SHOWS HOW SLOWLY THE TIME PASSES WHEN THE HEART IS HEAVY
You will notice, I have no doubt, a great sameness in these interesting
letters, and frequent repetitions of the sentiments and facts they
contain. The reason of this, as you will readily understand, was the
fear my lady had that Sir John might not receive them, so that she
felt compelled to inform him of whatever interested them most in every
epistle she penned. It would be easy to curtail them, giving you only
extracts, and so save you the tedium of reading the same things so
often; but in reproducing them as they were writ I feel that I am only
doing justice to my dear lady’s memory, for by this means alone can
you, her descendants, realise the weariness of her life, the flagging
of her hopefulness, the constant burden that weighed on her mind during
those long, monotonous weeks. Her spirits, as you will see, varied, as
a woman’s are apt to do with her varying moods. Some days she would
be full of cheerfulness, saying that an end to all our troubles must
soon be coming, and busying herself with her affairs as if her beloved
husband were returning to Alva the very next week; at other times she
would be heavy and sad, moving about the house in silence, and only
by a great effort making answer to those who conversed with her. The
news of Sir John’s safety and freedom did indeed lift a weight from her
heart, and for some days she even laughed and sang as she made herself
busy in her usual way; but this lightness could not long be maintained,
and the prospect of seeing her husband grew more and more uncertain.
Our fears for the good old Colonel and his son, still prisoners in the
Fleet, were now allayed as nothing could be found against them, and
there seemed to be every hope that after a time they would be released.
Mr. Patrick Campbell, our kind and constant friend, had means of seeing
them frequently, and kept my lady informed of their welfare.
The news of the escape of the brave old Brigadier Mackintosh and
several of his friends from Newgate, which reached us some time in
May, was hailed with triumph, not unmixed with amusement, when we
learned that this sturdy veteran had knocked down his gaoler with his
fists; and after disarming the sentinel, they opened the gates and let
themselves out into the streets, afterwards escaping (save one or two
who were unluckily recaptured) to France. Some weeks later occurred the
escape of Colonel Walkinshaw of Barafield from the Castle of Stirling,
which we learned enraged the Earl of Rothes very much. But these things
are matters of history, you will say, and enter not into our story.
And all this time it may be asked where was Sir John and how was he
faring?
Excellently well, if we may believe the hints given us in the few
extracts of letters from him which I have seen, and the scraps of news
about him, confided to me at the time by my lady, and entered in my
little day-book.
You will see that his faithful wife believes that he is living
quietly and privately, with no thought of further entangling himself
in the King’s affairs; but she constantly urges him to leave the
neighbourhood of his Majesty and the Earl of Mar, in order to prove
to the authorities at home that he truly repents him of his misdeeds,
and is therefore a fit subject for the clemency of King George. And
all the time if we had but known it, Sir John was busily engaged in
furthering his master’s interests by every means in his power, although
I am certain he did not contemplate bringing disaster upon his wife and
family.
In the beginning of April, he, accompanied by his brother-in-law, left
Paris by water-coach for a town called Auxerre, which was finally
reached in a covered cart. From there, as it was quite out of the way
of diligences or even ordinary post-road, they hired horses to ride
to Beaune, a small village in a wine-growing district from which was
obtained the excellent _vin de Pomar_, or _Beaune_, which is still
famed among the wines of Burgundy. In one of his letters Sir John tells
my lady how he drinks her health daily, though abstemiously, in this
cheap and pleasant beverage; he also gives an amusing account of Mr.
Paterson’s difficulties with the French language, the latter being
almost a stranger to its use.
After about three weeks in this place, Sir John, upon the King’s
summoning him, repaired to Avignon where his Majesty held his meagre
court, and from then onwards through the summer his time seems to have
been occupied with political affairs. This, as you are aware, he kept
from my lady’s knowledge, but rumours reached her from time to time
through other sources, which greatly disturbed her and kept her in a
state of constant anxiety.
“What,” she said to me once, “is the use of all our endeavours to
obtain Sir John’s pardon, and prevent his being attainted, if he
continues to mix himself up in the affairs of the poor King? I cannot
see that one man’s help, or the want of it, can make much difference
at the present juncture; and I am convinced that if my husband were
free to confide his private affairs to his Majesty, he would be told to
consider his family interests rather than continue any longer in this
employment.”
