Chapter CLVIII: Letter CLVI: To J---- S----, Esq

Charles Street, Nov. 17, 1780.

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.