By
the chance meeting of some of the currents which keep this ocean of
human life from stagnating, this lady and myself were driven together
nine months ago at Brighthelmstone: we soon grew intimate from having
often heard of each other, and I have now the honour and happiness of
calling her my friend. Her face is eminently pretty; her carriage
elegant; her heart affectionate, and her mind cultivated. There is
above all this an attractive sweetness in her manner, which claims
and promises to repay one's confidence, and which drew from me the
secret of my keeping a 'Thraliana,' &c. &c. &c."
"_Jan. 1779._--Mr. Thrale is fallen in love, really and seriously,
with Sophy Streatfield; but there is no wonder in that; she is very
pretty, very gentle, soft, and insinuating; hangs about him, dances
round him, cries when she parts from him, squeezes his hand slyly,
and with her sweet eyes full of tears looks so fondly in his
face[1]--and all for love of me as she pretends; that I can hardly,
sometimes, help laughing in her face. A man must not be a _man_ but
an _it_, to resist such artillery. Marriott said very well,
"'Man flatt'ring man, not always can prevail,
But woman flatt'ring man, can never fail.'
"Murphy did not use, I think, to have a good opinion of me, but he
seems to have changed his mind this Christmas, and to believe better
of me. I am glad on't to be sure: the suffrage of such a man is well
worth having: he sees Thrale's love of the fair S.
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