“Perhaps the story of Sir John’s being sent to Spain is false,” said I,
to comfort her.
“Oh, ’tis very like!” she answered, “people must always be talking.
But it shows us, Barbara, what I have ever felt, the strong difference
between men and women. Were my dear life to express the lightest wish
regarding my conduct, would I not hasten to do it, no matter how cross
it might be to my inclination? But not all my pleadings, I fear, will
have any effect on Sir John to make him alter his present way of
living.”
“Ah, madam!” I cried, eager as ever for my guardian’s justification,
“’tis a hard thing to be torn by divided duties, especially when
affection bears a part in each. But I do fervently believe our
good Sir John will decide to give up the King, if this is the only
alternative, rather than bring you and your children to misery.”
“Would to God he would hesitate no longer!” she cried. “He may make up
his mind too late, and end by falling between two stools, as the saying
is.”
“There is still,” she went on after a while, “the hope of help from his
brother, Robin, who is very great with his master. I think ’twould be
easy for him to move the Czar to ask for Sir John’s pardon; but this,
as you know, would not alter the inclination of the Parliament if they
were determined to have him attainted, and my fear is, that believing
him still a servant of King James, they may hasten to do it. I pray God
to have us all in his keeping, and order everything for our good; but
my heart at times is very heavy, Barbara, and the waiting is long.”
It was about this time that the little boys fell ill with the
chincough, or whooping-cough, and though at first it seemed they were
both to get pretty easy off, the trouble increased, and little Hal
especially was brought very low. Fortunately the weather was mild and
almost summer-like, though but the beginning of May, so that there was
every chance for the children in that particular, and with Phemie’s
care and skill to depend on, my lady did not allow herself to be unduly
agitated about them. Still she was an anxious and tender parent, and
the sight of her youngest child, with white face and heavy eyes,
oppressed and spent after a fit of the cough, caused her many a pang, I
trow, for to have anything serious happen to her precious little sons
in the absence of their father, would have well-nigh broken her heart.
Early in this month Betty was obliged to go back to Dysart, intending
as she said to return very shortly, but this, as events turned out, she
was unable to do. Old Lady Alva was still with us, as kind and pleasant
a dame as it would be possible to find. Her cheerful, placid spirit was
of the greatest benefit to her daughter at this time, and though she
interfered in nothing that was being done, she was ever ready to give
her help and advice when asked.
As for Barbara, she had been made happy by receiving a letter from her
friend, Mr. Fleming, who was safely arrived in France, and was now
staying with some good friends of his father’s in Paris. He had great
hopes, he said, of getting his pardon, through his parent’s friends
in the Government, and was already contemplating falling in with his
father’s suggestion that he should get him employment in the service of
the East India Company. As this would entail his leaving Britain and
living in a distant land for the most part of his life, he thought it
proper to advertise me of his prospects, and get my mind on the matter.
Glad and relieved as I was to know him safe and well, this news, as
you can imagine, threw me into some agitation, for it implied the
readjustment and arranging of my whole life, and my woman’s heart
trembled at the notion. There is surely nothing in life so wonderful
nor so beautiful, if we regard it rightly, as the simple trust
displayed by a young maid in giving up herself to the sole care of the
man she loves, forsaking all other to cleave to him, leaving friends
and home and childhood’s scenes to accompany him to any corner of the
globe, the future all unknown, alone, but for him, in the whole world.
And yet I suppose that ever since Rebecca, trusting only to hearsay,
came willingly to Isaac, it has been the way of women, and ordered by
God; and men too often, I fear, regard it as a natural proceeding, and
the faith that it implies no more than their due.
However that may be, I did not feel it would be right to attempt to
dissuade Mr. Fleming from falling in with his father’s wishes; for
nothing was nearer to my heart, as you may guess, than the desire to
stand well in the eyes of my Anthony’s parents, so that they might find
nothing of which to disapprove in their dear son’s choice. He begged
my permission and that of Lady Erskine, to make them acquainted with
our mutual love, so that, upon his obtaining his pardon, our betrothal
might at once be made public.
To this, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine (who was again at
Alva), gave her consent, but added that in the event of Mr. Fleming’s
going to the Indies, she must beg, for the sake of my youth, that he
should not insist upon my accompanying him. In three or four years’
time, she said, I would be of age, and being older, more fit to hold my
own against the extremities of the Eastern climate; Mr. Fleming also
would be accustomed to the country, and more fit to make me comfortable
in my new life when I went out to him.
