I know some gentlemen who boast of never having made an apology, yet at the same time would say and do a thousand things much more derogatory to their dear independence than fifty apologies, such as any man of sense might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentlemen more careful in avoiding anything that would require an apology, and not like cowards skulk behind their flimsy shield of independence for defence or security. I have as great an aversion to cringing apologies, made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, and should always suspect the sincerity of them.—If this class are the greater part of them,—still I can conceive, nay I _have known_ instances when an apology has heightened my opinion of a person instead of lessening it. If we are in fault, ought we not to confess it? If we are _not_ in fault, ought we not to exculpate ourselves? I should think a person valued my approbation very little, if he knew I had any reason to censure him and yet would not by a single word convince me I had been deceived. However, I did not mean to dip so far into this _weighty_ subject, ’twould have been better to have just touched the edges and away. Now really, Moses, I write in pain if I am not good-natured; you must attribute it all to the cold which makes my fingers tingle; I can’t write below, there is such a gabbling. ’Tis a cold, comfortless night; the rain patters against the window and the wind whistles round the house, it sounds like December,—oh! that was an unlucky word! I feel gloomy at the sight of it. The storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for shelter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that I would not walk ten steps to do good to any one. Our old windows here clatter so that I can hear nothing else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and that I hear the groans of distress between the blasts of wind, which sound hollow and dreary; even now the shadow of my pen on the wall looked like a man’s arm, and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories! we never get rid of them. I sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are asleep in the house, get my imagination so roused, that I look in fearful expectation that the tall martial ghost of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop down chimney.—Ghosts, what a looking word that is!!—nonsense!—what was I going to say, something about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I declare this shall be the last letter I will write from the fire,—December, and writing in the chamber without fire. Oh—monstrous! But here am I at the end without saying several things I meant to. I never, when I sit down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to when I began. You found my letter, you say—’twas not worth the finding, as it was too late to answer the purpose I wish. Write me often. I have been entertained with Johnson’s life. We are alone, so write me often.