owered me.

Owing to a set of painful and uneasy sensations which I have, more or
less, at all times about my chest, from a disease which chiefly affects
my nerves and digestive organs, and which makes my aversion from writing
little less than madness, I deferred writing to you, being at first made
still more uncomfortable by travelling, and loathing to do violence to
myself, in what ought to be an act of pure pleasure and enjoyment, viz.,
the expression of my deep sense of your goodness. This feeling was,
indeed, so strong in me, as to make me look upon the act of writing to
you, not as the work of a moment, but as a business with something
little less than awful in it, a task, a duty, a thing not to be done but
in my best, my purest, and my happiest moments. Many of these I had, but
then I had not my pen and ink (and) my paper before me, my conveniences,
'my appliances and means to boot;' all which, the moment that I thought
of them, seemed to disturb and impair the sanctity of my pleasure. I
contented myself with thinking over my complacent feelings, and
breathing forth solitary gratulations and thanksgivings, which I did in
many a sweet and many a wild place, during my late Tour. In this shape,
procrastination became irresistible to me; at last I said, I will write
at home from my own fire-side, when I shall be at ease and in comfort. I
have now been more than a fortnight at home, but the uneasiness in my
chest has made me beat off the time when the pen was to be taken up. I
do not know from what cause it is, but during the last three years I
have never had a pen in my hand for five minutes, before my whole frame
becomes one bundle of uneasiness; a perspiration starts out all over me,
and my chest is oppressed in a manner which I cannot describe. This is a
sad weakness; for I am sure, though it is chiefly owing to the state of
my body, that by exertion of mind I might in part control it. So,
however, it is; and I mention it, because I am sure when you are made
acquainted with the circumstances, though the extent to which it exists
nobody can well conceive, you will look leniently upon my silence, and
rather pity than blame me; though I must still continue to reproach
myself, as I have done bitterly every day for these last eight weeks.
One thing in particular has given me great uneasiness: it is, least in
the extreme delicacy of your mind, which is well known to me, you for a
moment may have been perplexed by a singl