Dr. Taylor is not much amiss, but always complaining.  I am, &c.

XLI.—­To MR. THRALE.

Lichfield, June 23, 1779.

DEAR SIR,—­To show how well I think of your health, I have sent you a hundred pounds, to keep for me.  It will come within one day of quarterday, and that day you must give me.  I came by it in a very uncommon manner, and would not confound it with the rest.

My wicked mistress talks as if she thought it possible for me to be indifferent or negligent about your health or hers.  If I could have done any good, I had not delayed an hour to come to you; and I will come very soon, to try if my advice can be of any use, or my company of any entertainment.

What can be done, you must do for yourself:  do not let any uneasy thought settle in your mind.  Cheerfulness and exercise are your great remedies.  Nothing is, for the present, worth your anxiety.  “Vivite laeti” is one of the great rules of health.  I believe it will be good to ride often, but never to weariness, for weariness is, itself, a temporary resolution of the nerves, and is, therefore, to be avoided.  Labour is exercise continued to fatigue—­exercise is labour used only, while it produces pleasure.

Above all, keep your mind quiet:  do not think with earnestness even of your health; but think on such things as may please without too much agitation; among which, I hope, is, dear sir, your, &c.

XLII.—­To MRS. THRALE.

DEAR MADAM,—­On Sunday I dined with poor Lawrence, who is deafer than ever.  When he was told that Dr. Moisy visited Mr. Thrale, he inquired for what? and said there was nothing to be done, which nature would not do for herself.  On Sunday evening, I was at Mrs. Vesy’s, and there was inquiry about my master, but I told them all good.  There was Dr. Bernard of Eton, and we made a noise all the evening; and there was Pepys, and Wraxal, till I drove him away.  And I have no loss of my mistress, who laughs, and frisks, and frolicks it all the long day, and never thinks of poor Colin.

If Mr. Thrale will but continue to mend, we shall, I hope, come together again, and do as good things as ever we did; but, perhaps, you will be made too proud to heed me, and yet, as I have often told you, it will not be easy for you to find such another.

Queeney has been a good girl, and wrote me a letter; if Burney said she would write, she told you a fib.  She writes nothing to me.  She can write home fast enough.  I have a good mind not to let her know that Dr. Bernard, to whom I had recommended her novel, speaks of it with great commendation, and that the copy which she lent me, has been read by Dr. Lawrence three times over.  And yet what a gipsy it is.  She no more minds me than if I were a Brangton.  Pray speak to Queeney to write again.