with whom, great or small, you would feel the first of comforts in sharing your own. Do not, my only friend, my only earthly comfort, make things worse than they are, by considering too much only their dark side, and by a cramped view, ill suited to a mind like yours.

I say nothing of the length of this. Did I not fear interruption it would be larger, and what I want to write, you want to read.1

The Hon. Mrs. Damer to Mary Berry

BROCKET HALL, Friday, November 9, 1792.

I write because I love writing to you, tho' it is possible, should I hear that you come to town the beginning of next week, that I may not send my letter,—but writing to you is become a habit-it helps to continue that fine thread that holds minds together. I feel, too, some converse with a being to whom my heart is open, one in whom I may, and do, confide, the more necessary, the more my spirits are affected, whether from serious causes, or whether from those "little tiresome cares " you so well express-those forms and semblances of society and friendship, "et praeterea nil," in which, from various circumstances, I find myself so much involved, contrary to my every real taste or wish, and with which I have of late been more than usually teazed and harassed, at a time when I expected to have enjoy'd more quiet and repose.

Day after day successions of indifferents, many of those who came out of mere curiosity to see me work, become sort of intimates, and most intimate sort of plagues, bound by no care but that of pleasing themselves, ever in the way when you do not want them, and never to be had when you do. Of such fare (to

1 Add. MSS. 37727, f. 262.

use this in metaphor) my soul is sick. I might, it is true, wholly disengage myself from all this hurry I complain of, but then I fear too great solitude, because it is what I am so much inclined to love.

LONDON, Sunday Evening.

I ought to feel better, since I vented my ill-humour so freely, but I will no longer make apologies, for it is thus I would be treated by you. Let me but partake of your grievances, your cares and your anxieties, I would, Heaven knows, were it in my power, throw in my small stock of quiet or enjoyment to add to yours.

I found, on coming to town, that your Father had called on Thursday last, and said that he thought you would be in town yesterday. If so, I have missed seeing you, and it remains quite uncertain when I shall again have that satisfaction. I found no company at B[rocket] H[all] and the weather really mild and pleasant, that I should have enjoyed indeed more, had it not been for a violent cold, as bad as a cold in the head can be, which lasted the days I passed there. I however went out. I felt little regret in returning, company was expected, and the day dreary and cold. The hours they keep are too late, and the exercise they follow not what I like and am equal to. I am at liberty, certainly; but when one has no longer any particular interest, one is affected by minutiae in other cases not thought of. This time, indeed, I was lucky, but in general the awkwardnesses which, if others do not feel for themselves, I feel for them, are the source to me of a thousand melancholy reflections.

But tell me why you are so late at night. Why you are near so late I cannot guess. 'Tis, I am convinced, to suit the taste or convenience of others, for yourself would, I am sure, to my earnest request sacrifice an

hour or two of candlelight, to add a few words of Dorimant (Mr. Fawkener). I think I understand what you would say on that subject; if I mistake, leave me to my stupidity, for I want comfort and indulgence. It is a subject on which I never can feel satisfied, and you see in this sad example a proof of having been wrong— accusing others. I know not, I am sure, if I can explain what I meant at the moment, when I felt more agitated and less reasonable than now. It was that sensations from the loss of one could not be much felt engaged in a serious and long connection with another, and that there was more affected than real sensibility in the note, and more caprice in their finding out, without any new circumstance or event, what for this twelvemonth past he had scarcely seemed to dream of,—and in all this what I may feel never seems thought of.-I was now grown (I will confess it) often to wish still more than to fear seeing him. It is therefore better as it is my reason is convinced; for with such a character I could never find repose or real happiness. I have not heard a word from him, or seen him, since the evening I mentioned, in which I think I told you he came. His note was in answer to one of mine, a simple invitation. Farewell. I shall soon begin writing to you again. Take care of yourself, and try sometimes to get an early half hour after supper, and when you would most indulge me, let it be mine. More I cannot grant in spite of all your arguments.

P.S. A sudden turn directs me.-Heaven bless you.1

The year 1793 was as uneventful for the Berrys as 1792. They spent the earlier part of the year sometimes at Twickenham, sometimes at their house in London, and in the late summer paid a round of visits to the

1 Add. MSS. 37727, f. 194.

Londoni. Agnes Berry Inv. et del. 1793

ORIGINAL DRAWING FOR MRS. DAMER'S BOOKPLATE BY AGNES BERRY Reproduced by kind permission of Mr. Tregaskin