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._