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The Journal to Stella

by Jonathan Swift · English · Gutenberg #4208 · 1,304,892 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Journal to Stella

Author: Jonathan Swift

Editor: George Atherton Aitken


        
Release date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4208]
                Most recently updated: April 25, 2015

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4208

Credits: This eBook was produced by Les Bowler


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOURNAL TO STELLA ***


This eBook was produced by Les Bowler.





                                   THE
                            JOURNAL TO STELLA


                                    BY
                              JONATHAN SWIFT

                 EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY
                             GEORGE A. AITKEN

                                * * * * *

                              METHUEN & CO.
                           36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
                                  LONDON
                                   1901




PREFACE


THE history of the publication of the _Journal to Stella_ is somewhat
curious.  On Swift’s death twenty-five of the letters, forming the
closing portion of the series, fell into the hands of Dr. Lyon, a
clergyman who had been in charge of Swift for some years.  The letters
passed to a man named Wilkes, who sold them for publication.  They
accordingly appeared in 1766 in the tenth volume of Dr. Hawkesworth’s
quarto edition of Swift’s works; but the editor made many changes in the
text, including a suppression of most of the “little language.”  The
publishers, however, fortunately for us, were public-spirited enough to
give the manuscripts (with one exception) to the British Museum, where,
after many years, they were examined by John Forster, who printed in his
unfinished _Life of Swift_ numerous passages from the originals, showing
the manner in which the text had been tampered with by Hawkesworth.
Swift himself, too, in his later years, obliterated many words and
sentences in the letters, and Forster was able to restore not a few of
these omissions.  His zeal, however, sometimes led him to make guesses at
words which are quite undecipherable.  Besides Forster’s work, I have had
the benefit of the careful collation made by Mr. Ryland for his edition
of 1897.  Where these authorities differ I have usually found myself in
agreement with Mr. Ryland, but I have felt justified in accepting some of
Forster’s readings which were rejected by him as uncertain; and the
examination of the manuscripts has enabled me to make some additions and
corrections of my own.  Swift’s writing is extremely small, and abounds
in abbreviations.  The difficulty of arriving at the true reading is
therefore considerable, apart from the erasures.

The remainder of the _Journal_, consisting of the first forty letters,
was published in 1768 by Deane Swift, Dr. Swift’s second cousin.  These
letters had been given to Mrs. Whiteway in 1788, and by her to her
son-in-law, Deane Swift.  The originals have been lost, with the
exception of the first, which, by some accident, is in the British
Museum; but it is evident that Deane Swift took even greater liberties
with the text than Hawkesworth.  He substituted for “Ppt” the word
“Stella,” a name which Swift seems not to have used until some years
later; he adopted the name “Presto” for Swift, and in other ways tried to
give a greater literary finish to the letters.  The whole of the
correspondence was first brought together, under the title of the
_Journal to Stella_, in Sheridan’s edition of 1784.

Previous editions of the _Journal_ have been but slightly annotated.
Swift’s letters abound with allusions to people of all classes with whom
he came in contact in London, and to others known to Esther Johnson in
Ireland; and a large proportion of these persons have been passed over in
discreet silence by Sir Walter Scott and others.  The task of the
annotator has, of course, been made easier of late years by the
publication of contemporary journals and letters, and of useful works of
reference dealing with Parliament, the Army, the Church, the Civil
Service, and the like, besides the invaluable _Dictionary of National
Biography_.  I have also been assisted by a collection of MS. notes
kindly placed at my disposal by Mr. Thomas Seccombe.  I have aimed at
brevity and relevance, but it is hoped that the reader will find all the
information that is necessary.  Here and there a name has baffled
research, but I have been able to give definite particulars of a very
large number of people—noblemen and ladies in society in London or
Dublin, Members of Parliament, doctors, clergymen, Government officials,
and others who have hitherto been but names to the reader of the
_Journal_.  Where there is no reference at the foot of the page, the note
upon any person alluded to can readily be found by consulting the Index.
I have corrected a good many errors in the older notes, but in dealing
with so large a number of persons, some of whom it is difficult to
identify, I cannot hope that I myself have escaped pitfalls.

                                                                  G. A. A.




INTRODUCTION


WHEN Swift began to write the letters known as the _Journal to Stella_,
he was forty-two years of age, and Esther Johnson twenty-nine.  Perhaps
the most useful introduction to the correspondence will be a brief
setting forth of what is known of their friendship from Stella’s
childhood, the more specially as the question has been obscured by many
assertions and theories resting on a very slender basis of fact.

Jonathan Swift, born in 1667 after his father’s death, was educated by
his uncle Godwin, and after a not very successful career at Trinity
College, Dublin, went to stay with his mother, Abigail Erick, at
Leicester.  Mrs. Swift feared that her son would fall in love with a girl
named Betty Jones, but, as Swift told a friend, he had had experience
enough “not to think of marriage till I settle my fortune in the world,
which I am sure will not be in some years; and even then, I am so hard to
please that I suppose I shall put it off to the other world.”  Soon
afterwards an opening for Swift presented itself.  Sir William Temple,
now living in retirement at Moor Park, near Farnham, had been, like his
father, Master of the Irish Rolls, and had thus become acquainted with
Swift’s uncle Godwin.  Moreover, Lady Temple was related to Mrs. Swift,
as Lord Orrery tells us.  Thanks to these facts, the application to Sir
William Temple was successful, and Swift went to live at Moor Park before
the end of 1689.  There he read to Temple, wrote for him, and kept his
accounts, and growing into confidence with his employer, “was often
trusted with matters of great importance.”  The story—afterwards improved
upon by Lord Macaulay—that Swift received only £20 and his board, and was
not allowed to sit at table with his master, is wholly untrustworthy.
Within three years of their first intercourse, Temple had introduced his
secretary to William the Third, and sent him to London to urge the King
to consent to a bill for triennial Parliaments.

When Swift took up his residence at Moor Park he found there a little
girl of eight, daughter of a merchant named Edward Johnson, who had died
young.  Swift says that Esther Johnson was born on March 18, 1681; in the
parish register of Richmond, {0a} which shows that she was baptized on
March 20, 1680–81, her name is given as Hester; but she signed her will
“Esther,” the name by which she was always known.  Swift says, “Her
father was a younger brother of a good family in Nottinghamshire, her
mother of a lower degree; and indeed she had little to boast in her
birth.”  Mrs. Johnson had two children, Esther and Ann, and lived at Moor
Park as companion to Lady Giffard, Temple’s widowed sister.  Another
member of the household, afterwards to be Esther’s constant companion,
was Rebecca Dingley, a relative of the Temple family. {0b}  She was a
year or two older than Swift.

The lonely young man of twenty-two was both playfellow and teacher of the
delicate child of eight.  How he taught her to write has been charmingly
brought before us in the painting exhibited by Miss Dicksee at the Royal
Academy a few years ago; he advised her what books to read, and
instructed her, as he says, “in the principles of honour and virtue, from
which she never swerved in any one action or moment of her life.”

By 1694 Swift had grown tired of his position, and finding that Temple,
who valued his services, was slow in finding him preferment, he left Moor
Park in order to carry out his resolve to go into the Church.  He was
ordained, and obtained the prebend of Kilroot, near Belfast, where he
carried on a flirtation with a Miss Waring, whom he called Varina.  But
in May 1696 Temple made proposals which induced Swift to return to Moor
Park, where he was employed in preparing Temple’s memoirs and
correspondence for publication, and in supporting the side taken by
Temple in the Letters of Phalaris controversy by writing _The Battle of
the Books_, which was, however, not published until 1704.  On his return
to Temple’s house, Swift found his old playmate grown from a sickly child
into a girl of fifteen, in perfect health.  She came, he says, to be
“looked upon as one of the most beautiful, graceful, and agreeable young
women in London, only a little too fat.  Her hair was blacker than a
raven, and every feature of her face in perfection.”

On his death in January 1699, Temple left a will, {0c} dated 1694,
directing the payment of £20 each, with half a year’s wages, to Bridget
Johnson “and all my other servants”; and leaving a lease of some land in
Monistown, County Wicklow, to Esther Johnson, “servant to my sister
Giffard.”  By a codicil of February 1698, Temple left £100 to “Mr.
Jonathan Swift, now living with me.”  It may be added that by her will of
1722, proved in the following year, Lady Giffard gave £20 to Mrs.
Moss—Mrs. Bridget Johnson, who had married Richard Mose or Moss, Lady
Giffard’s steward.  The will proceeds: “To Mrs. Hester (_sic_) Johnson I
give £10, with the £100 I put into the Exchequer for her life and my own,
and declare the £100 to be hers which I am told is there in my name upon
the survivorship, and for which she has constantly sent over her
certificate and received the interest.  I give her besides my two little
silver candlesticks.”

Temple left in Swift’s hands the task of publishing his posthumous works,
a duty which afterwards led to a quarrel with Lady Giffard and other
members of the family.  Many years later Swift told Lord Palmerston that
he stopped at Moor Park solely for the benefit of Temple’s conversation
and advice, and the opportunity of pursuing his studies.  At Temple’s
death he was “as far to seek as ever.”  In the summer of 1699, however,
he was offered and accepted the post of secretary and chaplain to the
Earl of Berkeley, one of the Lords Justices, but when he reached Ireland
he found that the secretaryship had been given to another.  He soon,
however, obtained the living of Laracor, Agher, and Rathbeggan, and the
prebend of Dunlavin in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin.  The total value
of these preferments was about £230 a year, an income which Miss Waring
seems to have thought enough to justify him in marrying.  Swift’s reply
to the lady whom he had “singled out at first from the rest of women”
could only have been written with the intention of breaking off the
connection, and accordingly we hear no more of poor Varina.

At Laracor, a mile or two from Trim, and twenty miles from Dublin, Swift
ministered to a congregation of about fifteen persons, and had abundant
leisure for cultivating his garden, making a canal (after the Dutch
fashion of Moor Park), planting willows, and rebuilding the vicarage.  As
chaplain to Lord Berkeley, he spent much of his time in Dublin.  He was
on intimate terms with Lady Berkeley and her daughters, one of whom is
best known by her married name of Lady Betty Germaine; and through them
he had access to the fashionable society of Dublin.  When Lord Berkeley
returned to England in April 1701, Swift, after taking his Doctor’s
degree at Dublin, went with him, and soon afterwards published,
anonymously, a political pamphlet, _A Discourse on the Contests and
Dissentions in Athens and Rome_.  When he returned to Ireland in
September he was accompanied by Stella—to give Esther Johnson the name by
which she is best known—and her friend Mrs. Dingley.  Stella’s fortune
was about £1500, and the property Temple had left her was in County
Wicklow.  Swift, very much for his “own satisfaction, who had few friends
or acquaintance in Ireland,” persuaded Stella—now twenty years old—that
living was cheaper there than in England, and that a better return was
obtainable on money.  The ladies took his advice, and made Ireland their
home.  At first they felt themselves strangers in Dublin; “the adventure
looked so like a frolic,” Swift says, “the censure held for some time as
if there were a secret history in such a removal: which however soon blew
off by her excellent conduct.”  Swift took every step that was possible
to avoid scandal.  When he was away, the ladies occupied his rooms; when
he returned, they went into their own lodgings.  When he was absent, they
often stopped at the vicarage at Laracor, but if he were there, they
moved to Trim, where they visited the vicar, Dr. Raymond, or lived in
lodgings in the town or neighbourhood.  Swift was never with Stella
except in the presence of a third person, and in 1726 he said that he had
not seen her in a morning “these dozen years, except once or twice in a
journey.”

