indeed, am fit for any thing but to amuse myself in a sedentary trifling way.  What I have most certainly not been doing, is writing any thing:  a truth I say to you, but do not desire you to repeat.  I deign to satisfy scarce any body else.  Whoever reported that I was writing any thing, 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, any body is welcome to believe that pleases.  In fact, though I have scarce a settled purpose about any thing, 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 sixty-yet, if I liked it, I dare 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.  Whatever happens in America this country is undone.  I desire to be reckoned of the last age, and to be thought to have lived to be superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and for the few I value.  I cannot aspire to be traduced like Algernon Sydney, and content myself with sacrificing to him amongst my lares.  Unalterable in my principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging myself in trifles by system, annihilating myself by choice, but dreading folly at an unseemly age, I contrive to pass my time agreeably enough, yet see its termination approach without anxiety.  This is a true picture of my mind; and it must be true, because drawn for you, whom I would not deceive, and could not, if I would.  Your question on my being writing drew it forth, though with more seriousness than the report deserved—­yet talking to one’s dearest friend is neither wrong nor out of season.  Nay, you are my best apology.  I have always contented myself with your being perfect, or, if your modesty demands a mitigated term, I will say, unexceptionable.  It is comical, to be sure, to have always been more solicitous about the virtue of one’s friend than about one’s own-yet, I repeat it, you are my apology -though I never was so unreasonable as to make you answerable for my faults in return; I take them wholly to myself.  But enough of this.  When I know my own mind, for hitherto I have settled no plan ,for my summer, I will come to you.  Adieu!

(254) Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of Charles, Duke of Marlborough; born in 1734; married, in 1757, to Viscount Bolingbroke; from whom she was divorced in 1768, and married immediately after to Mr. Topham Beauclerk.-E.