Aug. 25. 'The kindness of your last letter, and my omission to answer
it, begins to give you, even in my opinion, a right to recriminate, and
to charge me with forgetfulness for the absent. I will, therefore, delay
no longer to give an account of myself, and wish I could relate what
would please either myself or my friend. On July 13, I left London,
partly in hope of help from new air and change of place, and partly
excited by the sick man's impatience of the present. I got to Lichfield
in a stage vehicle, with very little fatigue, in two days, and had the
consolation[1121] to find, that since my last visit my three old
acquaintance are all dead. July 20, I went to Ashbourne, where I have
been till now; the house in which we live is repairing. I live in too
much solitude, and am often deeply dejected: I wish we were nearer, and
rejoice in your removal to London. A friend, at once cheerful and
serious, is a great acquisition. Let us not neglect one another for the
little time which Providence allows us to hope. Of my health I cannot
tell you, what my wishes persuaded me to expect, that it is much
improved by the season or by remedies. I am sleepless; my legs grow
weary with a very few steps, and the water breaks its boundaries in some
degree. The asthma, however, has remitted; my breath is still much
obstructed, but is more free than it was. Nights of watchfulness produce
torpid days; I read very little, though I am alone; for I am tempted to
supply in the day what I lost in bed. This is my history; like all other
histories, a narrative of misery. Yet am I so much better than in the
beginning of the year, that I ought to be ashamed of complaining. I now
sit and write with very little sensibility of pain or weakness; but when
I rise, I shall find my legs betraying me. Of the money which you
mentioned, I have no immediate need; keep it, however, for me, unless
some exigence requires it. Your papers I will shew you certainly when
you would see them, but I am a little angry at you for not keeping
minutes of your own _acceptum et expensum_[1122], and think a little
time might be spared from Aristophanes, for the _res familiares_.
Forgive me for I mean well. I hope, dear Sir, that you and Lady Rothes,
and all the young people, too many to enumerate, are well and happy. GOD
bless you all.'