During a visit to England in the winter of 1703–4 we find Swift in
correspondence with the Rev. William Tisdall, a Dublin incumbent whom he
had formerly known at Belfast.  Tisdall was on friendly terms with Stella
and Mrs. Dingley, and Swift sent messages to them through him.  “Pray put
them upon reading,” he wrote, “and be always teaching something to Mrs.
Johnson, because she is good at comprehending, remembering and
retaining.”  But the correspondence soon took a different turn.  Tisdall
paid his addresses to Stella, and charged Swift with opposing his suit.
Tisdall’s letters are missing, but Swift’s reply of April 20, 1704, puts
things sufficiently clearly.  “My conjecture is,” he says, “that you
think I obstructed your inclinations to please my own, and that my
intentions were the same with yours.  In answer to all which I will, upon
my conscience and honour, tell you the naked truth.  First, I think I
have said to you before that, if my fortunes and humour served me to
think of that state, I should certainly, among all persons upon earth,
make your choice; because I never saw that person whose conversation I
entirely valued but hers; this was the utmost I ever gave way to.  And
secondly, I must assure you sincerely that this regard of mine never once
entered into my head to be an impediment to you.”  He had thought Tisdall
not rich enough to marry; “but the objection of your fortune being
removed, I declare I have no other; nor shall any consideration of my own
misfortune, in losing so good a friend and companion as her, prevail on
me, against her interest and settlement in the world, since it is held so
necessary and convenient a thing for ladies to marry, and that time takes
off from the lustre of virgins in all other eyes but mine.  I appeal to
my letters to herself whether I was your friend or not in the whole
concern, though the part I designed to act in it was purely passive.”  He
had even thought “it could not be decently broken,” without disadvantage
to the lady’s credit, since he supposed it was known to the town; and he
had always spoken of her in a manner far from discouraging.  Though he
knew many ladies of rank, he had “nowhere met with an humour, a wit, or
conversation so agreeable, a better portion of good sense, or a truer
judgment of men or things.”  He envied Tisdall his prudence and temper,
and love of peace and settlement, “the reverse of which has been the
great uneasiness of my life, and is likely to continue so.”

This letter has been quoted at some length because of its great
importance.  It is obviously capable of various interpretations, and
some, like Dr. Johnson, have concluded that Swift was resolved to keep
Stella in his power, and therefore prevented an advantageous match by
making unreasonable demands.  I cannot see any ground for this
interpretation, though it is probable that Tisdall’s appearance as a
suitor was sufficiently annoying.  There is no evidence that Stella
viewed Tisdall’s proposal with any favour, unless it can be held to be
furnished by Swift’s belief that the town thought—rightly or wrongly—that
there was an engagement.  In any case, there could be no mistake in
future with regard to Swift’s attitude towards Stella.  She was dearer to
him than anyone else, and his feeling for her would not change, but for
marriage he had neither fortune nor humour.  Tisdall consoled himself by
marrying another lady two years afterwards; and though for a long time
Swift entertained for him feelings of dislike, in later life their
relations improved, and Tisdall was one of the witnesses to Swift’s will.

The _Tale of a Tub_ was published in 1704, and Swift was soon in constant
intercourse with Addison and the other wits.  While he was in England in
1705, Stella and Mrs. Dingley made a short visit to London.  This and a
similar visit in 1708 are the only occasions on which Stella is known to
have left Ireland after taking up her residence in that country.  Swift’s
influence over women was always very striking.  Most of the toasts of the
day were his friends, and he insisted that any lady of wit and quality
who desired his acquaintance should make the first advances.  This, he
says—writing in 1730—had been an established rule for over twenty years.
In 1708 a dispute on this question with one toast, Mrs. Long, was
referred for settlement to Ginckel Vanhomrigh, the son of the house where
it was proposed that the meeting should take place; and by the
decision—which was in Swift’s favour—“Mrs. Vanhomrigh and her fair
daughter Hessy” were forbidden to aid Mrs. Long in her disobedience for
the future.  This is the first that we hear of Hester or Esther
Vanhomrigh, who was afterwards to play so marked a part in the story of
Swift’s life.  Born on February 14, 1690, she was now eighteen.  Her
father, Bartholomew Vanhomrigh, a Dublin merchant of Dutch origin, had
died in 1703, leaving his wife a fortune of some sixteen thousand pounds.
On the income from this money Mrs. Vanhomrigh, with her two daughters,
Hester and Mary, were able to mix in fashionable society in London.
Swift was introduced to them by Sir Andrew Fountaine early in 1708, but
evidently Stella did not make their acquaintance, nor indeed hear much,
if anything, of them until the time of the _Journal_.

Swift’s visit to London in 1707–9 had for its object the obtaining for
the Irish Church of the surrender by the Crown of the First-Fruits and
Twentieths, which brought in about £2500 a year.  Nothing came of Swift’s
interviews with the Whig statesmen, and after many disappointments he
returned to Laracor (June 1709), and conversed with none but Stella and
her card-playing friends, and Addison, now secretary to Lord Wharton.
{0d}  Next year came the fall of the Whigs, and a request to Swift from
the Irish bishops that he would renew the application for the
First-Fruits, in the hope that there would be greater success with the
Tories.  Swift reached London in September 1710, and began the series of
letters, giving details of the events of each day, which now form the
_Journal to Stella_.  “I will write something every day to MD,” he says,
“and make it a sort of journal; and when it is full I will send it,
whether MD writes or no; and so that will be pretty; and I shall always
be in conversation with MD, and MD with Presto.”  It is interesting to
note that by way of caution these letters were usually addressed to Mrs.
Dingley, and not to Stella.

The story of Swift’s growing intimacy with the Tory leaders, of the
success of his mission, of the increasing coolness towards older
acquaintances, and of his services to the Government, can best be read in
the _Journal_ itself.  In the meantime the intimacy with the Vanhomrighs
grew rapidly.  They were near neighbours of Swift’s, and in a few weeks
after his arrival in town we find frequent allusions to the dinners at
their house (where he kept his best gown and periwig), sometimes with the
explanation that he went there “out of mere listlessness,” or because it
was wet, or because another engagement had broken down.  Only thrice does
he mention the “eldest daughter”: once on her birthday; once on the
occasion of a trick played him, when he received a message that she was
suddenly very ill (“I rattled off the daughter”); and once to state that
she was come of age, and was going to Ireland to look after her fortune.
There is evidence that “Miss Essy,” or Vanessa, to give her the name by
which she will always be known, was in correspondence with Swift in July
1710—while he was still in Ireland—and in the spring of 1711; {0e} and
early in 1711 Stella seems to have expressed surprise at Swift’s intimacy
with the family, for in February he replied, “You say they are of no
consequence; why, they keep as good female company as I do male; I see
all the drabs of quality at this end of the town with them.”  In the
autumn Swift seems to have thought that Vanessa was keeping company with
a certain Hatton, but Mrs. Long—possibly meaning to give him a warning
hint—remarked that if this were so “she is not the girl I took her for;
but to me she seems melancholy.”

In 1712 occasional letters took the place of the daily journal to “MD,”
but there is no change in the affectionate style in which Swift wrote.
In the spring he had a long illness, which affected him, indeed,
throughout the year.  Other reasons which he gives for the falling off in
his correspondence are his numerous business engagements, and the hope of
being able to send some good news of an appointment for himself.  There
is only one letter to Stella between July 19 and September 15, and Dr.
Birkbeck Hill argues that the poem “Cadenus and Vanessa” was composed at
that time. {0f}  If this be so, it must have been altered next year,
because it was not until 1713 that Swift was made a Dean.  Writing on
April 19, 1726, Swift said that the poem “was written at Windsor near
fourteen years ago, and dated: it was a task performed on a frolic among
some ladies, and she it was addressed to died some time ago in Dublin,
and on her death the copy shewn by her executor.”  Several copies were in
circulation, and he was indifferent what was done with it; it was “only a
cavalier business,” and if those who would not give allowances were
malicious, it was only what he had long expected.

From this letter it would appear that this remarkable poem was written in
the summer of 1712; whereas the title-page of the pamphlet says it was
“written at Windsor, 1713.”  Swift visited Windsor in both years, but he
had more leisure in 1712, and we know that Vanessa was also at Windsor in
that year.  In that year, too, he was forty-four, the age mentioned in
the poem.  Neither Swift nor Vanessa forgot this intercourse: years
afterwards Swift wrote to her, “Go over the scenes of Windsor. . . .  Cad
thinks often of these”; and again, “Remember the indisposition at
Windsor.”  We know that this poem was revised in 1719, when in all
probability Swift added the lines to which most exception can be taken.
Cadenus was to be Vanessa’s instructor:—

    “His conduct might have made him styled
    A father, and the nymph his child.”

He had “grown old in politics and wit,” and “in every scene had kept his
heart,” so that he now “understood not what was love.”  But he had
written much, and Vanessa admired his wit.  Cadenus found that her
thoughts wandered—

    “Though she seemed to listen more
    To all he spoke than e’er before.”

When she confessed her love, he was filled with “shame, disappointment,
guilt, surprise.”  He had aimed only at cultivating the mind, and had
hardly known whether she was young or old.  But he was flattered, and
though he could not give her love, he offered her friendship, “with
gratitude, respect, esteem.”  Vanessa took him at his word, and said she
would now be tutor, though he was not apt to learn:—

    “But what success Vanessa met
    Is to the world a secret yet.
    Whether the nymph to please her swain
    Talks in a high romantic strain;
    Or whether he at last descends
    To act with less seraphic ends;
    Or, to compound the business, whether
    They temper love and books together,
    Must never to mankind be told,
    Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold.”

Such is the poem as we now have it, written, it must be remembered, for
Vanessa’s private perusal.  It is to be regretted, for her own sake, that
she did not destroy it.

Swift received the reward of his services to the Government—the Deanery
of St. Patrick’s, Dublin—in April 1713.  Disappointed at what he regarded
as exile, he left London in June.  Vanessa immediately began to send him
letters which brought home to him the extent of her passion; and she
hinted at jealousy in the words, “If you are very happy, it is
ill-natured of you not to tell me so, except ’tis what is inconsistent
with my own.”  In his reply Swift dwelt upon the dreariness of his
surroundings at Laracor, and reminded her that he had said he would
endeavour to forget everything in England, and would write as seldom as
he could.

Swift was back again in the political strife in London in September,
taking Oxford’s part in the quarrel between that statesman and
Bolingbroke.  On the fall of the Tories at the death of Queen Anne, he
saw that all was over, and retired to Ireland, not to return again for
twelve years.  In the meantime the intimacy with Vanessa had been
renewed.  Her mother had died, leaving debts, and she pressed Swift for
advice in the management of her affairs.  When she suggested coming to
Ireland, where she had property, he told her that if she took this step
he would “see her very seldom.”  However, she took up her abode at
Celbridge, only a few miles from Dublin.  Swift gave her many cautions,
out of “the perfect esteem and friendship” he felt for her, but he often
visited her.  She was dissatisfied, however, begging him to speak kindly,
and at least to counterfeit his former indulgent friendship.  “What can
be wrong,” she wrote, “in seeing and advising an unhappy young woman?
You cannot but know that your frowns make my life unsupportable.”
Sometimes he treated the matter lightly; sometimes he showed annoyance;
sometimes he assured her of his esteem and love, but urged her not to
make herself or him “unhappy by imaginations.”  He was uniformly
unsuccessful in stopping Vanessa’s importunity.  He endeavoured, she
said, by severities to force her from him; she knew she was the cause of
uneasy reflections to him; but nothing would lessen her “inexpressible
passion.”

Unfortunately he failed—partly no doubt from mistaken considerations of
kindness, partly because he shrank from losing her affection—to take
effective steps to put an end to Vanessa’s hopes.  It would have been
better if he had unhesitatingly made it clear to her that he could not
return her passion, and that if she could not be satisfied with
friendship the intimacy must cease.  To quote Sir Henry Craik, “The
friendship had begun in literary guidance: it was strengthened by
flattery: it lived on a cold and almost stern repression, fed by
confidences as to literary schemes, and by occasional literary
compliments: but it never came to have a real hold over Swift’s heart.”

