o St. Germain's to get him Linen; I
bought him one Shirt and a Cravat, which with 500 Livres, his whole
Stock, he and his Duchess, attended by one Servant, set out for Spain.
All the News I have heard of them since is that a Day or two after, he
sent for Captain Brierly, and two or three of his Domesticks, to follow
him; but none but the Captain obey'd the Summons. Where they are now, I
can't tell, but fear they must be in great Distress by this Time, if he
has no other Supplies; and so ends my Melancholy Story.

'I am, &c.'

Still his good-humour did not desert him; he joked about their poverty
on the road, and wrote an amusing account of their journey to a friend,
winding up with the well-known lines:--

'Be kind to my remains, and oh! defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend.'

His mind was as vigorous as ever, in spite of the waste of many
debauches; and when recommended to make a new translation of
'Telemachus;' he actually devoted one whole day to the work; the next he
forgot all about it. In the same manner he began a play on the story of
Mary Queen of Scots, and Lady M. W. Montagu wrote an epilogue for it,
but the piece never got beyond a few scenes. His genius, perhaps, was
not for either poetry or the drama. His mind was a keen, clear one,
better suited to argument and to grapple tough polemic subjects. Had he
but been a sober man, he might have been a fair, if not a great writer.
The 'True Briton,' with many faults of license, shows what his
capabilities were. His absence of moral sense may be guessed from his
poem on the preaching of Atterbury, in which is a parallel almost
blasphemous.

At length he reached Bilboa and his regiment, and had to live on the
meagre pay of eighteen pistoles a month. The Duke of Ormond, then an
exile, took pity on his wife, and supported her for a time: she
afterwards rejoined her mother at Madrid.

Meanwhile, the year 1730 brought about a salutary change in the duke's
morals. His health was fast giving way from the effects of divers
excesses; and there is nothing like bad health for purging a bad soul.
The end of a misspent life was fast drawing near, and he could only keep
it up by broth with eggs beaten up in it. He lost the use of his limbs,
but not of his gaiety. In the mountains of Catalonia he met with a
mineral spring which did him some good; so much, in fact, that he was
able to rejoin his regiment for a time. A fresh attack sent him back t