Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy, which is expected in
the spring. No name is yet given it. The chief diversion arises from a
stratagem by which a lover is made to mistake his future father-in-law's
house for an inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The dialogue
is quick and gay, and the incidents are so prepared as not to seem
improbable. . . .
'My health seems in general to improve; but I have been troubled for
many weeks with a vexatious catarrh, which is sometimes sufficiently
distressful. I have not found any great effects from bleeding and
physick; and am afraid, that I must expect help from brighter days and
softer air.
'Write to me now and then; and whenever any good befalls you, make haste
to let me know it, for no one will rejoice at it more than, dear Sir,
your most humble servant,
'SAM. JOHNSON.'
'London, Feb. 24, 1773.'
'You continue to stand very high in the favour of Mrs. Thrale.'
While a former edition of my work was passing through the press, I was
unexpectedly favoured with a packet from Philadelphia, from Mr.
Pages:
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425