TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
Weston, April 1, 1791.
My dear Mrs. Frog,—A word or two before breakfast: which is all that I shall have time to send you! You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am obliged to him for his kind though unsuccessful attempt in my favour at Oxford. It seems not a little extraordinary that persons so nobly patronised themselves on the score of literature should resolve to give no encouragement to it in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglect it.
Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)
"Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here."
I have read your husband's pamphlet through and through. You may think perhaps, and so may he, that a question so remote from all concern of mine could not interest me; but if you think so, you are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will not interest me: in the first place, for the writer's sake, and in the next place, because he writes better and reasons better than anybody; with more candour, and with more sufficiency, and, consequently, with more satisfaction to all his readers, save only his opponents. They, I think, by this time, wish that they had let him alone.
Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse that had a life to lose.
Adieu!
W.C.