*R. Way's letter gave me that sort of satisfaction which one may receive from a good Physician, who, after a careful examination, pronounces your case incurable. But no more of that—I take up the pen, as I suppose by this time you begin to swear at my silence. Yet litterally (a bull) I have not a word to say. Since D'Estaing's fleet has passed through the Gut (I leave you to guess where it must have got out there) it has been totally forgot, and the most wonderful lethargy and oblivion, of war and peace, of Europe and of America, seems to prevail. Lord C[hatham]'s funeral was meanly attended,[404] and Government ingeniously contrived to secure the double odium of suffering the thing to be done, and of doing it with an ill grace. The chief conversation at Almack's is about tents, drill-Serjeants, subdivisions, firings, &c. and I am revered as an old Veteran. Adieu. When do you return? If it suits your evolutions, aunt Kitty and myself meditate a Sussex journey next week. I embrace Mylady.*
349.
To his Stepmother.
London, June the 12th, 1778.
Dear Madam,
Inclosed I send you what you desire. Believe me I have not forgotten, how much, in every sense of the word, I feel myself indebted to you. I wish that all of us in publick and private affairs had a less melancholy prospect before us; but courage and Philosophy must assist us. Letters (I do not mean Epistles) are in every state of life an amusement, a comfort or a resource.
The Holroyds are still in Yorkshire, I expect them in about ten days; and have some thoughts with Mrs. Porten of making them a visit next month. I carry down a good deal of lumber, and shall work reasonably hard.
I am, Dear Madam,
Ever yours,
E. G.