The loss of his fortune was, of course, a very severe blow to Gay, but as ever, his friends gathered round him.  Instead of being angry with him for his folly—­but no one of his friends was ever angry with him—­they looked upon him, and treated him, just as a spoilt child who had disobediently tried to get over a hedge and had scratched himself in the endeavour.  They put their heads together to find “something” for him.  Gay, of course, was not easy to deal with; it was difficult to make him listen to reason.  He could not be brought to believe that it was not his due to receive something for nothing.  He had been secretary to Lord Clarendon’s brief Mission to Hanover; why had not diplomacy something to offer him?  The Princess of Wales had asked for a copy of a set of his verses; was there no place for him at Court?  He had praised members of the Royal Family in verse; was there somewhere—­somehow—­a sinecure in the Household for him?  It seems that Gay really could not understand the position.  Could not Mrs. Howard do something in his interest?  Could not the friends of Pope do aught to secure that little post?  Or Lord Burlington, or Lord Bathurst, or William Pulteney, or some one of the rest?  He became petulant, and it is a tribute to his charm that not one of these persons was ever disgusted with him, but continued to feed him, keep him, and pet him, and made their friends and their friends’ friends do likewise.  In fact, this delightful, whimsical, helpless creature leant upon all who were stronger, and each one upon whom he leant loved him to his dying day.

Gay’s health, which was never robust, gave way under his bitter disappointment, and in 1721 he went in the early autumn to Bath, where Mrs. Bradshaw wrote to Mrs. Howard, September 19th:  “He is always with the Duchess of Queensberry.”  In the following year he was again ill, and went again to recuperate at the Somersetshire watering place.

JOHN GAY TO DEAN SWIFT.

  London, December 22nd, 1722.

“After every post-day, for these eight or nine years, I have been troubled with an uneasiness of spirit, and at last I have resolved to get rid of it and write to you.  I do not deserve you should think so well of me as I really deserve, for I have not professed to you that I love you as much as ever I did; but you are the only person of my acquaintance, almost, that does not know it.  Whomever I see that comes from Ireland, the first question I ask is after your health ...  I think of you very often; nobody wishes you better, or longs more to see you ...  I was there [at Bath] for near eleven weeks for a colic that I have been troubled with of late; but have not found all the benefit I expected ...  I lodge at present at Burlington House, and have received many civilities from many great men, but very few real benefits.  They wonder at each other for not providing for me, and I wonder at them all.  Experience has given me some knowledge of them, so that I can say, that it is not in their power to disappoint me."[4]