London, December 4th, 1775.
Dear Madam,
AT WORK ON HIS HISTORY.
I am still alive, and in spite of the influenza perfectly well. But why have you not at least written one line in so very long a space of time? All that I can say on the subject is to declare with the utmost sincerity that not a single morning has arisen without my forming the resolution to write before the evening, and that not a single evening post-bell has rang without sounding the alarm to my conscience. In the mean time, days, hours and weeks have imperceptibly rolled away: a perpetual hurry and long days of Parliamentary business, the whole world coming to town at once, and a great deal of occupation at home relative to my History, which will come out some time after Christmas. In a word, I do not like to write to you, but I want very much to see you. Have you totally forgot your promise of making me a visit in town? I can lodge you, &c., without the smallest inconveniency, and I am sure that after getting the better of so formidable an enemy as you have done, nothing would be so likely to give the last polish as a change of air, of situation and of company. Be so kind as to send me an answer and not a compliment, on this subject.
Mrs. Porten is still well and young. Her sister-in-law has got and lost a child. The former wishes to be remembered to you. You see the honour which Mr. Eliot[316] has acquired. I am amazed how he condescended to accept of it. The Member of St. Germans might lurk in the country, but the knight of Cornwall must attend the House of Commons.—I salute from a distance all Bath friends: and particularly the Colonel,[317] Mrs. G[ould], Fanny, Birds, dogs, &c., &c.
I am, Dear Madam,
Ever yours,
E. Gibbon.
270.
To his Stepmother.
December 24th, 1775.