With 1716 we come to the alleged marriage with Stella.  In 1752, seven
years after Swift’s death, Lord Orrery, in his _Remarks_ on Swift, said
that Stella was “the concealed, but undoubted, wife of Dr. Swift. . . .
If my informations are right, she was married to Dr. Swift in the year
1716, by Dr. Ashe, then Bishop of Clogher.”  Ten years earlier, in 1742,
in a letter to Deane Swift which I have not seen quoted before, Orrery
spoke of the advantage of a wife to a man in his declining years; “nor
had the Dean felt a blow, or wanted a companion, had he been married, or,
in other words, had Stella lived.”  What this means is not at all clear.
In 1754, Dr. Delany, an old friend of Swift’s, wrote, in comment upon
Orrery’s _Remarks_, “Your account of his marriage is, I am satisfied,
true.”  In 1789, George Monck Berkeley, in his _Literary Relics_, said
that Swift and Stella were married by Dr. Ashe, “who himself related the
circumstances to Bishop Berkeley, by whose relict the story was
communicated to me.”  Dr. Ashe cannot have told Bishop Berkeley by word
of mouth, because Ashe died in 1717, the year after the supposed
marriage, and Berkeley was then still abroad.  But Berkeley was at the
time tutor to Ashe’s son, and may therefore have been informed by letter,
though it is difficult to believe that Ashe would write about such a
secret so soon after the event.  Thomas Sheridan, on information received
from his father, Dr. Sheridan, Swift’s friend, accepted the story of the
marriage in his book (1784), adding particulars which are of very
doubtful authenticity; and Johnson, in his _Lives of the Poets_, says
that Dr. Madden told him that Stella had related her “melancholy story”
to Dr. Sheridan before her death.  On the other hand, Dr. Lyon, Swift’s
attendant in his later years, disbelieved the story of the marriage,
which was, he said, “founded only on hearsay”; and Mrs. Dingley “laughed
at it as an idle tale,” founded on suspicion.

Sir Henry Craik is satisfied with the evidence for the marriage.  Mr.
Leslie Stephen is of opinion that it is inconclusive, and Forster could
find no evidence that is at all reasonably sufficient; while Mr. Stanley
Lane-Poole, Mr. Churton Collins, and others are strongly of opinion that
no such marriage ever took place.  A full discussion of the evidence
would involve the consideration of the reliability of the witnesses, and
the probability of their having authentic information, and would be out
of place here.  My own opinion is that the evidence for the marriage is
very far from convincing, and this view seems to be confirmed by all that
we know from his own letters of Swift’s relations with Stella.  It has
been suggested that she was pained by reports of Swift’s intercourse with
Vanessa, and felt that his feelings towards herself were growing colder;
but this is surmise, and no satisfactory explanation has been given to
account for a form of marriage being gone through after so many years of
the closest friendship.  There is no reason to suppose that there was at
the time any gossip in circulation about Stella, and if her reputation
was in question, a marriage of which the secret was carefully kept would
obviously be of no benefit to her.  Moreover, we are told that there was
no change in their mode of life; if they were married, what reason could
there be for keeping it a secret, or for denying themselves the closer
relationship of marriage?  The only possible benefit to Stella was that
Swift would be prevented marrying anyone else.  It is impossible, of
course, to disprove a marriage which we are told was secretly performed,
without banns or licence or witnesses; but we may reasonably require
strong evidence for so startling a step.  If we reject the tale, the
story of Swift’s connection with Stella is at least intelligible; while
the acceptance of this marriage introduces many puzzling circumstances,
and makes it necessary to believe that during the remainder of Stella’s
life Swift repeatedly spoke of his wife as a friend, and of himself as
one who had never married. {0g}  What right have we to put aside Swift’s
plain and repeated statements?  Moreover, his attitude towards Vanessa
for the remaining years of her life becomes much more culpable if we are
to believe that he had given Stella the claim of a wife upon him. {0h}

From 1719 onwards we have a series of poems to Stella, written chiefly in
celebration of her birthday.  She was now thirty-eight (Swift says,
“Thirty-four—we shan’t dispute a year or more”), and the verses abound in
laughing allusions to her advancing years and wasting form.  Hers was “an
angel’s face a little cracked,” but all men would crowd to her door when
she was fourscore.  His verses to her had always been

    “Without one word of Cupid’s darts,
    Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
    With friendship and esteem possessed,
    I ne’er admitted Love a guest.”

Her only fault was that she could not bear the lightest touch of blame.
Her wit and sense, her loving care in illness—to which he owed that fact
that he was alive to say it—made her the “best pattern of true friends.”
She replied, in lines written on Swift’s birthday in 1721, that she was
his pupil and humble friend.  He had trained her judgment and refined her
fancy and taste:—

    “You taught how I might youth prolong
    By knowing what was right and wrong;
    How from my heart to bring supplies
    Of lustre to my fading eyes;
    How soon a beauteous mind repairs
    The loss of changed or falling hairs;
    How wit and virtue from within
    Send out a smoothness o’er the skin
    Your lectures could my fancy fix,
    And I can please at thirty-six.”

In 1723 Vanessa is said to have written to Stella or to Swift—there are
discrepancies in the versions given by Sheridan and Lord Orrery, both of
whom are unreliable—asking whether the report that they were married was
true.  Swift, we are told, rode to Celbridge, threw down Vanessa’s letter
in a great rage, and left without speaking a word. {0i}  Vanessa, whose
health had been failing for some time, died shortly afterwards, having
cancelled a will in Swift’s favour.  She left “Cadenus and Vanessa” for
publication, and when someone said that she must have been a remarkable
woman to inspire such a poem, Stella replied that it was well known that
the Dean could write finely upon a broomstick.

Soon after this tragedy Swift became engrossed in the Irish agitation
which led to the publication of the _Drapier’s Letters_, and in 1726 he
paid a long-deferred visit to London, taking with him the manuscript of
_Gulliver’s Travels_.  While in England he was harassed by bad news of
Stella, who had been in continued ill-health for some years.  His letters
to friends in Dublin show how greatly he suffered.  To the Rev. John
Worrall he wrote, in a letter which he begged him to burn, “What you tell
me of Mrs. Johnson I have long expected with great oppression and
heaviness of heart.  We have been perfect friends these thirty-five
years.  Upon my advice they both came to Ireland, and have been ever
since my constant companions; and the remainder of my life will be a very
melancholy scene, when one of them is gone, whom I most esteemed, upon
the score of every good quality that can possibly recommend a human
creature.”  He would not for the world be present at her death: “I should
be a trouble to her, and a torment to myself.”  If Stella came to Dublin,
he begged that she might be lodged in some airy, healthy part, and not in
the Deanery, where too it would be improper for her to die.  “There is
not a greater folly,” he thinks, “than to contract too great and intimate
a friendship, which must always leave the survivor miserable.”  To Dr.
Stopford he wrote in similar terms of the “younger of the two” “oldest
and dearest friends I have in the world.”  “This was a person of my own
rearing and instructing from childhood, who excelled in every good
quality that can possibly accomplish a human creature. . . .  I know not
what I am saying; but believe me that violent friendship is much more
lasting and as much engaging as violent love.”  To Dr. Sheridan he said,
“I look upon this to be the greatest event that can ever happen to me;
but all my preparation will not suffice to make me bear it like a
philosopher nor altogether like a Christian.  There hath been the most
intimate friendship between us from our childhood, and the greatest merit
on her side that ever was in one human creature towards another.” {0j}
Pope alludes in a letter to Sheridan to the illness of Swift’s
“particular friend,” but with the exception of another reference by Pope,
and of a curiously flippant remark by Bolingbroke, the subject is nowhere
mentioned in Swift’s correspondence with his literary and fashionable
friends in London.

Swift crossed to Ireland in August, fearing the worst; but Stella
rallied, and in the spring of 1727 he returned to London.  In August,
however, there came alarming news, when Swift was himself suffering from
giddiness and deafness.  To Dr. Sheridan he wrote that the last act of
life was always a tragedy at best: “it is a bitter aggravation to have
one’s best friend go before one.”  Life was indifferent to him; if he
recovered from his disorder it would only be to feel the loss of “that
person for whose sake only life was worth preserving.  I brought both
those friends over that we might be happy together as long as God should
please; the knot is broken, and the remaining person you know has ill
answered the end; and the other, who is now to be lost, is all that was
valuable.”  To Worrall he again wrote (in Latin) that Stella ought not to
be lodged at the Deanery; he had enemies who would place a bad
interpretation upon it if she died there.

Swift left London for Dublin in September; he was detained some days at
Holyhead by stress of weather, and in the private journal which he kept
during that time he speaks of the suspense he was in about his “dearest
friend.” {0k}  In December Stella made a will—signed “Esther Johnson,
spinster”—disposing of her property in the manner Swift had suggested.
Her allusions to Swift are incompatible with any such feeling of
resentment as is suggested by Sheridan.  She died on January 28, 1728.
Swift could not bear to be present, but on the night of her death he
began to write his very interesting _Character of Mrs. Johnson_, from
which passages have already been quoted.  He there calls her “the truest,
most virtuous and valuable friend that I, or perhaps any other person,
was ever blessed with.”  Combined with excellent gifts of the mind, “she
had a gracefulness, somewhat more than human, in every motion, word, and
action.  Never was so happy a conjunction of civility, freedom, easiness,
and sincerity.”  Everyone treated her with marked respect, yet everyone
was at ease in her society.  She preserved her wit, judgment, and
vivacity to the last, but often complained of her memory.  She chose men
rather than women for her companions, “the usual topic of ladies’
discourse being such as she had little knowledge of and less relish.”
“Honour, truth, liberality, good nature, and modesty were the virtues she
chiefly possessed, and most valued in her acquaintance.”  In some Prayers
used by Swift during her last sickness, he begged for pity for “the
mournful friends of Thy distressed servant, who sink under the weight of
her present condition, and the fear of losing the most valuable of our
friends.”  He was too ill to be present at the funeral at St. Patrick’s.
Afterwards, we are told, a lock of her hair was found in his desk,
wrapped in a paper bearing the words, “Only a woman’s hair.”

Swift continued to produce pamphlets manifesting growing misanthropy,
though he showed many kindnesses to people who stood in need of help.  He
seems to have given Mrs. Dingley fifty guineas a year, pretending that it
came from a fund for which he was trustee.  The mental decay which he had
always feared—“I shall be like that tree,” he once said, “I shall die at
the top”—became marked about 1738.  Paralysis was followed by aphasia,
and after acute pain, followed by a long period of apathy, death relieved
him in October 1745.  He was buried by Stella’s side, in accordance with
his wishes.  The bulk of his fortune was left to found a hospital for
idiots and lunatics.

There has been much rather fruitless discussion respecting the reason or
reasons why Swift did not marry Stella; for if there was any marriage, it
was nothing more than a form.  Some have supposed that Swift resolved to
remain unmarried because the insanity of an uncle and the fits and
giddiness to which he was always subject led him to fear insanity in his
own case.  Others, looking rather to physical causes, have dwelt upon his
coldness of temperament and indisposition to love; upon the repugnance he
often showed towards marriage, and the tone of some of the verses on the
subject written in his later years.  Others, again, have found a cause in
his parsimonious habits, in his dread of poverty, the effects of which he
had himself felt, and in the smallness of his income, at least until he
was middle-aged. {0l}  It may well be that one or all of these things
influenced Swift’s action.  We cannot say more.  He himself, as we have
seen, said, as early as 1704, that if his humour and means had permitted
him to think of marriage, his choice would have been Stella.  Perhaps,
however, there is not much mystery in the matter.  Swift seems to have
been wanting in passion; probably he was satisfied with the affection
which Stella gave him, and did not wish for more.  Such an attachment as
his usually results in marriage, but not necessarily.  It is not
sufficiently remembered that the affection began in Stella’s childhood.
They were “perfect friends” for nearly forty years, and her advancing
years in no way lessened his love, which was independent of beauty.
Whether Stella was satisfied, who shall say?  Mrs. Oliphant thought that
few women would be disposed to pity Stella, or think her life one of
blight or injury.  Mr. Leslie Stephen says, “She might and probably did
regard his friendship as a full equivalent for the sacrifice. . . .  Is
it better to be the most intimate friend of a man of genius or the wife
of a commonplace Tisdall?”  Whatever we may surmise, there is nothing to
prove that she was disappointed.  She was the one star which brightened
Swift’s storm-tossed course; it is well that she was spared seeing the
wreck at the end.

