Sir,—Not having received any message from your Majesty, and not having seen my father or friends these eighteen months, and not being immediately wanted in London on account of my commission, I have presumed to leave town; but am ready at a moment's notice, and the signification of your Majesty's pleasure, to be again in London with all possible expedition.
This I shall give myself to the Hanoverian Envoy, and request him to give me a line to Bristol, the instant he receives any message respecting me from his Majesty, as, if wanted, I will, and shall hold myself in readiness, to return to town without delay. This conduct will, I think, obviate any censure or disapproval.
My stay, as I said yesterday, won't, I believe, exceed, if it reaches, three weeks, as I expect within that time from my quitting London, answers to my letters to Hamburgh and Zell, which will require my return to town. I may even have letters sooner, so important as to keep me here, or necessitate me, if at Bristol, to return directly; but I think I shall have none sent; though, truly, I can't say. It depends on the course of events in Denmark and Germany.
I think the king won't see me first or last, as envoy from the queen and nobility; but I hope, that is, I half hope, that he'll, notwithstanding, pay some sort of attention to her Majesty's recommendation of me, and somehow or other, perhaps serve me, or employ me, or reward me—but yet I doubt much even of that. If my fortune depended on the queen's goodness and gratitude (for I have served her, and will with my life, if she bid me), my life upon it, she would not leave me unprovided for. But she can do nothing. Even if she should be restored, yet 'tis the king of England must employ me. I neither could nor would profit by the Danish Majesty's service. But we must leave all that to time. I expect nothing, nothing at all; but I may have great things done for me. The latter won't give me one moment's pain, the former not an hour's exultation. I have told you I am in omnia paratus. Death or a ribbon are to me the same.
No. 11.
JERMYN STREET, May 19, 1775.
Imagine, my dear father, the shock I have received on hearing this moment, on my arrival here, that the Queen of Denmark is dead. I am wrapt in horror, sorrow, and consternation. I went to St. James's Coffee House, where Lord Hertford confirmed to me the sad news. A purple fever carried her off. The courier arrived yesterday, late at night. His Majesty is said to be much hurt by this so unexpected a blow. No doubt remains of its unhappy authenticity. As to me, indeed, I feel as I ought, the loss I sustain by her Majesty's death. I was even attached to her, and interest conspires in the nobler emotions to make me weep at the funeral of so young, so amiable, so unhappy a queen. What will be the consequences to me I can't say exactly. That she should die at this critical time, at the very moment, when she would, no doubt, have recommended me so strongly to the king, is one of those events which may overcome a temper more steady and uniform than mine.
No wonder now that I have no answer to the long letter which I addressed to her three or four weeks ago, and which she graciously assured me at my departure from Zell, she would certainly answer. My head sinks for a moment under this very unexpected stroke; but it is really sorrow, more than the mean consideration of self loss, that bend it down. True, I have lost my patroness, my royal mistress; but, I have a hundred times told you, that no accidents of fortune can permanently stagger me. I am prepared to live or die; to be prosperous, or to stem the tide of adversity—yet, I confess it lies heavy at my heart. I must have done.
To-morrow I'll write more, be assured. Don't you be hurt, my dear father at this news! Fear not for me. I can't be depressed. His Majesty may yet patronise me; nay, I fear not that he will do it. My spirit is unbroken, and ten times defeated I shall rally, and conquer in the end.