STRAWBERRY HILL, Oct. 14, 1787.

My dear Madam,—­I am shocked for human nature at the repeated malevolence of this woman! [Mrs. Yearsley.] The rank soil of riches we are accustomed to see overrun with seeds and thistles; but who could expect that the kindest seeds sown on poverty and dire misfortunes should meet with nothing but a rock at bottom?  Catherine de’ Medici, suckled by hopes and transplanted to a throne, seems more excusable.  Thank heaven, Madam, for giving you so excellent a heart; ay, and so good a head.  You are not only benevolence itself, but, with fifty times the genius of a Yearsley, you are void of vanity.  How strange, that vanity should expel gratitude!  Does not the wretched woman owe her fame to you, as well as her affluence?  I can testify your labours for both.  Dame Yearsley reminds me of the Troubadours, those vagrants whom I used to admire till I knew their history; and who used to pour out trumpery verses, and flatter or abuse accordingly as they were housed and clothed, or dismissed to the next parish.  Yet you did not set this person in the stocks, after procuring an annuity for her!  I beg your pardon for renewing so disgusting a subject, and will never mention it again.  You have better amusement; you love good works, a temper superior to revenge.

I have again seen our poor friend in Clarges Street [Mrs. Vesey]:  her faculties decay rapidly, and of course she suffers less.  She has not an acquaintance in town; and yet told me the town was very full, and that she had had a good deal of company.  Her health is re-established, and we must now be content that her mind is not restless.  My pity now feels most for Mrs. Hancock, whose patience is inexhaustible, though not insensible.

Mrs. Piozzi, I hear, has two volumes of Dr. Johnson’s Letters ready for publication.  Bruce is printing his travels, which I suppose will prove that his narratives were fabulous, as he will scarce repeat them by the press.  These, and two more volumes of Mr. Gibbon’s “History,” are all the literary news I know.  France seems sunk indeed in all respects.  What stuff are their theatrical goods, their “Richards,” “Ninas,” and “Tarares”!  But when their “Figaro"[1] could run threescore nights, how despicable must their taste be grown!  I rejoice that their political intrigues are not more creditable.  I do not dislike the French from the vulgar antipathy between neighbouring nations, but for their insolent and unfounded airs of superiority.  In arms, we have almost always outshone them:  and till they have excelled Newton, and come near to Shakspeare, pre-eminence in genius must remain with us.  I think they are most entitled to triumph over the Italians; as, with the most meagre and inharmonious of all languages, the French have made more of that poverty in tragedy and eloquence, than the Italians have done with the language the most capable of both.  But I did not mean to send you a dissertation.  I hope it will not be long before you remove to Hampton.—­Yet why should I wish that?  You will only be geographically nearer to London till February.  Cannot you, now and then, sleep at the Adelphi on a visit to poor Vesey and your friends, and let one know if you do?