“. . . I called on your old friend Mrs Southern about a month ago, and asked her opinion of ‘Caleb Williams:’ now, pray let not thy noble courage be cast down when I inform you that both Mrs S. and her daughter think you talk too favourably of wicked men, and that ‘Italian Letters’ (your first novel), are vastly prettier than ‘Caleb Williams.’ Console yourself, my good friend, by reflecting on the fable of the old man and his ass.”
