April 1st, 1798.—Ld. Edward Fitzgerald is not apprehended; Pamela[200] writes to his mother that she is tranquil about him, knowing that he is au gré des vents et des flots.[201] The report in town now is that they do not wish to take him, as they cannot prove anything against him, but I would not, were I he, trust to such vague assertions. It was believed he was in London; a Mr. Sheldon (a Catholic) fancied he saw him in Lancaster Fields [sic], and with a zeal becoming the fanatical politics of the day immediately went to Burlington H. to apprise the noble spy, for in fact his Grace’s department[202] is now but a bad imitation of that once headed in Paris by the active and celebrated Le Noir. Of all the truly contemptible public characters in England among the many, surely his Grace of Portland stands the foremost; his friends even dare not say a word in his behalf.
In the last month the D. of Bedford brought in his motion for the removal of Ministers.
THE HAPPINESS OF HEALTH
Oh God! chance, nature, or whatever thou art, receive the grateful thanks and prayers that flow from my heart in acknowledgment for the health I now enjoy; a full week have I been free from suffering or alarm. What are the gifts of fortune in comparison to the enjoyment of health! Grant that it may continue, and that I may, whilst life lasts, feel no other anguish than what is incidental to the gradual decay of mortality. Let it be gradual, for I am too happy to bear with equanimity the thought of being torn from the felicity of a life replete with every blessing human nature is capable of relishing. Formerly in the bitterness of sorrow I prayed for death; I looked to it as a relief to a broken spirit, and when I viewed its approach with indifference I imputed to philosophy that resignation and contempt, which despair alone had caused. Now I am a coward indeed; a spasm terrifies me, and every memento of the fragile tenure of my bliss strikes a panic through my frame. Oh! my beloved friend, how hast thou by becoming mine endeared the every-day occurrences of life! I shrink from nothing but the dread of leaving or of losing thee, but alas! the day must come:—
La Mort a des rigueurs à nulle autre pareilles;
On a beau la prier.
La cruelle qu’elle est se bouche les oreilles
Et nous laisse crier.
Le pauvre en sa cabane, où le chaume le couvre,
Est sujet à ses lois;