I cannot say that Barbara, young, impulsive and not too patient, at
once agreed to her kind friend’s proposals. Indeed it took some days of
consideration and counsel to bring her to reason, and some nights of
sleepless anxiety and not a few tears, before she could bring herself
to face the prospect with equanimity. The sorrow of parting, the long
absence from each other, the distance that would separate us, and the
dangers and risks of the long voyage--all these combined to make a
burden that was not easy to carry. But of this I said very little in
my reply to my lover, knowing that his own heart would understand it
too well. I only stipulated very strongly that I should see him once
more, and talk over everything with himself, before his departure from
Britain.
And so with hopes and fears the days were intermingled, and the summer
was at hand, and the trees were growing green, but there was no word
yet of Sir John’s coming home.
LETTER X
I think it very hard I can never hear my Dearest Life has got any
of my letters, tho’ this is the seventh I have writ, and in every
one desired you to draw a bill for 100 pounds. Your not doeing it
makes me conclude you have never got one, and since you left Paris
I have never heard from you at all. I must own my hearing from you
so seldom is a great uneasiness and occasions me many fears, tho’
I must own I should trust to the kind providence of God who has
hitherto wonderfully preserved you. All things as to the settling the
affairs of this unhappy country are still undetermined, and our own
countrymen cannot agree about it, which is our misfortune. What will
be the issue God knows, but we are not without fears of hard usage,
nor altogether without hop that in time they may relent and use us
more Christianly.
I hear of our friends att London frequently. I am hopful they are in
no danger as to their lives, and it’s generally talkt there will not
be much more blood taken. In the meantime I am living very easyily at
home managing as formerly, but have enough to do to keep all right,
and have great difficulty in getting up the rents, tho’ care must be
taken to pay the annual rents and prevent diligencies being done. I
am very lucky in two friends which take much of the burden off me,
and all is done that can be in the present circumstances. I am easy
in everything in comparison to the anxious care and concern I have
about your person, and the different thoughts you will have upon not
hearing what state I am in.
Your boys has had the chincoch but are better. The season here has
been extraordinary, for since the breaking of the storm there has
not been an ill day; the fields are much frequented by me, and how
to manage my ground to the best advantage is much my study. I shall
not fail to observe as much as possible all you have done in both
places....
Some of your friends are so unjust (as) to blame me for your going
out, and the reason they give for it is I should have acquainted the
Government with your design. But since I am innocent and never did
anything but what was my duty with regard to you, I must let them be
saying and bear that with other things. I cannot frame a notion to
myself what state we will be in, but in the general I have no fears
of want, and I am sure nobody will lose by you. These things I have
good ground to believe, let things come to the worst; but the longer
things are of being settled the longer I shall be deprived of the
happyness of seeing you, for my being here is absolutely necessare
till we see the utmost and procure something by help of friends for
me and my children if they do go to the Height of Rigour.
I have no other work in hand without doors but plowing, this two
months past, for some impertinent folks was like to be uneasy, and
P. C. is at London who has several schemes in vein; whether any will
succeed at this present juncture I cannot guess, but Providence will
preserve you and all your concerns, I hop, in spite of all your
enemies. All your friends here are well, some blaming you and others
pitying you, but all your near relations will do for you what lyes
in their power. Your sister Ca. has a son call’d after her father;
I am going to see her this week. I am very impatient to hear from
you. The three letters you writ before you left Paris came safe to my
hand, but I have had none since. My health is pretty good considering
how many difficult things I have to disturb me, but if you be
preserved I hop to get over all other difficulties in time.
As to the clans they are all coming in and giving up their arms.
There is none of your neighbourhood given up themselves.
Betty salutes you, and I am Dear, Soul, in all sincerity, May 1st.
Yours.