                                * * * * *

The _Journal to Stella_ is interesting from many points of view: for its
bearing upon Swift’s relations with Stella and upon his own character;
for the light which it throws upon the history of the time and upon
prominent men of the day; and for the illustrations it contains of the
social life of people of various classes in London and elsewhere.  The
fact that it was written without any thought of publication is one of its
greatest attractions.  Swift jotted down his opinions, his hopes, his
disappointments, without thought of their being seen by anybody but his
correspondents.  The letters are transparently natural.  It has been said
more than once that the _Journal_, by the nature of the case, contains no
full-length portraits, and hardly any sketches.  Swift mentions the
people he met, but rarely stops to draw a picture of them.  But though
this is true, the casual remarks which he makes often give a vivid
impression of what he thought of the person of whom he is speaking, and
in many cases those few words form a chief part of our general estimate
of the man.  There are but few people of note at the time who are not
mentioned in these pages.  We see Queen Anne holding a Drawing-room in
her bedroom: “she looked at us round with her fan in her mouth, and once
a minute said about three words to some that were nearest her.”  We see
Harley, afterwards the Earl of Oxford, “a pure trifler,” who was always
putting off important business; Bolingbroke, “a thorough rake”; the
prudent Lord Dartmouth, the other Secretary of State, from whom Swift
could never “work out a dinner.”  There is Marlborough, “covetous as
Hell, and ambitious as the prince of it,” yet a great general and unduly
pressed by the Tories; and the volatile Earl of Peterborough, “above
fifty, and as active as one of five-and-twenty”—“the ramblingest lying
rogue on earth.”  We meet poor Congreve, nearly blind, and in fear of
losing his commissionership; the kindly Arbuthnot, the Queen’s physician;
Addison, whom Swift met more and more rarely, busy with the preparation
and production of _Cato_; Steele, careless as ever, neglecting important
appointments, and “governed by his wife most abominably”; Prior, poet and
diplomatist, with a “lean carcass”; and young Berkeley of Trinity
College, Dublin, “a very ingenious man and great philosopher,” whom Swift
determined to favour as much as he could.  Mrs. Masham, the Duchess of
Somerset, the Duchess of Shrewsbury, the Duchess of Hamilton, Lady Betty
Germaine, and many other ladies appear with more or less distinctness;
besides a host of people of less note, of whom we often know little but
what Swift tells us.

Swift throws much light, too, on the daily life of his time.  The bellman
on his nightly rounds, calling “Paaast twelvvve o’clock”; the dinner at
three, or at the latest, four; the meetings at coffee-houses; the
book-sales; the visit to the London sights—the lions at the Tower,
Bedlam, the tombs in Westminster Abbey, and the puppet-show; the terrible
Mohocks, of whom Swift stood in so much fear; the polite “howdees” sent
to friends by footmen; these and more are all described in the _Journal_.
We read of curious habits and practices of fashionable ladies; of the
snuff used by Mrs. Dingley and others; of the jokes—“bites,” puns, and
the like—indulged in by polite persons.  When Swift lodged at Chelsea, he
reached London either by boat, or by coach,—which was sometimes full when
he wanted it,—or by walking across the “Five Fields,” not without fear of
robbers at night.  The going to or from Ireland was a serious matter;
after the long journey by road came the voyage (weather permitting) of
some fifteen hours, with the risk of being seized or pursued by French
privateers; and when Ireland was reached the roads were of the worst.  We
have glimpses of fashionable society in Dublin, of the quiet life at
Laracor and Trim, and of the drinking of the waters at Wexford, where
visitors had to put up with primitive arrangements: “Mrs. Dingley never
saw such a place in her life.”

Swift’s own characteristics come out in the clearest manner in the
_Journal_, which gives all his hopes and fears during three busy years.
He was pleased to find on his arrival in London how great a value was set
on his friendship by both political parties: “The Whigs were ravished to
see me, and would lay hold on me as a twig while they are drowning;” but
Godolphin’s coldness enraged him, so that he was “almost vowing
vengeance.”  Next day he talked treason heartily against the Whigs, their
baseness and ingratitude, and went home full of schemes of revenge.  “The
Tories drily tell me I may make my fortune, if I please; but I do not
understand them, or rather, I _do_ understand them.”  He realised that
the Tories might not be more grateful than others, but he thought they
were pursuing the true interests of the public, and was glad to
contribute what was in his power.  His vanity was gratified by Harley
inviting him to the private dinners with St. John and Harcourt which were
given on Saturdays, and by their calling him Jonathan; but he did not
hope too much from their friendship: “I said I believed they would leave
me Jonathan, as they found me . . . but I care not.”

Of Swift’s frugal habits there is abundant evidence in the _Journal_.
When he came to town he took rooms on a first floor, “a dining-room and
bed-chamber, at eight shillings a week; plaguy dear, but I spend nothing
for eating, never go to a tavern, and very seldom in a coach; yet after
all it will be expensive.”  In November he mentions that he had a fire:
“I am spending my second half-bushel of coals.”  In another place he
says, “People have so left the town, that I am at a loss for a dinner. . . .
It cost me eighteenpence in coach-hire before I could find a place
to dine in.”  Elsewhere we find: “This paper does not cost me a farthing:
I have it from the Secretary’s office.”  He often complains of having to
take a coach owing to the dirty condition of the streets: “This rain
ruins me in coach-hire; I walked away sixpennyworth, and came within a
shilling length, and then took a coach, and got a lift back for nothing.”
{0m}

Swift’s arrogance—the arrogance, sometimes, of a man who is morbidly
suspicious that he may be patronised—is shown in the manner in which he
speaks of the grand ladies with whom he came in contact.  He calls the
Duke of Ormond’s daughters “insolent drabs,” and talks of his “mistress,
Ophy Butler’s wife, who is grown a little charmless.”  When the Duchess
of Shrewsbury reproached him for not dining with her, Swift said that was
not so soon done; he expected more advances from ladies, especially
duchesses.  On another occasion he was to have supped at Lady
Ashburnham’s, “but the drab did not call for us in her coach, as she
promised, but sent for us, and so I sent my excuses.”  The arrogance was,
however, often only on the surface.  It is evident that Swift was very
kind in many cases.  He felt deeply for Mrs. Long in her misfortunes,
living and dying in an obscure country town.  On the last illness of the
poet Harrison he says, “I am very much afflicted for him, as he is my own
creature. . . .  I was afraid to knock at the door; my mind misgave me.”
He was “heartily sorry for poor Mrs. Parnell’s death; she seemed to be an
excellent good-natured young woman, and I believe the poor lad is much
afflicted; they appeared to live perfectly well together.”  Afterwards he
helped Parnell by introducing him to Bolingbroke and Oxford.  He found
kind words for Mrs. Manley in her illness, and Lady Ashburnham’s death
was “extremely moving. . . .  She was my greatest favourite, and I am in
excessive concern for her loss.”  Lastly, he was extraordinarily patient
towards his servant Patrick, who drank, stopped out at night, and in many
ways tried Swift’s temper.  There were good points about Patrick, but no
doubt the great consideration which Swift showed him was due in part to
the fact that he was a favourite of the ladies in Dublin, and had Mrs.
Vanhomrigh to intercede for him.

But for the best example of the kindly side of Swift’s nature, we must
turn to what he tells us in the _Journal_ about Stella herself.  The
“little language” which Swift used when writing to her was the language
he employed when playing with Stella as a little child at Moor Park.
Thackeray, who was not much in sympathy with Swift, said that he knew of
“nothing more manly, more tender, more exquisitely touching, than some of
these notes.”  Swift says that when he wrote plainly, he felt as if they
were no longer alone, but “a bad scrawl is so snug it looks like a PMD.”
In writing his fond and playful prattle, he made up his mouth “just as if
he were speaking it.” {0n}

Though Mrs. Dingley is constantly associated with Stella in the
affectionate greetings in the _Journal_, she seems to have been included
merely as a cloak to enable him to express the more freely his affection
for her companion.  Such phrases as “saucy girls,” “sirrahs,”
“sauceboxes,” and the like, are often applied to both; and sometimes
Swift certainly writes as if the one were as dear to him as the other;
thus we find, “Farewell, my dearest lives and delights, I love you better
than ever, if possible, as hope saved, I do, and ever will. . . .  I can
count upon nothing, nor will, but upon MD’s love and kindness. . . .  And
so farewell, dearest MD, Stella, Dingley, Presto, all together, now and
for ever, all together.”  But as a rule, notwithstanding Swift’s caution,
the greetings intended for Stella alone are easily distinguishable in
tone.  He often refers to her weak eyes and delicate health.  Thus he
writes, “The chocolate is a present, madam, for Stella.  Don’t read this,
you little rogue, with your little eyes; but give it to Dingley, pray
now; and I will write as plain as the skies.”  And again, “God Almighty
bless poor Stella, and her eyes and head: what shall we do to cure them,
poor dear life?”  Or, “Now to Stella’s little postscript; and I am almost
crazed that you vex yourself for not writing.  Can’t you dictate to
Dingley, and not strain your dear little eyes?  I am sure ’tis the grief
of my soul to think you are out of order.”  They had been keeping his
birthday; Swift wished he had been with them, rather than in London,
where he had no manner of pleasure: “I say Amen with all my heart and
vitals, that we may never be asunder again ten days together while poor
Presto lives.”  A few days later he says, “I wish I were at Laracor, with
dear charming MD,” and again, “Farewell, dearest beloved MD, and love
poor poor Presto, who has not had one happy day since he left you.”  “I
will say no more, but beg you to be easy till Fortune takes his course,
and to believe MD’s felicity is the great goal I aim at in all my
pursuits.”  “How does Stella look, Madam Dingley?” he asks; “pretty well,
a handsome young woman still?  Will she pass in a crowd?  Will she make a
figure in a country church?”  Elsewhere he writes, on receipt of a
letter, “God Almighty bless poor dear Stella, and send her a great many
birthdays, all happy and healthy and wealthy, and with me ever together,
and never asunder again, unless by chance. . . .  I can hardly imagine
you absent when I am reading your letter or writing to you.  No, faith,
you are just here upon this little paper, and therefore I see and talk
with you every evening constantly, and sometimes in the morning.”  The
letters lay under Swift’s pillow, and he fondled them as if he were
caressing Stella’s hand.

Of Stella herself we naturally have no direct account in the _Journal_,
but we hear a good deal of her life in Ireland, and can picture what she
was.  Among her friends in and about Trim and Laracor were Dr. Raymond,
the vicar of Trim, and his wife, the Garret Wesleys, the Percevals, and
Mr. Warburton, Swift’s curate.  At Dublin there were Archdeacon Walls and
his family; Alderman Stoyte, his wife and sister-in-law; Dean Sterne and
the Irish Postmaster-General, Isaac Manley.  For years these friends
formed a club which met in Dublin at each other’s houses, to sup and play
cards (“ombre and claret, and toasted oranges”), and we have frequent
allusions to Stella’s indifferent play, and the money which she lost,
much to Mrs. Dingley’s chagrin: “Poor Dingley fretted to see Stella lose
that four and elevenpence t’other night.”  Mrs. Dingley herself could
hardly play well enough to hold the cards while Stella went into the next
room.  If at dinner the mutton was underdone, and “poor Stella cannot
eat, poor dear rogue,” then “Dingley is so vexed.”  Swift was for ever
urging Stella to walk and ride; she was “naturally a stout walker,” and
“Dingley would do well enough if her petticoats were pinned up.”  And we
see Stella setting out on and returning from her ride, with her riband
and mask: “Ah, that riding to Laracor gives me short sighs as well as
you,” he says; “all the days I have passed here have been dirt to those.”

