Chapter CLIX: 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.