LETTER XI
It is but three day since I wrote to my Dearest Life, but haveing
had the pleasure of one from you last night of 15 of Ap., new stile,
by another hand, I am resolved to lett no opportunity slip, hoping
that some one of my letters may come to your hand. This is the
eighth I have writ, and tho’ by your last you tell me you had not
heard from me, I am hopful they are not all mis-carryed, but by your
leaving Paris they are longer a-coming to your hand. It is no small
satisfaction to me that you are well and at freedom, and the thoughts
of it support me under every other difficulty. Tho’ I must own the
common misfortune has been so greivous that I cannot express it,
and then every particular person that I ever knew or heard of makes
deep impression upon me, so that I was not capable of having a right
thought. But after some time I found I could not live after that way,
and made myself incapable to serve you. I resolv’d to imploy myself
in doing in your affairs what was fit in the present juncture, and as
the old saying is, indeavour to make the best of an ill bargain. But
I have been many days without speaking, except when business obligt
me to it.
I told you in my last our friends att London are well, and we are
not afraid of their lives being in danger. What will come of all the
misfortunate people God knows, but many have foolishily given up
themselves and Glengary among the rest, who is now at Perth. It’s
talkt they are all to be tryed. I am still at home managing after
the old manner but with many difficultys, being perfectly a stranger
to your debts, and every frikish body arresting the rents, and one
difficulty no sooner off but another occurs; but I doubt not to get
over all these, and in time, which it’s probable I will have now, if
the Parlyment rise soon as it’s expected, without any more bills of
attainder, to get this year’s rent. Your farms are plowed and the
last of the Barley sow’d this day. I may ask you when you was so soon
done. There has been no other work without doors for two months past,
because upon many reasons it was inconvenient. I have planted trees
here, and if things go tolerably easy I intend to plant both here and
in the other place in the latter season. I tell you all this that you
may not think I despair of your having peaceable possession of your
own, tho’ I cannot yet see by what means. We hear of an interview of
many crown’d heads, and some people think your pardon may be easily
obtained by your Brother, the Dr., and his master’s means, but if
ever you obtain it that way, your abode must be in another place. Ch.
has some thoughts of going over to see his Brother, and wold appoint
you to meet him if ye could do it with safety. I must own if it be
practicable for your friends to obtain a pardon, you should accept of
it, however cross it may be to your own inclination. Consider your
children and me, and prevent the utter ruin of your family. And I
daresay neither Kid nor Mill will think it wrong for you, since you
cannot serve them in your present circumstances, to doe what is so
material for your interest.
Your boys have been very ill of the chincoch but are better. I hope
they will get over it very soon.... I expect to see Ch. soon here.
P. C. is at London, and your sister, Nell, is gone to the Bath. All
your friends are well. The uncertainty of my letters coming to your
hand makes me say less than I incline. Pray draw for money when you
please, but it seems you are in no want, for you never mention it.
Wishing you, my Life, all manner of happyness, I am in all sincerity
_May 4th._ Yours.
LETTER XII.
I received one from my Dearest Life of the 17 Ap. which was most
acceptable. I am sorry you should be in such pain and uneasyness by
your not hearing from me, and I should never forgive myself if I had
occasioned it by my neglect, but I assure myself you will not think
me capable of omitting anything than can contribute to your quiet.
This is the tenth letter I have writ and all different hands, in
hops some wold be so lucky (as) to come your length. I have had the
pleasure of getting all yours, which I reckon no small mercy. I have
told you in all my letters to be easy about me and your children;
wee have what is necessare for us, and I have good ground to think
will always have; let things come to the worst we will have enough
and what we ought to be content with, in so general a calamity. My
greatest suffering is being absent from you; but when I think upon
the danger and imprisonment of many others, some of (them) my good
friends, I dare not complain. I must own your being at freedom and
out of the hands of your enemies, has supported me under the many
difficultys, and if you are well and easy in your mind, I shall
endeavour to submit chearfully to whatever God in his providence
shall order; and very often the fears of what may happen is greater
than the suffering itself, as I doubt not is the case with the
most part of the distrest people at this time. The delay and the
uncertainty occasions the most dreadful apprehensions their fancy can
suggest. Tho’ at other times I was too ready to put the dark side of
the cloud to my view, yet I think it’s impossible things can long
continue in so violent a way. I doe very much regret the suffering of
Kid and your freind, and of all the rest in generall; but God in his
wise providence has ordered it, and his visible hand in disappointing
all our hops should make us wait his time with patience, and
indeavour to make the best use of so great afflictions, which is most
justly sent us as a punishment for our many faults and abuses of many
mercys; and if this thought would make us live better lives, it’s
very probable our time of suffering might be shortened.
