1 November 1784 – 7 November 1784

This day has brought ine another sweet letter from my Susy. What a set of broken-fortuned, broken-charactered people of fashion are about you at Boulogne. The accounts are at once curious and melancholy to me. Nothing can be more truly pleasant than our present lives. I bury all disquietudes in immediate enjoyment; an enjoyment more fitted to my secret mind than any I had ever hoped to attain. We are so perfectly tranquil, that not a particle of our whole frames seems ruffled or discomposed., Mr. Locke is gayer and more sportive than I ever have seen him; his Freddy seems made up of happiness; and the two dear little girls are in spirits almost ecstatic; and all from that internal contentment which Norbury Park seems to have gathered from all corners of the world into its own sphere. Our mornings, if fine, are to ourselves, as Mr. Locke rides out; if bad, we assemble in the picture room. We have two books in public reading: Madame de Sevigne's “Letters,” and Cook's last “Voyage.” Mrs. Locke reads the French, myself the English. Our conversations, too, are such as I could almost wish to last for ever. Mr. Locke has been all himself,—all instruction, information, and intelligence,—since we have been left alone; and the invariable sweetness, as well as judgment, of all he says, leaves, indeed, nothing to wish. They will not let me go while I can stay, and I am now most willing to stay till I must go. The serenity of a life like this, smoothes the whole internal surface of the mind. My own I assure you, begins to feel quite glossy. To see Mrs. Locke so entirely restored to total health, and to see her adoring husband lose all his torturing Solicitude, while he retains his Unparalleled tenderness-these are sights to anticipate a taste of paradise, if paradise has any felicity consonant to our now ideas.