me a gallery, which will end in a mouse, that is, in an hexagon closet of seven feet diameter.  I have been making a Beauty Room, which was effected by buying two dozen of small copies of Sir Peter Lely, and hanging them up; and I have been making hay, which is not made, because I put it off for three days, as I chose it should adorn the landscape when I was to have company; and so the rain is come, and has drowned it.  However, as I can even turn calculator when it is to comfort me for not minding my interest, I have discovered that it is five to one better for me that my hay should be spoiled than not; for, as the cows will eat it if it is damaged, which horses will not, and as I have five cows and but one horse, is not it plain that the worse my hay is the better?  Do not you with your refining head go, and, out of excessive friendship, find out something to destroy my system.  I had rather be a philosopher than a rich man; and yet have so little philosophy, that I had much rather be content than be in the right.

Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Di have been here four or five days—­so I had both content and exercise for my philosophy.  I wish Lady Ailesbury was as fortunate!  The Pembrokes, Churchills, Le Texier, as you will have heard, and the Garricks have been with us.  Perhaps, if alone, I might have come to you; but you are all too healthy and harmonious.  I can neither walk nor sing; nor, indeed, am fit for anything but to amuse myself in a sedentary trifling way.  What I have most certainly not been doing, is writing anything:  a truth I say to you, but do not desire you to repeat.  I deign to satisfy scarce anybody else.  Whoever reported that I was writing anything, must have been so totally unfounded, that they either blundered by guessing without reason, or knew they lied—­and that could not be with any kind intention; though saying I am going to do what I am not going to do, is wretched enough.  Whatever is said of me without truth, anybody is welcome to believe that pleases.

In fact, though I have scarce a settled purpose about anything, I think I shall never write any more.  I have written a great deal too much, unless I had written better, and I know I should now only write still worse.  One’s talent, whatever it is, does not improve at near sixty—­yet, if I liked it, I dare to say a good reason would not stop my inclination;—­but I am grown most indolent in that respect, and most absolutely indifferent to every purpose of vanity.  Yet without vanity I am become still prouder and more contemptuous.  I have a contempt for my countrymen that makes me despise their approbation.  The applause of slaves and of the foolish mad is below ambition.  Mine is the haughtiness of an ancient Briton, that cannot write what would please this age, and would not, if he could.