LONDON,October 29,7766.
MY DEAR FRIEND:The last mail brought me your letter of the 17th.I am glad to hear that your breast is so much better.You will find both asses'and mares'milk enough in the south of France,where it was much drank when I was there.Guy Patin recommends to a patient to have no doctor but a horse,and no apothecary but an ass.As for your pains and weakness in your limbs,'je vous en offre autant';I have never been free from them since my last rheumatism.I use my legs as much as I can,and you should do so too,for disuse makes them worse.I cannot now use them long at a time,because of the weakness of old age;but I contrive to get,by different snatches,at least two hours'walking every day,either in my garden or within doors,as the weather permits.I set out to-morrow for Bath,in hopes of half repairs,for Medea's kettle could not give me whole ones;the timbers of my wretched vessel are too much decayed to be fitted out again for use.I shall see poor Harte there,who,I am told,is in a miserable way,between some real and some imaginary distempers.
I send you no political news,for one reason,among others,which is that I know none.Great expectations are raised of this session,which meets the 11th of next month;but of what kind nobody knows,and consequently everybody conjectures variously.Lord Chatham comes to town to-morrow from Bath,where he has been to refit himself for the winter campaign;he has hitherto but an indifferent set of aides-decamp;and where he will find better,I do not know.Charles Townshend and he are already upon ill terms.'Enfin je n'y vois goutte';and so God bless you!
