By the bye, your books are lying on the table of our drawing room most days, and I hear great praise of them; and yet I do not feel the slightest curiosity to open one of them. The reason is, there are also a hundred of Sir Walter Scott’s in the same place, and as it is impossible to read all, I have no wish to read any; for to read without judging, is to read without amusement; and how can I judge without comparing, detecting likenesses, or admiring originality? Besides, I have so many reflections concerning a future world, as well as concerning the present, and there are, on that awful subject, so many books still unread, that I think every moment lost, which impedes my gaining information from holy and learned authors.
It rains, and I fear I cannot send my letter to the post by a safe hand, till fine weather. My best compliments to Dr. Alderson, and believe me,
Yours most sincerely,
E. Inchbald.
She died in 1821. Mrs. Opie had not been aware of her illness, and wrote on the 9th of August to Mr. Phillips, thus:—
Dear Sir,
The paper of to-day contains an account of the funeral of Mrs. Inchbald, and I had heard neither of her illness, nor her death! I need not say how shocked and sorry I am; and I take the liberty of requesting that you will be so kind as to give me some account of her illness, last moments, &c.
I have not seen her this year, because I now never leave my father, and have been in Norwich almost ever since I saw her last, which was last September. Pray excuse, &c.
Yours respectfully,
A. Opie.