Do you not think we study this book hard?  Nothing is like going to the bottom of things.  Many families, that paid the parish-rates, are now extinct, like the race of Hercules:  “Pulvis et umbra sumus.”  What is nearest us, touches us most.  The passions rise higher at domestick, than at imperial, tragedies.  I am not wholly unaffected by the revolutions of Sadler street; nor can forbear to mourn a little when old names vanish away, and new come into their place.

Do not imagine, madam, that I wrote this letter for the sake of these philosophical meditations; for when I began it, I had neither Mr. Green, nor his book, in my thoughts; but was resolved to write, and did not know what I had to send, but my respects to Mrs. Salusbury, and Mr. Thrale, and Harry, and the Misses.  I am, dearest madam, your, &c.

VI.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Ashbourne, July 23, 1770.

DEAREST MADAM,—­There had not been so long an interval between my two last letters, but that, when I came hither, I did not at first understand the hours of the post.

I have seen the great bull; and very great he is.  I have seen, likewise, his heir apparent, who promises to inherit all the bulk, and all the virtues, of his sire.  I have seen the man who offered a hundred guineas for the young bull, while he was yet little better than a calf.  Matlock, I am afraid, I shall not see, but I purpose to see Dovedale; and, after all this seeing, I hope to see you.  I am, &c.

VII.—­TO THE SAME.

Ashbourne, July 3, 1771.

DEAR MADAM,—­Last Saturday I came to Ashbourne; the dangers or the pleasures of the journey I have, at present, no disposition to recount; else might I paint the beauties of my native plains; might I tell of the “smiles of nature, and the charms of art;” else might I relate, how I crossed the Staffordshire canal, one of the great efforts of human labour, and human contrivance, which, from the bridge on which I viewed it, passed away on either side, and loses itself in distant regions, uniting waters that nature had divided, and dividing lands which nature had united.  I might tell how these reflections fermented in my mind, till the chaise stopped at Ashbourne, at Ashbourne in the Peak.  Let not the barren name of the Peak terrify you; I have never wanted strawberries and cream.  The great bull has no disease but age.  I hope, in time, to be like the great bull; and hope you will be like him, too, a hundred years hence.  I am, &c.

VIII.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Ashbourne, July 10, 1771.

DEAREST MADAM,—­I am obliged to my friend Harry, for his remembrance, but think it a little hard that I hear nothing from Miss.

There has been a man here to-day to take a farm.  After some talk, he went to see the bull, and said, that he had seen a bigger.  Do you think he is likely to get the farm?