All this
time, while the gout was constantly torturing him, he drank Madeira
freely. There is frequent question of a pipe of that sweet wine in his
correspondence with Lord Sheffield. He cannot bear the thought of
being without a sufficient supply, as "good Madeira is now become
essential to his health and reputation." The last three years of his
residence at Lausanne were agitated by perpetual anxiety and dread of
an invasion of French democratic principles, or even of French troops.
Reluctance to quit "his paradise" keeps him still, but he is always
wondering how soon he will have to fly, and often regrets that he has
not done so already. "For my part," he writes, "till Geneva falls, I
do not think of a retreat; but at all events I am provided with two
strong horses and a hundred louis in gold." Fate was hard on the
kindly epicurean, who after his long toil had made his bed in the sun,
on which he was preparing to lie down in genial content till the end
came. But he feels he must not think of rest; and that, heavy as he
is, and irksome to him as it is to move, he must before long be a
rover again.
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