MY friend, patron, preserver! were the mind alone sick, God never created, since the blessed Apostles days, a better physician than thyself—either singly, or in happy partnership with the best of women—not only so, but your blessed zeal, like the Samaritan’s, forgetful of self-wants, poureth the wine and oil, and binding up the wounds of worldly sickness—then leaving with reluctance the happy object of thy care to the mercy of an interested host, with money in hand you cry—“Call help, spare no expence, and when I return, I will repay you.”—Indulge me, my noble friend, I have seen the priest, and the Levite, after many years knowledge, snatch a hasty look; then, with averted face, pursue their different routes: and yet these good folks pray, turn up their eyes to that Heaven they daily insult, and take more pains to preserve the appearances of virtue, than would suffice to make them good in earnest.—You see, my good Sir, by the galloping of my pen, that I am much mended.—I have been intolerably plagued with a bilious colic, which, after three days excruciating torments, gave way to mutton-fat-broth clysters.—I am now (bating the swelling of my legs and ancles) much mended—air and exercise is all I want—but the fogs and damps are woefully against me.—Mrs. Sancho, who reads, weeps, and wonders, as the various passions impel, says, she is sure the merits of your house would save B——, were the rest of the inhabitants ever so bad;—she joins me in every grateful thought.—In good truth, I have not language to express my feelings. Dr. R—— hurries me. Blessed couple, adieu!
Yours,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER CLVII.
TO J—— S——, ESQ.
Charles Street, Dec. 1, 1780.
WHY joy in the extreme should end painfully, I cannot find out—but that it does so, I will ever seriously maintain. When I read the effusions of goodness, my head turned;—but when I came to consider the extensive and expensive weight and scope of the contents, my reason reeled, and idiotism took possession of me—till the friendly tears, washing away the mills of doubt, presented you to me as beings of a purer, happier order—which God in his mercy perhaps suffers to be scattered here and there—thinly—that the lucky few who know them may, at the same time, know what man in his original state was intended to be.—I gave your generous request a fair hearing—the two first proposed places would kill me, except (and that is impossible) Mrs. Sancho was with me.
Inclination strongly points to the land of friendship—where goodness ever blossoms—and where N—f—d heals. At present I take nothing, but am trying for a few days what honest Nature, unperplexed by Art, will do for me.—I am pretty much swelled still; but I take short airings in the near stages, such as Greenwich, Clapham, Newington, &c. &c. Walking kills me. The mind—the mind, my ever dear and honoured friends—the mind requires her lullaby;—she must have rest ere the body can be in a state of comfort, she must enjoy peace, and that must be found in still repose of family and home. Mrs. Sancho, who speaks by her tears, says what I will not pretend to decypher;—I believe she most fervently recommends you to that Being who best knows you—for he gave you your talents. My most grateful and affectionate respects, joined with Mrs. Sancho’s, attend the good Mrs. S——, thyself, and all thy connexions. I cannot say how much we are obliged to you; but certainly we were never so much nor so undeservingly obliged to any before. God keep you in all your doings—prays thine,
SANCHO.
LETTER CLVIII.
TO J—— S——, ESQ.
Dec. 7, 1780.