518.
To Lord Sheffield.
Saturday, Dec. 1, 1787.
I resume the pen for a few moments, and with some difficulty, to say that I am not insensible of the complaints, exclamations, projects, &c., of the natives of Sheffield. Your daily missives have been uncomfortable, but when things are at the worst they begin to mend, and I flatter myself that the gouty tide is now ebbing. Last night (with some foreign aid) was the best I have known, and this day my pain is rather less severe. *What may be the future progress, whether slow or rapid, fluctuating or steady, time alone will determine, and to that master of human knowledge I must leave our Bath journey.*—Adieu. Lord Guilford is neither dead nor has been ill.—The D[uchess] of G[ordon] is in treaty for a house in Piccadilly.—The public voice is harmony and applause. Remember me to Severy. Perhaps next week.
I hear this moment from my landlady, Mrs. Crauford, the Gordon milliner, that the Dutchess has absolutely taken the house, and is removing without delay from Downing Street. Huzza.