When Mr. Johnson and I arrived at Inveraray after our expedition to the Hebrides, and there for the first time _after many days_ renewed our enjoyment of the luxuries of civilised life, one of the most elegant that I could wish to find was lying for me, a letter from Mr. Garrick. It was a pineapple of the finest flavour, which had a high zest indeed amongst the heath-covered mountains of Scotia. That I have not thanked you for it long ere now is one of those strange facts for which it is so difficult to account, that I shall not attempt it. The _Idler_ has strongly expressed many of the wonderful effects of the _vis inertiæ_ of the human mind. But it is hardly credible that a man should have the warmest regard for his friend, a constant desire to show it, and a keen ambition for a frequent epistolary intercourse with him, and yet should let months roll on without having resolution, or activity, or power, or whatever it be, to write a few lines. A man in such a situation is somewhat like Tantalus reversed. He recedes, he knows not how, from what he loves, which is full as provoking as when what he loves recedes from him. That my complaint is not a peculiar fancy, but deep in human nature, I appeal to the authority of St. Paul, who though he had not been exalted to the dignity of an apostle, would have stood high in fame as a philosopher and orator, "_What I would that do I not._" You need be under no concern as to your debt to me for the book which I purchased for you. It was long ago discharged; for believe me, I intended the book as a present. Or if you rather chuse that it should be held as an exchange with the epitaphs which you sent me, I have no objection. Dr. Goldsmith's death would affect all the club much. I have not been so much affected with any event that has happened of a long time. I wish you would give me, who am at a distance, and who cannot get to London this spring, some particulars with regards to his last appearances. Dr. Young has a fine thought to this purpose, that every friend who goes before us to the other side of the river of death, makes the passage to us the easier. Were our club all removed to a future world but one or two, _they_, one should think, would incline to follow. By all means let me be on your list of subscribers to Mr. Morrell's _Prometheus_. You have enlivened the town, I see, with a musical piece. The prologue is admirably fancied _arripere populum tributim_; though, to be sure, Foote's remark applies to it, that your prologues {329} have a culinary turn, and that therefore the motto to your collection of them should be, _Animus jamdudum in Patinis_. A player upon words might answer him, "Any Patinis rather than your Piety in Pattens." I wonder the wags have not been