LETTERCLVII.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, knowwhat 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 goodMrs. 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.