If the _Journal_ shows us some of Swift’s less attractive qualities, it
shows still more how great a store of humour, tenderness, and affection
there was in him.  In these letters we see his very soul; in his literary
work we are seldom moved to anything but admiration of his wit and
genius.  Such daily outpourings could never have been written for
publication, they were meant only for one who understood him perfectly;
and everything that we know of Stella—her kindliness, her wit, her
vivacity, her loyalty—shows that she was worthy of the confidence.




JOURNAL TO STELLA


LETTER I. {1a}


                                                 CHESTER, _Sept._ 2, 1710.

JOE {1b} will give you an account of me till I got into the boat; after
which the rogues made a new bargain, and forced me to give them two
crowns, and talked as if we should not be able to overtake any ship: but
in half an hour we got to the yacht; for the ships lay by [to] wait for
my Lord Lieutenant’s steward.  We made our voyage in fifteen hours just.
Last night I came to this town, and shall leave it, I believe, on Monday.
The first man I met in Chester was Dr. Raymond. {1c}  He and Mrs. Raymond
were here about levying a fine, in order to have power to sell their
estate.  They have found everything answer very well.  They both desire
to present their humble services to you: they do not think of Ireland
till next year.  I got a fall off my horse, riding here from Parkgate,
{2a} but no hurt; the horse understanding falls very well, and lying
quietly till I get up.  My duty to the Bishop of Clogher. {2b}  I saw him
returning from Dunleary; but he saw not me.  I take it ill he was not at
Convocation, and that I have not his name to my powers. {2c}  I beg you
will hold your resolution of going to Trim, and riding there as much as
you can.  Let the Bishop of Clogher remind the Bishop of Killala {2d} to
send me a letter, with one enclosed to the Bishop of Lichfield. {2e}  Let
all who write to me, enclose to Richard Steele, Esq., at his office at
the Cockpit, near Whitehall. {2f}  But not MD; I will pay for their
letters at St. James’s Coffee-house, {2g} that I may have them the
sooner.  My Lord Mountjoy {2h} is now in the humour that we should begin
our journey this afternoon; so that I have stole here again to finish
this letter, which must be short or long accordingly.  I write this post
to Mrs. Wesley, {2i} and will tell her, that I have taken care she may
have her bill of one hundred and fifteen pounds whenever she pleases to
send for it; and in that case I desire you will send it her enclosed and
sealed, and have it ready so, in case she should send for it: otherwise
keep it.  I will say no more till I hear whether I go to-day or no: if I
do, the letter is almost at an end.  My cozen Abigail is grown
prodigiously old.  God Almighty bless poo dee richar MD; and, for God’s
sake, be merry, and get oo health.  I am perfectly resolved to return as
soon as I have done my commission, whether it succeeds or no.  I never
went to England with so little desire in my life.  If Mrs. Curry {3a}
makes any difficulty about the lodgings, I will quit them and pay her
from July 9 last, and Mrs. Brent {3b} must write to Parvisol {3c} with
orders accordingly.  The post is come from London, and just going out; so
I have only time to pray God to bless poor richr MD FW FW MD MD ME ME ME.



LETTER II.


                                                  LONDON, _Sept._ 9, 1710.

I GOT here last Thursday, {4a} after five days’ travelling, weary the
first, almost dead the second, tolerable the third, and well enough the
rest; and am now glad of the fatigue, which has served for exercise; and
I am at present well enough.  The Whigs were ravished to see me, and
would lay hold on me as a twig while they are drowning, {4b} and the
great men making me their clumsy apologies, etc.  But my Lord Treasurer
{4c} received me with a great deal of coldness, which has enraged me so,
I am almost vowing revenge.  I have not yet gone half my circle; but I
find all my acquaintance just as I left them.  I hear my Lady Giffard
{4d} is much at Court, and Lady Wharton {4e} was ridiculing it t’other
day; so I have lost a friend there.  I have not yet seen her, nor intend
it; but I will contrive to see Stella’s mother {4f} some other way.  I
writ to the Bishop of Clogher from Chester; and I now write to the
Archbishop of Dublin. {4g}  Everything is turning upside down; every Whig
in great office will, to a man, be infallibly put out; and we shall have
such a winter as hath not been seen in England.  Everybody asks me, how I
came to be so long in Ireland, as naturally as if here were my being; but
no soul offers to make it so: and I protest I shall return to Dublin, and
the Canal at Laracor, {4h} with more satisfaction than ever I did in my
life.  The Tatler {5a} expects every day to be turned out of his
employment; and the Duke of Ormond, {5b} they say, will be Lieutenant of
Ireland.  I hope you are now peaceably in Presto’s {5c} lodgings; but I
resolve to turn you out by Christmas; in which time I shall either do my
business, or find it not to be done.  Pray be at Trim by the time this
letter comes to you; and ride little Johnson, who must needs be now in
good case.  I have begun this letter unusually, on the post-night, and
have already written to the Archbishop; and cannot lengthen this.
Henceforth I will write something every day to MD, and make it a sort of
journal; and when it is full, I will send it, whether MD writes or no;
and so that will be pretty: and I shall always be in conversation with
MD, and MD with Presto.  Pray make Parvisol pay you the ten pounds
immediately; so I ordered him.  They tell me I am grown fatter, and look
better; and, on Monday, Jervas {5d} is to retouch my picture.  I thought
I saw Jack Temple {5e} and his wife pass by me to-day in their coach; but
I took no notice of them.  I am glad I have wholly shaken off that
family.  Tell the Provost, {5f} I have obeyed his commands to the Duke of
Ormond; or let it alone, if you please.  I saw Jemmy Leigh {6a} just now
at the Coffee-house, who asked after you with great kindness: he talks of
going in a fortnight to Ireland.  My service to the Dean, {6b} and Mrs.
Walls, and her Archdeacon. {6c}  Will Frankland’s {6d} wife is near
bringing to-bed, and I have promised to christen the child.  I fancy you
had my Chester letter the Tuesday after I writ.  I presented Dr. Raymond
to Lord Wharton {6e} at Chester.  Pray let me know when Joe gets his
money. {6f}  It is near ten, and I hate to send by the bellman. {6g}  MD
shall have a longer letter in a week, but I send this only to tell I am
safe in London; and so farewell, etc.



LETTER III.


                                                  LONDON, _Sept._ 9, 1710.

AFTER seeing the Duke of Ormond, dining with Dr. Cockburn, {7a} passing
some part of the afternoon with Sir Matthew Dudley {7b} and Will
Frankland, the rest at St. James’s Coffee-house, I came home, and writ to
the Archbishop of Dublin and MD, and am going to bed.  I forgot to tell
you, that I begged Will Frankland to stand Manley’s {7c} friend with his
father in this shaking season for places.  He told me, his father was in
danger to be out; that several were now soliciting for Manley’s place;
that he was accused of opening letters; that Sir Thomas Frankland {7d}
would sacrifice everything to save himself; and in that, I fear, Manley
is undone, etc.

10.  To-day I dined with Lord Mountjoy at Kensington; saw my mistress,
Ophy Butler’s {7e} wife, who is grown a little charmless.  I sat till ten
in the evening with Addison and Steele: Steele will certainly lose his
Gazetteer’s place, all the world detesting his engaging in parties. {8a}
At ten I went to the Coffee-house, hoping to find Lord Radnor, {8b} whom
I had not seen.  He was there; and for an hour and a half we talked
treason heartily against the Whigs, their baseness and ingratitude.  And
I am come home, rolling resentments in my mind, and framing schemes of
revenge: full of which (having written down some hints) I go to bed.  I
am afraid MD dined at home, because it is Sunday; and there was the
little half-pint of wine: for God’s sake, be good girls, and all will be
well.  Ben Tooke {8c} was with me this morning.

11.  Seven, morning.  I am rising to go to Jervas to finish my picture,
and ’tis shaving-day, so good-morrow MD; but don’t keep me now, for I
can’t stay; and pray dine with the Dean, but don’t lose your money.  I
long to hear from you, etc.—Ten at night.  I sat four hours this morning
to Jervas, who has given my picture quite another turn, and now approves
it entirely; but we must have the approbation of the town.  If I were
rich enough, I would get a copy of it, and bring it over.  Mr. Addison
and I dined together at his lodgings, and I sat with him part of this
evening; and I am now come home to write an hour.  Patrick {8d} observes,
that the rabble here are much more inquisitive in politics than in
Ireland.  Every day we expect changes, and the Parliament to be
dissolved.  Lord Wharton expects every day to be out: he is working like
a horse for elections; and, in short, I never saw so great a ferment
among all sorts of people.  I had a miserable letter from Joe last
Saturday, telling me Mr. Pratt {9a} refuses payment of his money.  I have
told it Mr. Addison, and will to Lord Wharton; but I fear with no
success.  However, I will do all I can.

12.  To-day I presented Mr. Ford {9b} to the Duke of Ormond; and paid my
first visit to Lord President, {9c} with whom I had much discourse; but
put him always off when he began to talk of Lord Wharton in relation to
me, till he urged it: then I said, he knew I never expected anything from
Lord Wharton, and that Lord Wharton knew that I understood it so.  He
said that he had written twice to Lord Wharton about me, who both times
said nothing at all to that part of his letter.  I am advised not to
meddle in the affair of the First-Fruits, till this hurry is a little
over, which still depends, and we are all in the dark.  Lord President
told me he expects every day to be out, and has done so these two months.
I protest, upon my life, I am heartily weary of this town, and wish I had
never stirred.

13.  I went this morning to the city, to see Mr. Stratford the Hamburg
merchant, my old schoolfellow; {9d} but calling at Bull’s {9e} on Ludgate
Hill, he forced me to his house at Hampstead to dinner among a great deal
of ill company; among the rest Mr. Hoadley, {9f} the Whig clergyman, so
famous for acting the contrary part to Sacheverell: {9g} but to-morrow I
design again to see Stratford.  I was glad, however, to be at Hampstead,
where I saw Lady Lucy {10a} and Moll Stanhope.  I hear very unfortunate
news of Mrs. Long; {10b} she and her comrade {10c} have broke up house,
and she is broke for good and all, and is gone to the country: I should
be extremely sorry if this be true.

14.  To-day, I saw Patty Rolt, {10d} who heard I was in town; and I dined
with Stratford at a merchant’s in the city, where I drank the first Tokay
wine I ever saw; and it is admirable, yet not to the degree I expected.
Stratford is worth a plum, {10e} and is now lending the Government forty
thousand pounds; yet we were educated together at the same school and
university. {10f}  We hear the Chancellor {10g} is to be suddenly out,
and Sir Simon Harcourt {11a} to succeed him: I am come early home, not
caring for the Coffee-house.

15.  To-day Mr. Addison, Colonel Freind, {11b} and I, went to see the
million lottery {11c} drawn at Guildhall.  The jackanapes of bluecoat
boys gave themselves such airs in pulling out the tickets, and showed
white hands open to the company, to let us see there was no cheat.  We
dined at a country-house near Chelsea, where Mr. Addison often retires;
and to-night, at the Coffee-house, we hear Sir Simon Harcourt is made
Lord Keeper; so that now we expect every moment the Parliament will be
dissolved; but I forgot that this letter will not go in three or four
days, and that my news will be stale, which I should therefore put in the
last paragraph.  Shall I send this letter before I hear from MD, or shall
I keep it to lengthen?  I have not yet seen Stella’s mother, because I
will not see Lady Giffard; but I will contrive to go there when Lady
Giffard is abroad.  I forgot to mark my two former letters; but I
remember this is Number 3, and I have not yet had Number 1 from MD; but I
shall by Monday, which I reckon will be just a fortnight after you had my
first.  I am resolved to bring over a great deal of china.  I loved it
mightily to-day. {11d}  What shall I bring?

