“MADAM,—­If I interpret your letter right, you are ignominiously married:  if it is yet undone, let us once more talk together.  If you have abandoned your children and your religion, God forgive your wickedness; if you have forfeited your fame and your country, may your folly do no further mischief.  If the last act is yet to do, I who have loved you, esteemed you, reverenced you, and served you[1], I who long thought you the first of womankind, entreat that, before your fate is irrevocable, I may once more see you.  I was, I once was, Madam, most truly yours,

“SAM.  JOHNSON.

“July 2, 1784.

“I will come down, if you permit it.”

[Footnote 1:  The four words which I have printed in italics are indistinctly written, and cannot be satisfactorily made out.]

No. 4.

“July 4, 1784.

“SIR,—­I have this morning received from you so rough a letter in reply to one which was both tenderly and respectfully written, that I am forced to desire the conclusion of a correspondence which I can bear to continue no longer.  The birth of my second husband is not meaner than that of my first; his sentiments are not meaner; his profession is not meaner, and his superiority in what he professes acknowledged by all mankind.  It is want of fortune, then, that is ignominious; the character of the man I have chosen has no other claim to such an epithet.  The religion to which he has been always a zealous adherent will, I hope, teach him to forgive insults he has not deserved; mine will, I hope, enable me to bear them at once with dignity and patience.  To hear that I have forfeited my fame is indeed the greatest insult I ever yet received.  My fame is as unsullied as snow, or I should think it unworthy of him who must henceforth protect it.

“I write by the coach the more speedily and effectually to prevent your coming hither.  Perhaps by my fame (and I hope it is so) you mean only that celebrity which is a consideration of a much lower kind.  I care for that only as it may give pleasure to my husband and his friends.

“Farewell, dear Sir, and accept my best wishes.  You have always commanded my esteem, and long enjoyed the fruits of a friendship never infringed by one harsh expression on my part during twenty years of familiar talk.  Never did I oppose your will, or control your wish; nor can your unmerited severity itself lessen my regard; but till you have changed your opinion of Mr. Piozzi, let us converse no more.  God bless you.”

No. 5.

To Mrs. Piozzi.

“London, July 8, 1784.

“DEAR MADAM,—­What you have done, however I may lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been injurious to me:  I therefore breathe out one sigh more of tenderness, perhaps useless, but at least sincere.

“I wish that God may grant you every blessing, that you may be happy in this world for its short continuance, and eternally happy in a better state; and whatever I can contribute to your happiness I am very ready to repay, for that kindness which soothed twenty years of a life radically wretched.