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.
LETTER XXXVI.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Darcey bears the joyful surprise beyond imagination:—it has brought him from death to life.—
Hear in what manner I proceeded;—You may suppose the hurry in which I left Dover:—I took no leave of my friend;—his humane apothecary promis'd not to quit him in my absence:—I gave orders when his Lordship enquir'd for me, that he should be told particular business of my own had call'd me to town express.—It happen'd very convenient that I left him in a profound sleep.