my time, nor my cost, to no purpose.  All I desire is, to pay the expenses, which I can afford much less than my idle moments.  Not but the operations of-my press have often turned against myself in many shapes.  I have told people many things they did not know, and from fashion they have bought a thousand things out of my hands, which they do not understand, and only love en passant.  At Mr. West’s sale, I got literally nothing:  his prints sold for the frantic sum of 1495 pounds 10 shillings.  Your and my good friend Mr. Gulston threw away above 200 pounds there.

I am not sorry Mr. Lort has recourse to the fountainhead:  Mr. Pownall’s system of Freemasonry is so absurd and groundless, that I am glad to be rid of intervention.  I have seen the former once:  he told Me he was willing to sell his prints, as the value of them is so increased—­for that very reason I did not want to purchase them.

Paul Sanby promised me ten days ago to show Mr. Henshaw’s engraving which I received from Dr. Ewen) to Bartolozzi, and ask his terms, thinking he would delight in So Very promising a scholar; but I have heard nothing since, and therefore fear there is no success.  Let me, however, see the young man when he comes, and I will try if there is any other way of serving him.

What shall I say to you, dear Sir, about Dr. Prescot? or what I say to him?  It hurts me not to be very civil, especially as any respect to my father’s memory touches me much more than any attention to myself, which I cannot hold to be a quarter so well founded.  Yet, how dare I write to a poor man, who may do, as I have lately seen done by a Scotchwoman that wrote a play,(88) and printed Lord Chesterfield’s and Lord Lyttelton’s letters to her, as Testimonia fluctorum:  I will therefore beg you to make my compliments and thanks to the master, and to make them as grateful as you please, provided I am dispensed with giving any certificate under my hand.  You may plead my illness, which, though the fifth month ended yesterday, is far from being at an end, My relapses have been endless — I cannot yet walk a step:  and a great cold has added an ague in my cheek, for which I am just going to begin the bark.  The prospect for the rest of my days is gloomy.  The case of my poor nephew still more deplorable — he arrived in town last night, and bore his Journey tolerably-but his head is in much more danger of not recovering than his health; though they give us hopes of both.  But the evils of life are not good subjects for letters—­why afflict one’s friends?  Why make commonplace reflections?  Adieu!  Yours ever.

(88) “Sir Harry Gaylove; or, Comedy in Embryo;” by Mrs. Jane Marshall.  It was printed in Scotland by subscription, but not acted. in the preface, she complains bitterly of the managers of the three London theatres, for refusing her the advantages of representing her performance.-E.

Letter 53 To The Rev. William Mason.(89) March 2, 1773. (page 78)