16.  Morning.  Sir John Holland, {11e} Comptroller of the Household, has
sent to desire my acquaintance: I have a mind to refuse him, because he
is a Whig, and will, I suppose, be out among the rest; but he is a man of
worth and learning.  Tell me, do you like this journal way of writing?
Is it not tedious and dull?

Night.  I dined to-day with a cousin, a printer, {12a} where Patty Rolt
lodges, and then came home, after a visit or two; and it has been a very
insipid day.  Mrs. Long’s misfortune is confirmed to me; bailiffs were in
her house; she retired to private lodgings; thence to the country, nobody
knows where: her friends leave letters at some inn, and they are carried
to her; and she writes answers without dating them from any place.  I
swear, it grieves me to the soul.

17.  To-day I dined six miles out of town, with Will Pate, {12b} the
learned woollen-draper; Mr. Stratford went with me; six miles here is
nothing: we left Pate after sunset, and were here before it was dark.
This letter shall go on Tuesday, whether I hear from MD or no.  My health
continues pretty well; pray God Stella may give me a good account of
hers! and I hope you are now at Trim, or soon designing it.  I was
disappointed to-night: the fellow gave me a letter, and I hoped to see
little MD’s hand; and it was only to invite me to a venison pasty to-day:
so I lost my pasty into the bargain.  Pox on these declining courtiers!
Here is Mr. Brydges, {12c} the Paymaster-General, desiring my
acquaintance; but I hear the Queen sent Lord Shrewsbury {12d} to assure
him he may keep his place; and he promises me great assistance in the
affair of the First-Fruits.  Well, I must turn over this leaf to-night,
though the side would hold another line; but pray consider this is a
whole sheet; it holds a plaguy deal, and you must be content to be weary;
but I’ll do so no more.  Sir Simon Harcourt is made Attorney-General, and
not Lord Keeper.

18.  To-day I dined with Mr. Stratford at Mr. Addison’s retirement near
Chelsea; then came to town; got home early, and began a letter to the
_Tatler_, {13a} about the corruptions of style and writing, etc., and,
having not heard from you, am resolved this letter shall go to-night.
Lord Wharton was sent for to town in mighty haste, by the Duke of
Devonshire: {13b} they have some project in hand; but it will not do, for
every hour we expect a thorough revolution, and that the Parliament will
be dissolved.  When you see Joe, tell him Lord Wharton is too busy to
mind any of his affairs; but I will get what good offices I can from Mr.
Addison, and will write to-day to Mr. Pratt; and bid Joe not to be
discouraged, for I am confident he will get the money under any
Government; but he must have patience.

19.  I have been scribbling this morning, and I believe shall hardly fill
this side to-day, but send it as it is; and it is good enough for naughty
girls that won’t write to a body, and to a good boy like Presto.  I
thought to have sent this to-night, but was kept by company, and could
not; and, to say the truth, I had a little mind to expect one post more
for a letter from MD.  Yesterday at noon died the Earl of Anglesea, {13c}
the great support of the Tories; so that employment of Vice-Treasurer of
Ireland is again vacant.  We were to have been great friends, and I could
hardly have a loss that could grieve me more.  The Bishop of Durham {14a}
died the same day.  The Duke of Ormond’s daughter {14b} was to visit me
to-day at a third place by way of advance, {14c} and I am to return it
to-morrow.  I have had a letter from Lady Berkeley, begging me for
charity to come to Berkeley Castle, for company to my lord, {14d} who has
been ill of a dropsy; but I cannot go, and must send my excuse to-morrow.
I am told that in a few hours there will be more removals.

20.  To-day I returned my visits to the Duke’s daughters; {14e} the
insolent drabs came up to my very mouth to salute me.  Then I heard the
report confirmed of removals; my Lord President Somers; the Duke of
Devonshire, Lord Steward; and Mr. Boyle, {14f} Secretary of State, are
all turned out to-day.  I never remember such bold steps taken by a
Court: I am almost shocked at it, though I did not care if they were all
hanged.  We are astonished why the Parliament is not yet dissolved, and
why they keep a matter of that importance to the last.  We shall have a
strange winter here, between the struggles of a cunning provoked
discarded party, and the triumphs of one in power; of both which I shall
be an indifferent spectator, and return very peaceably to Ireland, when I
have done my part in the affair I am entrusted with, whether it succeeds
or no.  To-morrow I change my lodgings in Pall Mall for one in Bury
Street, {15a} where I suppose I shall continue while I stay in London.
If anything happens to-morrow, I will add it.—Robin’s Coffee-house. {15b}
We have great news just now from Spain; Madrid taken, and Pampeluna.  I
am here ever interrupted.

21.  I have just received your letter, which I will not answer now; God
be thanked all things are so well.  I find you have not yet had my
second: I had a letter from Parvisol, who tells me he gave Mrs. Walls a
bill of twenty pounds for me, to be given to you; but you have not sent
it.  This night the Parliament is dissolved: great news from Spain; King
Charles and Stanhope are at Madrid, and Count Staremberg has taken
Pampeluna.  Farewell.  This is from St. James’s Coffee-house.  I will
begin my answer to your letter to-night, but not send it this week.  Pray
tell me whether you like this journal way of writing.—I don’t like your
reasons for not going to Trim.  Parvisol tells me he can sell your horse.
Sell it, with a pox?  Pray let him know that he shall sell his soul as
soon.  What? sell anything that Stella loves, and may sometimes ride? It
is hers, and let her do as she pleases: pray let him know this by the
first that you know goes to Trim.  Let him sell my grey, and be hanged.



LETTER IV.


                                                 LONDON, _Sept._ 21, 1710.

HERE must I begin another letter, on a whole sheet, for fear saucy little
MD should be angry, and think _much_ that the paper is too _little_.  I
had your letter this night, as told you just and no more in my last; for
this must be taken up in answering yours, saucebox.  I believe I told you
where I dined to-day; and to-morrow I go out of town for two days to dine
with the same company on Sunday; Molesworth {16a} the Florence Envoy,
Stratford, and some others.  I heard to-day that a gentlewoman from Lady
Giffard’s house had been at the Coffee-house to inquire for me.  It was
Stella’s mother, I suppose.  I shall send her a penny-post letter {16b}
to-morrow, and contrive to see her without hazarding seeing Lady Giffard,
which I will not do until she begs my pardon.

22.  I dined to-day at Hampstead with Lady Lucy, etc., and when I got
home found a letter from Joe, with one enclosed to Lord Wharton, which I
will send to his Excellency, and second it as well as I can; but to talk
of getting the Queen’s order is a jest.  Things are in such a combustion
here, that I am advised not to meddle yet in the affair I am upon, which
concerns the clergy of a whole kingdom; and does he think anybody will
trouble the Queen about Joe?  We shall, I hope, get a recommendation from
the Lord Lieutenant to the trustees for the linen business, and I hope
that will do; and so I will write to him in a few days, and he must have
patience.  This is an answer to part of your letter as well as his.  I
lied; it is to-morrow I go to the country, and I won’t answer a bit more
of your letter yet.

23.  Here is such a stir and bustle with this little MD of ours; I must
be writing every night; I can’t go to bed without a word to them; I can’t
put out my candle till I have bid them good-night: O Lord, O Lord!  Well,
I dined the first time to-day, with Will Frankland and his fortune: she
is not very handsome.  Did I not say I would go out of town to-day?  I
hate lying abroad and clutter; I go to-morrow in Frankland’s chariot, and
come back at night.  Lady Berkeley has invited me to Berkeley Castle, and
Lady Betty Germaine {17a} to Drayton in Northamptonshire; and I’ll go to
neither.  Let me alone, I must finish my pamphlet.  I have sent a long
letter to Bickerstaff: {17b} let the Bishop of Clogher smoke {17c} it if
he can.  Well, I’ll write to the Bishop of Killala; but you might have
told him how sudden and unexpected my journey was though.  Deuce take
Lady S—; and if I know D—y, he is a rawboned-faced fellow, not handsome,
nor visibly so young as you say: she sacrifices two thousand pounds a
year, and keeps only six hundred.  Well, you have had all my land journey
in my second letter, and so much for that.  So, you have got into
Presto’s lodgings; very fine, truly!  We have had a fortnight of the most
glorious weather on earth, and still continues: I hope you have made the
best of it.  Ballygall {17d} will be a pure {17e} good place for air, if
Mrs. Ashe makes good her promise.  Stella writes like an emperor: I am
afraid it hurts your eyes; take care of that pray, pray, Mrs. Stella.
Can’t you do what you will with your own horse?  Pray don’t let that
puppy Parvisol sell him.  Patrick is drunk about three times a week, and
I bear it, and he has got the better of me; but one of these days I will
positively turn him off to the wide world, when none of you are by to
intercede for him.—Stuff—how can I get her husband into the
Charter-house? get a — into the Charter-house.—Write constantly!  Why,
sirrah, don’t I write every day, and sometimes twice a day to MD?  Now I
have answered all your letter, and the rest must be as it can be: send me
my bill.  Tell Mrs. Brent {18a} what I say of the Charter-house.  I think
this enough for one night; and so farewell till this time to-morrow.

24.  To-day I dined six miles out of town at Will Pate’s, with Stratford,
Frankland, and the Molesworths, {18b} and came home at night, and was
weary and lazy.  I can say no more now, but good-night.

25.  I was so lazy to-day that I dined at next door, {18c} and have sat
at home since six, writing to the Bishop of Clogher, Dean Sterne, and Mr.
Manley: the last, because I am in fear for him about his place, and have
sent him my opinion, what I and his other friends here think he ought to
do.  I hope he will take it well.  My advice was, to keep as much in
favour as possible with Sir Thomas Frankland, his master here.

26.  Smoke how I widen the margin by lying in bed when I write.  My bed
lies on the wrong side for me, so that I am forced often to write when I
am up.  Manley, you must know, has had people putting in for his place
already; and has been complained of for opening letters.  Remember that
last Sunday, September 24, 1710, was as hot as midsummer.  This was
written in the morning; it is now night, and Presto in bed.  Here’s a
clutter, I have gotten MD’s second letter, and I must answer it here.  I
gave the bill to Tooke, and so—  Well, I dined to-day with Sir John
Holland the Comptroller, and sat with him till eight; then came home, and
sent my letters, and writ part of a lampoon, {18d} which goes on very
slow: and now I am writing to saucy MD; no wonder, indeed, good boys must
write to naughty girls.  I have not seen your mother yet; my penny-post
letter, I suppose, miscarried: I will write another.  Mr. S— came to see
me; and said M— was going to the country next morning with her husband
(who I find is a surly brute); so I could only desire my service to her.

27.  To-day all our company dined at Will Frankland’s, with Steele and
Addison too.  This is the first rainy day since I came to town; I cannot
afford to answer your letter yet.  Morgan, {19a} the puppy, writ me a
long letter, to desire I would recommend him for purse-bearer or
secretary to the next Lord Chancellor that would come with the next
Governor.  I will not answer him; but beg you will say these words to his
father Raymond, {19b} or anybody that will tell him: That Dr. Swift has
received his letter; and would be very ready to serve him, but cannot do
it in what he desires, because he has no sort of interest in the persons
to be applied to.  These words you may write, and let Joe, or Mr.
Warburton, {19c} give them to him: a pox on him!  However, it is by these
sort of ways that fools get preferment.  I must not end yet, because I
cannot say good-night without losing a line, and then MD would scold; but
now, good-night.

