BLACKHEATH, August 29, 1758.
MY DEAR FRIEND: Your secretary’s last letter brought me the good news
that the fever had left you, and I will believe that it has: but a
postscript to it, of only two lines, under your own hand, would have
convinced me more effectually of your recovery. An intermitting fever, in
the intervals of the paroxysms, would surely have allowed you to have
written a few lines with your own hand, to tell me how you were; and till
I receive a letter (as short as you please) from you yourself, I shall
doubt of the exact truth of any other accounts.
I send you no news, because I have none; Cape Breton, Cherbourg, etc.,
are now old stories; we expect a new one soon from Commodore Howe, but
from whence we know not. From Germany we hope for good news: I confess I
do not, I only wish it. The King of Prussia is marched to fight the
Russians, and I believe will beat them, if they stand; but what then?
What shall he do next, with the three hundred and fourscore thousand men
now actually at work upon him? He will do all that man can do, but at
last ‘il faut succomber’.
Remember to think yourself less well than you are, in order to be quite
so; be very regular, rather longer than you need; and then there will be
no danger of a relapse. God bless you.