I must write a few lines before my departure, though indeed I scarcely know what to say. Nearly a fortnight has now elapsed since the first melancholy tidings, without my having received the slightest subsequent accounts of your health and situation. Your own silence announces too forcibly how much you are involved in your own feelings; and I can but too easily conceive that a letter to me would be more painful than to an indifferent person. But that amiable man, Count Lally, might surely have written a second time; but your sister, who is probably with you; but Maria, alas! poor Maria! I am left in a state of darkness to the workings of my own fancy, which imagines every thing that is sad and shocking. What can I think of for your relief and comfort? I will not expatiate on those common-place topics, which have never dryed a single tear; but let me advise, let me urge, you to force yourself into business, as I would try to force myself into study. The mind must not be idle; if it be not exercised on external objects, it will prey on its own vitals.
A thousand little arrangements, which must precede a long Journey, have postponed my departure three or four days beyond the term which I had first appointed; but all is now in order, and I set off to-morrow, the ninth instant, with my Valet de Chambre, a courier on horseback, and Severy, with his servant, as far as Frankfort. I calculate my arrival at Sheffield-place (how I dread and desire to see that mansion!) for the first week in June, soon after this letter; but I will try to send you some later intelligence. I never found myself stronger, or in better health. The German road is now cleared, both of enemies and allies, and though I must expect fatigue, I have not any apprehensions of danger. It is scarcely possible that you should meet me at Frankfort, but I shall be much disappointed at not finding a line at Brussels or Ostend. Adieu. If there be any invisible guardians, may they watch over you and yours! Adieu.*
621*.
To Lady Elisabeth Foster.
Lausanne, May the 4th, 1793.
I know not whether you are already informed of the sudden death of poor Lady Sheffield after four days' illness; but I am sure that your feeling affectionate mind will not be surprized to hear that I set out for England next week, and that in a journey undertaken at the call of friendship all the dragons of the way have already vanished. I go by Basle, Frankfort, Cologne, Brussels, and Ostend, and I flatter myself that the success of our allied arms will contribute every week to open my passage; it is even possible, though scarcely probable, that I may embark from the English town of Calais. Your answer to my last letter is doubtless on the road and will follow me: but you must write immediately to Sheffield place, and I promise you a speedy and sincere account of our afflicted friend. I wish to hear of your motions and projects; I now sigh for your return to England, and shall be most bitterly disappointed if I have not the pleasure of seeing you in that happy island, yourself and the most amiable of Dutchesses before the end of the autumn: I cannot look with confidence beyond that period.
My friend and your Chevalier[314] will guard me as far as Cologne or Frankfort; his tender attachment to his mother who is still very melancholy will recall him from thence to Lausanne; but in the course of next winter he has thoughts of visiting England. The circumstances of the times which impoverish every one, have persuaded him to listen to my advice of conducting on his travels some English pupill of fashion and fortune. Such a pupill will be fortunate in finding a real Gentleman, and I trust that the Dutchess and yourself will exert your omnipotence in providing some connection equally honourable and advantageous for my friend, and your sincere Votary. Adieu. Excuse brevity and address a Classic prayer in my behalf before some statue of Mercury the God of travellers.