LETTER XXXV.
Captain Risby to the Honourable George Molesworth.
Barford Abby.
Well, Molesworth,—well—I can go no farther;—yet I must;—John, poor faithful John, says I must;—says he shall be sent back again.—But I have lost the use of my fingers:—my head bobs from side to side like a pendulum. Don't stamp, don't swear: they have a few drops of your cordial more than I intended.—It operates well.—I long to administer a larger potion.—Could you see how I am shifted—now here—now there—by the torrent of joy, that like a deluge almost drives reason before it;—I say, could you see me, you would not wonder at the few unconnected lines of
Yours,
Risby.