Mr. Davenport to Hume.
Davenport, 13th May, 1767.
Dear Sir,—After all my inquiries, I can't, for the life of me, find out to what part my wild philosopher is fled. I sent after him some papers, thinking they would most certainly find him in London. No such matter: he is not to be found there. They scarce took any thing along with them, but what they carried on their backs. All the trunks, &c. are at Wooton; and this odd man has just packed up his things, and left the keys dangling at the locks of his boxes. No sort of direction for me, though he knows I am in his debt between £30 and £40; and I want, of all things, to inform him what he has to do in relation to his majesty's bounty, which I am sure he will with great satisfaction receive, because I have it so positively under his own hand. You shall have the joy of perusing his letter; but one dated about six days before must be added to it.
At present my gout is too much upon me to write copies of them. Pray, if you hear where he is, do me the pleasure to inform me. I am, &c. &c.
P.S.—I protest I pity him more and more, as I certainly conclude that his head is not quite right.
Davenport, Monday 18th.
I can't help giving you the trouble of this. Last night I received a most melancholy letter from poor Rousseau, dated Spalding in Lincolnshire. How, or on what account, he got to that place, I can't for the life of me guess; but this I learn, that he is most excessively sick of his situation, and is returning to Wooton, as soon as, I suppose, he can well get there. He has been all the time at an inn in that town. Pray, was the place you mentioned to me in that county, any where near Spalding? I own to you, I was quite moved to read his mournful epistle. I am quite confirmed in my opinion of him: this last from him, is entirely different in style, from any I ever yet received. I have in my answer, desired he would write to some friend of his in town, to authorize him to receive his majesty's bounty, as it becomes due. I have told him that his agent must apply, and show his letter to Mr. Lounds of the Treasury. Poor Rousseau writes of nothing but his misery, illness, afflictions; in a word, of his being the most unfortunate man that ever existed. Good God! most of those distresses are surely occasioned by his own unhappy temper, which I really believe is not in his power to alter! so, let him be where he will, I fear he is certain to be uneasy. His passion for Botany has, as I conjecture, almost left him. If I am right in my guess, I have no sort of doubt, but he will again take to his pen, as 'tis impossible for his imagination to remain idle. I am, &c.
Davenport, May 25, 1767.
Dear Sir,—'Tis with the greatest satisfaction I hear, this poor unfortunate man will enjoy the pension. I am sure he lies under a thousand obligations to you, and am extremely glad he has wrote to General Conway. I hope he made use of at least some expressions of gratitude and respect to that gentleman, whose goodness of heart obtained this favour from his majesty.
I am sure you'll do your endeavour to save him from the