*When you awakened me with your pen, it was my intention to have
shown some signs of life by the next post. But so uncertain are all
human affairs, that I found myself arrested by a mighty unrelenting
Tyrant, called the Gout; and though my feet were the part on which
he chose to exercise his cruelty, he left me neither strength nor
spirits to use my hand in relating the melancholy tale. At present I
have the pleasure of informing you, that the feaver and inflammation
have subsided; but the absolute weakness and monstrous swelling of my
two feet confine me to my chair and flannels; and this confinement
most unluckily happens at a very _nice_ and important moment of
Parliamentary affairs. Col. Holroyd pursues those affairs with eager
and persevering zeal; and has the pleasure of undertaking more
business than any three men could possibly execute.* He is much
obliged to you for your kind congratulation. Mrs. Eliot is in town;
but I am quite ignorant (not more so than they are themselves) of
their intentions. I will write again very soon.
I am, Dear Madam,
Most truly yours,
E. GIBBON.
388.
_To his Stepmother._
Bentinck Street, ½ hour past nine,
Saturday Evening, March, '80.