I am still at home managing after the old manner, have labour’d both
your farms, and getting in rents, tho’ with great difficulty. There
is nothing omitted that can be done for your interest, and I am very
lucky in two freinds who do all for me that’s in their power.
You are not yet attainted, and I hop will not be this session of
Parlyment; but I am afraid if you continue in that place where you
are now it will make them more violent, and tho’ your being in
another place will not be so agreeable to you, yet I persuade myself
you will cross your own inclination since you can do your friends no
service, and may ruin your family. I doe not let anybody know where
you are because I have some hop, with the help of Dr. Robin, your
brother, and his master, to get your pardon, that you may be allowed
to come home and live quietly. I believe the first thoughts of this
kind will be very disagreeable to you; but consider mee and your
children and every particular circumstance, and then I am sure you
must be of my mind. This is the opinion of those friends that did not
condemn your going out, and have your interest as much at heart as
their own. I wold not wish you to doe a mean or dishonorable thing,
and I am sure were it fit to be free with Kid and Mill in every
particular they wold desire you to accept, if ever that pardon could
be obtained by your freinds. Pray, write freely to me your opinion in
this particular, for I have greater fears you will not accept than
that itt will not be obtain’d, and if you are positive against itt I
will never attempt itt. I heard from London you was gone a message to
Spain, but they must always be talking.
I am doeing no work without doors just now. All our plowing is over
some weeks agoe, and our work is all laid aside except such as is in
and about the House. I have planted trees this season, and design to
plant them in the latter season.
Your children are just such as you wold wish them, very good-humor’d.
I am getting one to teach them. They have both the chincoch, but I
hop the worst is over. My friend, Bess, has left me. Your mother is
here just now; she is very concern’d about you, but has no such fears
for the family as I have seen her have for a trifle.
I cannot yet have any vein how or what way I am to doe; but if once
things were settled, if you doe not get home, I will certainly come
to you and bring my young folks with me, which will not doe so well
as that I mention in the other side. In the meantime, hope the best,
take good care of yourself, and let me hear frequently from you.
I writ in all my letters to make your factor draw for money on his
correspondent at Edinr. for your use. I hop I shall have to supply
you what you have use for. As to your servants, they have all been
here since you left the country, and Andrew came safe, so you need
not be uneasy. As to your debts of all kinds, due care is taken that
no body lose by you, and nobody can lose a grott. I wish everybody
had the same mitigations of their sufferings that I have; but the
hearing of the necessities of others, and not being in a condition to
help them, touches me very sensibly, which makes me wish I could be
far from hearing itt. Wishing you all manner of happyness, I am, my
Dearest, in all sincerity, Yours.
May 14.
LETTER XIII
I received yours of the 26th of Ap., which my Dearest Life may
imagine was most acceptable to know you had once got some of my
letters, and that you was easy in your mind upon that score, which
you have all the reason in the world to be. You was much to blame
that (you) did not mention money in any of your former letters,
because if I had known the maner of sending money, you had got it
long ere now. Having some money att London, I have ordered your
Bill of 50 pounds that you have drawn to be pay’d there, and shall
write to my freind there to remitt the other 50 after the best and
cheapest manner. For all the money I could raise here out of your
estate, and otherways by the help of friends, will not satisfy uneasy
Debtors for annual rents and principal sums to prevent diligences
being done, and itt is done in such maner that the money laid out
that way will stand good upon the worst event that can happen. But if
you will please to let me know what sum you incline to have soon, it
shall be had as far as either your freinds or my credit can goe. In
a little time we hop to have your affairs put in a clear way, which,
so soon as it is done, you shall know, and shall be dispos’d of by
your order, or as you think most proper. Ch. A(reskine) is here just
now, and is thinking and laying out himself on every way that seems
most for your interest; and it’s his opinion, and it seems to him
the only way to make your affairs easy, to abstract yourself from
your freinds for some time, by which means you may scape the fury and
rage of the folks in present power; for you’ll not doubt but they
have good intelligence who are with, or makes their abode with----.
Nor is it impossible in a little time you may be at more freedom,
with less harm to your family, not being yet attainted, which gives
us a Breathing to put things in a better way. Your remaining at a
certain place will no doubt hasten a sentence which will put us out
of all capacity of medling with anything that belongs to you, but by
indirect and not so successful methods. So as you regard your own
interest and my quiet I expect your complyance in this matter; and if
it were not absolute necessity, you may be assured I wold not ask you
to cross your own inclination in anything, and much less in taking
you from company that must be agreeable to you in a strange country.
