, or unpleasing passages; they make the variegation of existence; and there are many transactions, of which I will not promise, with Aeneas, “et haec olim meminisse juvabit;” yet that remembrance which is not pleasant, may be useful.  There is, however, an intemperate attention to slight circumstances, which is to be avoided, lest a great part of life be spent in writing the history of the rest.  Every day, perhaps, has something to be noted; but in a settled and uniform course, few days can have much.

Why do I write all this, which I had no thought of when I began!  The Thraliana drove it all into my head.  It deserves, however, an hour’s reflection, to consider how, with the least loss of time, the loss of what we wish to retain may be prevented.

Do not neglect to write to me, for when a post comes empty, I am really disappointed.

Boswell, I believe, will meet me here.  I am, dearest lady, your, &c.

XXXV.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Lichfield, October 3, 1777,

DEAR MADAM,—­This is the last time that I shall write, in this excursion, from this place.  To-morrow I shall be, I hope, at Birmingham; from which place I shall do my best to find the nearest way home.  I come home, I think, worse than I went; and do not like the state of my health.  But, “vive hodie,” make the most of life.  I hope to get better, and—­sweep the cobwebs.  But I have sad nights.  Mrs. Aston has sent me to Mr. Greene, to be cured.

Did you see Foote at Brighthelmstone?—­Did you think he would so soon be gone?—­Life, says Falstaff, is a shuttle.  He was a fine fellow in his way; and the world is really impoverished by his sinking glories.  Murphy ought to write his life, at least, to give the world a Footeiana.  Now, will any of his contemporaries bewail him?  Will genius change his sex to weep?  I would really have his life written with diligence.