May 15, 1901.
Many thanks for the additional copy of your lecture, “Agriculture in South Africa.” It is so interesting, I am sure I can find a home where it will be welcome. I was glad to find you were out in the country, and I hope the bracing air will enable you to work on this load of papers without killing yourself.
For myself, I really am afraid that, excepting hope, I have a very indifferent account to give you. I was always getting better off and on! But the result was, that I got weaker and weaker, until on Saturday Dr. Lipscomb wired for Sir Dyce Duckworth. He was away, but my nephew, Dr. J. Arderne Ormerod, who is taking Sir D. D.’s practice at present, came down, and I think the change of treatment that they arranged is really doing good. The trouble was that, though there did not seem any reason why, what they call the “after effects” of influenza should not move off (the sort of gastric catarrh and its detestable allies), yet they didn’t, and my medical tormentors made up their minds that it might be from “Liver.” The plan has been altered as to treatment, and at my urgent request I am allowed to take one glass of port a day, and I do think it is doing me a great deal of good. But excuse more now, for sitting up at my writing-table tires me.
May 22, 1901.
I am very sorry to tell you in reply to your kind letter that I am very ailing. I seem to get fairly well of the influenza, and go down and sit for a few hours in the dining-room in the easy chair by the fire. Then, as sure as can be, in a very few days I get a “recurrence” of illness and have to go to bed for days. I think I am now going through about the fifteenth. Dr. Lipscomb says he does not know the reason, but it is very like the recurrence of Indian fever. I know that there may be scentless or other sewer gas, and from what Mr. R—— F—— told me some time ago of the recurrence of a very parallel attack to the Duchess of C—— from gas under her invalid sofa, I mean to have the matter properly seen to. I know there may be reason close to my door.
P.S.—Since the above was written Dr. Lipscomb has been called and thinks the present attack was caused by a chill; and with staying in bed a few days Miss Ormerod hopes to be better.—A. Hartwell.
PLATE XXX.
Miss Ormerod’s Father, about five years old.
From a Miniature of 1790.
(p. [323].)
Miss Ormerod in childhood.
From a Silhouette, date 1835.