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.
I have had a cold and a cough, and taken opium, and think I am better.
We have had very cold weather; bad riding weather for my master, but he
will surmount it all. Did Mrs. Browne make any reply to your comparison
of business with solitude, or did you quite down her? I am much pleased
to think that Mrs.
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