28.  I have the finest piece of Brazil tobacco for Dingley that ever was
born. {19d}  You talk of Leigh; why, he won’t be in Dublin these two
months: he goes to the country, then returns to London, to see how the
world goes here in Parliament.  Good-night, sirrahs; no, no, not night; I
writ this in the morning, and looking carelessly I thought it had been of
last night.  I dined to-day with Mrs. Barton {20a} alone at her lodgings;
where she told me for certain, that Lady S— {20b} was with child when she
was last in England, and pretended a tympany, and saw everybody; then
disappeared for three weeks, her tympany was gone, and she looked like a
ghost, etc.  No wonder she married when she was so ill at containing.
Connolly {20c} is out; and Mr. Roberts in his place, who loses a better
here, but was formerly a Commissioner in Ireland.  That employment cost
Connolly three thousand pounds to Lord Wharton; so he has made one ill
bargain in his life.

29.  I wish MD a merry Michaelmas.  I dined with Mr. Addison, and Jervas
the painter, at Addison’s country place; and then came home, and writ
more to my lampoon.  I made a _Tatler_ since I came: guess which it is,
and whether the Bishop of Clogher smokes it.  I saw Mr. Sterne {20d}
to-day: he will do as you order, and I will give him chocolate for
Stella’s health.  He goes not these three weeks.  I wish I could send it
some other way.  So now to your letter, brave boys.  I don’t like your
way of saving shillings: nothing vexes me but that it does not make
Stella a coward in a coach. {20e} I don’t think any lady’s advice about
my ear signifies twopence: however I will, in compliance to you, ask Dr.
Cockburn.  Radcliffe {21a} I know not, and Barnard {21b} I never see.
Walls will certainly be stingier for seven years, upon pretence of his
robbery.  So Stella puns again; why, ’tis well enough; but I’ll not
second it, though I could make a dozen: I never thought of a pun since I
left Ireland.—Bishop of Clogher’s bill?  Why, he paid it to me; do you
think I was such a fool to go without it?  As for the four shillings, I
will give you a bill on Parvisol for it on t’other side of this paper;
and pray tear off the two letters I shall write to him and Joe, or let
Dingley transcribe and send them; though that to Parvisol, I believe, he
must have my hand for.  No, no, I’ll eat no grapes; I ate about six the
other day at Sir John Holland’s; but would not give sixpence for a
thousand, they are so bad this year.  Yes, faith, I hope in God Presto
and MD will be together this time twelvemonth.  What then?  Last year I
suppose I was at Laracor; but next I hope to eat my Michaelmas goose at
my two little gooses’ lodgings.  I drink no _aile_ (I suppose you mean
_ale_); but yet good wine every day, of five and six shillings a bottle.
O Lord, how much Stella writes! pray don’t carry that too far, young
women, but be temperate, to hold out.  To-morrow I go to Mr. Harley.
{21c} Why, small hopes from the Duke of Ormond: he loves me very well, I
believe, and would, in my turn, give me something to make me easy; and I
have good interest among his best friends.  But I don’t think of anything
further than the business I am upon.  You see I writ to Manley before I
had your letter, and I fear he will be out.  Yes, Mrs. Owl, Bligh’s
corpse {22a} came to Chester when I was there; and I told you so in my
letter, or forgot it.  I lodge in Bury Street, where I removed a week
ago.  I have the first floor, a dining-room, and bed-chamber, at eight
shillings a week; plaguy deep, but I spend nothing for eating, never go
to a tavern, and very seldom in a coach; yet after all it will be
expensive.  Why do you trouble yourself, Mistress Stella, about my
instrument?  I have the same the Archbishop gave me; and it is as good
now the bishops are away.  The Dean friendly! the Dean be poxed: a great
piece of friendship indeed, what you heard him tell the Bishop of
Clogher; I wonder he had the face to talk so: but he lent me money, and
that’s enough.  Faith, I would not send this these four days, only for
writing to Joe and Parvisol.  Tell the Dean that when the bishops send me
any packets, they must not write to me at Mr. Steele’s; but direct for
Mr. Steele, at his office at the Cockpit, and let the enclosed be
directed for me: that mistake cost me eighteenpence the other day.

30.  I dined with Stratford to-day, but am not to see Mr. Harley till
Wednesday: it is late, and I send this before there is occasion for the
bell; because I would have Joe have his letter, and Parvisol too; which
you must so contrive as not to cost them double postage.  I can say no
more, but that I am, etc.



LETTER V.


                                                 LONDON, _Sept._ 30, 1710.

HAN’T I brought myself into a fine _præmunire_, {22b} to begin writing
letters in whole sheets? and now I dare not leave it off.  I cannot tell
whether you like these journal letters: I believe they would be dull to
me to read them over; but, perhaps, little MD is pleased to know how
Presto passes his time in her absence.  I always begin my last the same
day I ended my former.  I told you where I dined to-day at a tavern with
Stratford: Lewis, {23a} who is a great favourite of Harley’s, was to have
been with us; but he was hurried to Hampton Court, and sent his excuse;
and that next Wednesday he would introduce me to Harley.  ’Tis good to
see what a lamentable confession the Whigs all make me of my ill usage:
but I mind them not.  I am already represented to Harley as a
discontented person, that was used ill for not being Whig enough; and I
hope for good usage from him.  The Tories drily tell me, I may make my
fortune, if I please; but I do not understand them—or rather, I do
understand them.

Oct. 1.  To-day I dined at Molesworth’s, the Florence Envoy; and sat this
evening with my friend Darteneuf, {23b} whom you have heard me talk of;
the greatest punner of this town next myself.  Have you smoked the
_Tatler_ that I writ? {23c}  It is much liked here, and I think it a pure
{23d} one.  To-morrow I go with Delaval, {23e} the Portugal Envoy, to
dine with Lord Halifax near Hampton Court. {23f}  Your Manley’s brother,
a Parliament-man here, has gotten an employment; {24a} and I am informed
uses much interest to preserve his brother: and, to-day, I spoke to the
elder Frankland to engage his father (Postmaster here); and I hope he
will be safe, although he is cruelly hated by all the Tories of Ireland.
I have almost finished my lampoon, and will print it for revenge on a
certain great person. {24b}  It has cost me but three shillings in meat
and drink since I came here, as thin as the town is.  I laugh to see
myself so disengaged in these revolutions.  Well, I must leave off, and
go write to Sir John Stanley, {24c} to desire him to engage Lady Hyde as
my mistress to engage Lord Hyde {24d} in favour of Mr. Pratt. {24e}

2.  Lord Halifax was at Hampton Court at his lodgings, and I dined with
him there with Methuen, {24f} and Delaval, and the late Attorney-General.
{24g}  I went to the Drawing-room before dinner (for the Queen was at
Hampton Court), and expected to see nobody; but I met acquaintance
enough.  I walked in the gardens, saw the cartoons of Raphael, and other
things; and with great difficulty got from Lord Halifax, who would have
kept me to-morrow to show me his house and park, and improvements.  We
left Hampton Court at sunset, and got here in a chariot and two horses
time enough by starlight.  That’s something charms me mightily about
London; that you go dine a dozen miles off in October, stay all day, and
return so quickly: you cannot do anything like this in Dublin. {25a}  I
writ a second penny post letter to your mother, and hear nothing of her.
Did I tell you that Earl Berkeley died last Sunday was se’nnight, at
Berkeley Castle, of a dropsy?  Lord Halifax began a health to me to-day;
it was the Resurrection of the Whigs, which I refused unless he would add
their Reformation too and I told him he was the only Whig in England I
loved, or had any good opinion of.

3.  This morning Stella’s sister {25b} came to me with a letter from her
mother, who is at Sheen; but will soon be in town, and will call to see
me: she gave me a bottle of palsy water, {25c} a small one, and desired I
would send it you by the first convenience, as I will; and she promises a
quart bottle of the same: your sister looked very well, and seems a good
modest sort of girl.  I went then to Mr. Lewis, first secretary to Lord
Dartmouth, {25d} and favourite to Mr. Harley, who is to introduce me
to-morrow morning.  Lewis had with him one Mr. Dyot, {25e} a Justice of
Peace, worth twenty thousand pounds, a Commissioner of the Stamp Office,
and married to a sister of Sir Philip Meadows, {26a} Envoy to the
Emperor.  I tell you this, because it is odds but this Mr. Dyot will be
hanged; for he is discovered to have counterfeited stamped paper, in
which he was a Commissioner; and, with his accomplices, has cheated the
Queen of a hundred thousand pounds.  You will hear of it before this come
to you, but may be not so particularly; and it is a very odd accident in
such a man.  Smoke Presto writing news to MD.  I dined to-day with Lord
Mountjoy at Kensington, and walked from thence this evening to town like
an emperor.  Remember that yesterday, October 2, was a cruel hard frost,
with ice; and six days ago I was dying with heat.  As thin as the town
is, I have more dinners than ever; and am asked this month by some
people, without being able to come for pre-engagements.  Well, but I
should write plainer, when I consider Stella cannot read, {26b} and
Dingley is not so skilful at my ugly hand.  I had to-night a letter from
Mr. Pratt, who tells me Joe will have his money when there are trustees
appointed by the Lord Lieutenant for receiving and disposing the linen
fund; and whenever those trustees are appointed, I will solicit whoever
is Lord Lieutenant, and am in no fear of succeeding.  So pray tell or
write him word, and bid him not be cast down; for Ned Southwell {26c} and
Mr. Addison both think Pratt in the right.  Don’t lose your money at
Manley’s to-night, sirrahs.

4.  After I had put out my candle last night, my landlady came into my
room, with a servant of Lord Halifax, to desire I would go dine with him
at his house near Hampton Court; but I sent him word, I had business of
great importance that hindered me, etc.  And to-day I was brought
privately to Mr. Harley, who received me with the greatest respect and
kindness imaginable: he has appointed me an hour on Saturday at four,
afternoon, when I will open my business to him; which expression I would
not use if I were a woman.  I know you smoked it; but I did not till I
writ it.  I dined to-day at Mr. Delaval’s, the Envoy for Portugal, with
Nic Rowe {27a} the poet, and other friends; and I gave my lampoon to be
printed.  I have more mischief in my heart; and I think it shall go round
with them all, as this hits, and I can find hints.  I am certain I
answered your 2d letter, and yet I do not find it here.  I suppose it was
in my 4th: and why N. 2d, 3d; is it not enough to say, as I do, 1, 2, 3?
etc.  I am going to work at another _Tatler_: {27b}  I’ll be far enough
but I say the same thing over two or three times, just as I do when I am
talking to little MD; but what care I? they can read it as easily as I
can write it: I think I have brought these lines pretty straight again.
I fear it will be long before I finish two sides at this rate.  Pray,
dear MD, when I occasionally give you any little commission mixed with my
letters, don’t forget it, as that to Morgan and Joe, etc., for I write
just as I can remember, otherwise I would put them all together.  I was
to visit Mr. Sterne to-day, and give him your commission about
handkerchiefs: that of chocolate I will do myself, and send it him when
he goes, and you’ll pay me when _the giver’s bread_, {27c} etc.  To-night
I will read a pamphlet, to amuse myself.  God preserve your dear healths!

5.  This morning Delaval came to see me, and we went together to
Kneller’s, {27d} who was not in town.  In the way we met the electors for
Parliament-men: {28a} and the rabble came about our coach, crying, “A
Colt, a Stanhope,” etc.  We were afraid of a dead cat, or our glasses
broken, and so were always of their side.  I dined again at Delaval’s;
and in the evening, at the Coffee-house, heard Sir Andrew Fountaine {28b}
was come to town.  This has been but an insipid sort of day, and I have
nothing to remark upon it worth threepence: I hope MD had a better, with
the Dean, the Bishop, or Mrs. Walls. {28c}  Why, the reason you lost four
and eightpence last night but one at Manley’s was, because you played bad
games: I took notice of six that you had ten to one against you: Would
any but a mad lady go out twice upon Manilio; Basto, and two small
diamonds? {28d}  Then in that game of spades, you blundered when you had
ten-ace; I never saw the like of you: and now you are in a huff because I
tell you this.  Well, here’s two and eightpence halfpenny towards your
loss.

