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But enough for to-day. My anxiety about rescuing my character, so iniquitously traduced in her publication, has, I am afraid, carried me a little beyond the reader’s patience, by making me talk rather too long about my insignificant self. To make him amends, I will endeavour in my following strictures to entertain him with more sportive details; and, among other diverting subjects, give him some account of a bastard brother; a story not to be matched by any novell in Boccaccio ’s Decameron; together with the rise, progress and catastrophe of a certain passion, qiiae solet matres furiare equorum\ which passion, after several years’ anxious and impatient longing, made at last the learned mrs. Thrale, the witty mrs. Thrale, the virtuous mrs. Thrale, the immortai mistress of the celebrated doctor Samuel Johnson, descend at once from her altitudes and dwindle down into the contemptible wife of her daughter’s singing-master, to the profound astonishment and envy of ali the outlandish singers and fiddlers now in London residing. And who knows, but led by my extensive due through the intricate labyrinthofher various, ingenious and innocent devices, to bring about her noble purpose in conjunction with that same bastard, who proved in the end no bastard at ali; who knows, I say, but some one of our modem dramatic geniuses may hereafter entertain the public with a laughable comedy in five long acts, entitled with singular propriety: The scientific motherí
