518. To Lord Sheffield.

Saturday, Dec. 1, 1787.

I resume the pen for a few moments, and with some difficulty, to say that I am not insensible of the complaints, exclamations, projects, &c., of the natives of Sheffield. Your daily missives have been uncomfortable, but when things are at the worst they begin to mend, and I flatter myself that the gouty tide is now ebbing. Last night (with some foreign aid) was the best I have known, and this day my pain is rather less severe. What may be the future progress, whether slow or rapid, fluctuating or steady, time alone will determine, and to that master of human knowledge I must leave our Bath journey.—Adieu. Lord Guilford is neither dead nor has been ill.—The D[uchess] of G[ordon] is in treaty for a house in Piccadilly.—The public voice is harmony and applause. Remember me to Severy. Perhaps next week.

I hear this moment from my landlady, Mrs. Crauford, the Gordon milliner, that the Dutchess has absolutely taken the house, and is removing without delay from Downing Street. Huzza.