If you have got the rest of my letters you will know that Mr. Nabit
does not imploy old W. or any of his profession at present, because
it was likely to prove uneasy.... It is yet impossible to tell what
money Mr. Nabit will be worth; his reputation among the common sort
is so high that nobody credits it.... Your youngest boy is brought
very low with the chincoch which fears me, but I hope with tender
care ... he will get the better of it, for ye know I am easily
alarm’d. Nothing shall be wanting, and I hope in God the children
shall be preserved while they are under my care, and will give us
all a happy meeting which is the thing in the world I most earnestly
wish.... Your mother is here. She writ you some time agoe, and till
she knows that is come to your hand she will not write again. I am
pretty much imploy’d, which keeps me from thinking so much as my
temper and present state does incline me ... I heard from London last
Post. There can be no evidence got against our two friends that is in
the Fleet, which is no small mercy. Bess is at home, but will return
here. Be sure to write freely your mind as it comes in your head of
anything you would have done, and you will always find those two
friends I formerly mentioned and myself devoted to serve you in every
respect.
I am, Dr. Life, in all sincerity
Yours.
May 20.
LETTER XIV
It is three weeks now since I heard from my Dearest Life and I begin
to be very impatient. I expect to hear from you every fortnight, and
when I doe not I am apt to fancy you are either gone some message, or
are not well, for all your friends in the Government has had you gone
to Sweden; and if I had not heard from your self I should have been
too ready to believe it. Your friend P. C. writ to me from London. He
was not a little uneasy he had not heard from you, by which I reckon
he has writ to you. I writ three posts ago to desire him to remit the
other 50 pound I mentioned in my last, and did incline to send more,
but as I told you at this term all had enough to doe. But I doubt not
in a little time to have more money at London for the effects are
gone from this, and it will be cheaper to send it from thence; and P.
C. being to stay there for a long time, when you think fit write to
him and he will be sure to answer you, for I doubt not he has let you
know how to direct him.
I have hitherto been pretty lucky in my little affairs, and in a
little time we will give you a good account of them, if they let me
alone from Bills of Attainder. I wold be glad to know your opinion
whether it’s proper for your Brother R. to cause his master interpose
with the present powers now when they are to have an interview,
or in what manner he should doe it; whether to ask a gift of your
Life-Rent, and a little article put in to secure all to yourself,
tho’ you did not come home for some time, for I fear you wold not
incline; but whether you do or not you will live the better (if) your
estate be secured. I am sure so far you will be of my mind, and if
this Act of Parlyment pass and you be attainted, no body can be sure
of anything; and it excluded the payment of all debts since the 24 of
June last, so that both for your own sake and others, if so fair an
opportunity offer it should not be neglected, and if it be agreeable
to you, and you signify your opinion to Charles, he will go over to
Holland on purpose. This I have often heard him say. I have writ to
you on this subject before, so, as soon as you can, let me have your
opinion.
Your nephew, James Haldane, is to be resident at that court where
your Brother R. is so great. Your mother is still here, and tho’ we
are of very different sentiments, we live in good friendship and
easy. Your boys are now perfectly recovered, which is no small mercy
to me, and if my Dearest is well and easy in his mind, I have more
than I deserve. Our friends are still in the Fleet, and there can be
no evidence got against them.
I must confess when I walk abroad and remember all your different
projects, and how pleased I have been to find you in some of these
walks, I cannot help being uneasy till I think you are at liberty
and well, and luckyer as to other circumstances than the most part
of people, then I blame myself for unthankfulness. Your old freind
Barafeild made his escape out of the Castle of Stirlin last week,
which enrag’d the new Governor very much. I shall be obligt to see my
father this week; but I cannot persuade myself to visit these great
folks, tho’ it certainly is fit for me to keep in with all, and they
profess great friendship for me and regret for your family, tho’ none
for yourself. I can at some times be a politician, so at present I
think interest will prevail with me to keep in with all.... Be so
kind to write frequently, for it’s impossible to express my anxiety
about you. Dearest Life, I am ever
June 4. 1716. Yours.
I am healthyer than you or anybody could expect.