DEAR DICK, Since the last trouble I gave you, I have met with a variety of incidents, some of them of a singular nature, which I reserve as a fund for conversation; but there are others so interesting, that they will not keep in petto till meeting.
Know then, it was a thousand pounds to a sixpence, that you should now be executing my will, instead of perusing my letter!
Two days ago, our coach was overturned in the midst of a rapid river, where my life was saved with the utmost difficulty, by the courage, activity, and presence of mind of my servant Humphry Clinker -- But this is not the most surprising circumstance of the adventure -- The said Humphry Clinker proves to be Matthew Loyd, natural son of one Matthew Loyd of Glamorgan, if you know any such person -- You see, Doctor, that notwithstanding all your philosophy, it is not without some reason that the Welchmen ascribe such energy to the force of blood -- But we shall discuss this point on some future occasion.
This is not the only discovery which I made in consequence of our disaster -- We happened to be wrecked upon a friendly shore -- The lord of the manor is no other than Charles Dennison, our fellow-rake at Oxford -- We are now happily housed with that gentleman, who has really attained to that pitch of rural felicity, at which I have been aspiring these twenty years in vain. He is blessed with a consort, whose disposition is suited to his own in all respects; tender, generous, and benevolent -- She, moreover, possesses an uncommon share of understanding, fortitude, and discretion, and is admirably qualified to be his companion, confidant, counsellor, and coadjutrix. These excellent persons have an only son, about nineteen years of age, just such a youth as they could have wished that Heaven would bestow to fill up the measure of their enjoyment -- In a word, they know no other allay to their happiness, but their apprehension and anxiety about the life and concerns of this beloved object.