6.  Sir Andrew Fountaine came this morning, and caught me writing in bed.
I went into the city with him; and we dined at the Chop-house with Will
Pate, {28e} the learned woollen-draper: then we sauntered at China-shops
{29a} and booksellers; went to the tavern, drank two pints of white wine,
and never parted till ten: and now I am come home, and must copy out some
papers I intend for Mr. Harley, whom I am to see, as I told you,
to-morrow afternoon; so that this night I shall say little to MD, but
that I heartily wish myself with them, and will come as soon as I either
fail, or compass my business.  We now hear daily of elections; and, in a
list I saw yesterday of about twenty, there are seven or eight more
Tories than in the last Parliament; so that I believe they need not fear
a majority, with the help of those who will vote as the Court pleases.
But I have been told that Mr. Harley himself would not let the Tories be
too numerous, for fear they should be insolent, and kick against him; and
for that reason they have kept several Whigs in employments, who expected
to be turned out every day; as Sir John Holland the Comptroller, and many
others.  And so get you gone to your cards, and your claret and orange,
at the Dean’s; and I’ll go write.

7.  I wonder when this letter will be finished: it must go by Tuesday,
that’s certain; and if I have one from MD before, I will not answer it,
that’s as certain too.  ’Tis now morning, and I did not finish my papers
for Mr. Harley last night; for you must understand Presto was sleepy, and
made blunders and blots.  Very pretty that I must be writing to young
women in a morning fresh and fasting, faith.  Well, good-morrow to you;
and so I go to business, and lay aside this paper till night, sirrahs.—At
night.  Jack How {29b} told Harley that if there were a lower place in
hell than another, it was reserved for his porter, who tells lies so
gravely, and with so civil a manner.  This porter I have had to deal
with, going this evening at four to visit Mr. Harley, by his own
appointment.  But the fellow told me no lie, though I suspected every
word he said.  He told me his master was just gone to dinner, with much
company, and desired I would come an hour hence: which I did, expecting
to hear Mr. Harley was gone out; but they had just done dinner.  Mr.
Harley came out to me, brought me in, and presented to me his son-in-law
Lord Doblane {30a} (or some such name) and his own son, {30b} and, among
others, Will Penn {30c} the Quaker: we sat two hours drinking as good
wine as you do; and two hours more he and I alone; where he heard me tell
my business; entered into it with all kindness; asked for my powers, and
read them; and read likewise a memorial {30d} I had drawn up, and put it
in his pocket to show the Queen; told me the measures he would take; and,
in short, said everything I could wish: told me, he must bring Mr. St.
John {30e} (Secretary of State) and me acquainted; and spoke so many
things of personal kindness and esteem for me, that I am inclined half to
believe what some friends have told me, that he would do everything to
bring me over.  He has desired to dine with me (what a comical mistake
was that!).  I mean he has desired me to dine with him on Tuesday; and
after four hours being with him, set me down at St. James’s Coffee-house
in a hackney-coach.  All this is odd and comical, if you consider him and
me.  He knew my Christian name very well.  I could not forbear saying
thus much upon this matter, although you will think it tedious.  But I’ll
tell you; you must know, ’tis fatal {31a} to me to be a scoundrel and a
prince the same day: for, being to see him at four, I could not engage
myself to dine at any friend’s; so I went to Tooke, {31b} to give him a
ballad, and dine with him; but he was not at home: so I was forced to go
to a blind {31c} chop-house, and dine for tenpence upon gill-ale, {31d}
bad broth, and three chops of mutton; and then go reeking from thence to
the First Minister of State.  And now I am going in charity to send
Steele a _Tatler_, who is very low of late.  I think I am civiller than I
used to be; and have not used the expression of “you in Ireland” and “we
in England” as I did when I was here before, to your great
indignation.—They may talk of the you know what; {31e} but, gad, if it
had not been for that, I should never have been able to get the access I
have had; and if that helps me to succeed, then that same thing will be
serviceable to the Church.  But how far we must depend upon new friends,
I have learnt by long practice, though I think among great Ministers,
they are just as good as old ones.  And so I think this important day has
made a great hole in this side of the paper; and the fiddle-faddles of
to-morrow and Monday will make up the rest; and, besides, I shall see
Harley on Tuesday before this letter goes.

8.  I must tell you a great piece of refinement {31f} of Harley.  He
charged me to come to him often: I told him I was loth to trouble him in
so much business as he had, and desired I might have leave to come at his
levee; which he immediately refused, and said, that was not a place for
friends to come to.  ’Tis now but morning; and I have got a foolish
trick, I must say something to MD when I wake, and wish them a
good-morrow; for this is not a shaving-day, Sunday, so I have time
enough: but get you gone, you rogues, I must go write: Yes, ’twill vex me
to the blood if any of these long letters should miscarry: if they do, I
will shrink to half-sheets again; but then what will you do to make up
the journal? there will be ten days of Presto’s life lost; and that will
be a sad thing, faith and troth.—At night.  I was at a loss to-day for a
dinner, unless I would have gone a great way, so I dined with some
friends that board hereabout, {32a} as a spunger; {32b} and this evening
Sir Andrew Fountaine would needs have me go to the tavern; where, for two
bottles of wine, Portugal and Florence, among three of us, we had sixteen
shillings to pay; but if ever he catches me so again, I’ll spend as many
pounds: and therefore I have it among my extraordinaries but we had a
neck of mutton dressed _à la Maintenon_, that the dog could not eat: and
it is now twelve o’clock, and I must go sleep.  I hope this letter will
go before I have MD’s third.  Do you believe me? and yet, faith, I long
for MD’s third too and yet I would have it to say, that I writ five for
two.  I am not fond at all of St. James’s Coffee-house, {32c} as I used
to be.  I hope it will mend in winter; but now they are all out of town
at elections, or not come from their country houses.  Yesterday I was
going with Dr. Garth {32d} to dine with Charles Main, {32e} near the
Tower, who has an employment there: he is of Ireland; the Bishop of
Clogher knows him well: an honest, good-natured fellow, a thorough hearty
laugher, mightily beloved by the men of wit: his mistress is never above
a cook-maid.  And so, good-night, etc.

9.  I dined to-day at Sir John Stanley’s; my Lady Stanley {32f} is one of
my favourites: I have as many here as the Bishop of Killala has in
Ireland.  I am thinking what scurvy company I shall be to MD when I come
back: they know everything of me already: I will tell you no more, or I
shall have nothing to say, no story to tell, nor any kind of thing.  I
was very uneasy last night with ugly, nasty, filthy wine, that turned
sour on my stomach.  I must go to the tavern: oh, but I told you that
before.  To-morrow I dine at Harley’s, and will finish this letter at my
return; but I can write no more now, because of the Archbishop: faith,
’tis true; for I am going now to write to him an account of what I have
done in the business with Harley: {33a} and, faith, young women, I’ll
tell you what you must count upon, that I never will write one word on
the third side in these long letters.

10.  Poor MD’s letter was lying so huddled up among papers, I could not
find it: I mean poor Presto’s letter.  Well, I dined with Mr. Harley
to-day, and hope some things will be done; but I must say no more: and
this letter must be sent to the post-house, and not by the bellman. {33b}
I am to dine again there on Sunday next; I hope to some good issue.  And
so now, soon as ever I can in bed, I must begin my 6th to MD as gravely
as if I had not written a word this month: fine doings, faith!  Methinks
I don’t write as I should, because I am not in bed: see the ugly wide
lines.  God Almighty ever bless you, etc.

Faith, this is a whole treatise; I’ll go reckon the lines on the other
sides.  I’ve reckoned them. {33c}



LETTER VI.


                                                  LONDON, _Oct._ 10, 1710.

SO, as I told you just now in the letter I sent half an hour ago, I dined
with Mr. Harley to-day, who presented me to the Attorney-General, Sir
Simon Harcourt, with much compliment on all sides, etc.  Harley told me
he had shown my memorial to the Queen, and seconded it very heartily; and
he desires me to dine with him again on Sunday, when he promises to
settle it with Her Majesty, before she names a Governor: {34a} and I
protest I am in hopes it will be done, all but the forms, by that time;
for he loves the Church.  This is a popular thing, and he would not have
a Governor share in it; and, besides, I am told by all hands, he has a
mind to gain me over.  But in the letter I writ last post (yesterday) to
the Archbishop, I did not tell him a syllable of what Mr. Harley said to
me last night, because he charged me to keep it secret; so I would not
tell it to you, but that, before this goes, I hope the secret will be
over.  I am now writing my poetical “Description of a Shower in London,”
and will send it to the _Tatler_. {34b}  This is the last sheet of a
whole quire I have written since I came to town.  Pray, now it comes into
my head, will you, when you go to Mrs. Walls, contrive to know whether
Mrs. Wesley {34c} be in town, and still at her brother’s, and how she is
in health, and whether she stays in town.  I writ to her from Chester, to
know what I should do with her note; and I believe the poor woman is
afraid to write to me: so I must go to my business, etc.

11.  To-day at last I dined with Lord Mountrath, {34d} and carried Lord
Mountjoy, and Sir Andrew Fountaine with me; and was looking over them at
ombre till eleven this evening like a fool: they played running ombre
half-crowns; and Sir Andrew Fountaine won eight guineas of Mr. Coote;
{34e} so I am come home late, and will say but little to MD this night.
I have gotten half a bushel of coals, and Patrick, the extravagant whelp,
had a fire ready for me; but I picked off the coals before I went to bed.
It is a sign London is now an empty place, when it will not furnish me
with matter for above five or six lines in a day.  Did you smoke in my
last how I told you the very day and the place you were playing at ombre?
But I interlined and altered a little, after I had received a letter from
Mr. Manley, that said you were at it in his house, while he was writing
to me; but without his help I guessed within one day.  Your town is
certainly much more sociable than ours.  I have not seen your mother yet,
etc.

12.  I dined to-day with Dr. Garth and Mr. Addison, at the Devil Tavern
{35a} by Temple Bar, and Garth treated; and ’tis well I dine every day,
else I should be longer making out my letters: for we are yet in a very
dull state, only inquiring every day after new elections, where the
Tories carry it among the new members six to one.  Mr. Addison’s election
{35b} has passed easy and undisputed; and I believe if he had a mind to
be chosen king, he would hardly be refused.  An odd accident has happened
at Colchester: one Captain Lavallin, {35c} coming from Flanders or Spain,
found his wife with child by a clerk of Doctors’ Commons, whose trade,
you know, it is to prevent fornications: and this clerk was the very same
fellow that made the discovery of Dyot’s {35d} counterfeiting the
stamp-paper.  Lavallin has been this fortnight hunting after the clerk,
to kill him; but the fellow was constantly employed at the Treasury,
about the discovery he made: the wife had made a shift to patch up the
business, alleging that the clerk had told her her husband was dead and
other excuses; but t’other day somebody told Lavallin his wife had
intrigues before he married her: upon which he goes down in a rage,
shoots his wife through the head, then falls on his sword; and, to make
the matter sure, at the same time discharges a pistol through his own
head, and died on the spot, his wife surviving him about two hours, but
in what circumstances of mind and body is terrible to imagine.  I have
finished my poem on the “Shower,” all but the beginning; and am going on
with my _Tatler_.  They have fixed about fifty things on me since I came:
I have printed but three. {36a} One advantage I get by writing to you
daily, or rather you get, is, that I shall remember not to write the same
things twice; and yet, I fear, I have done it often already: but I will
mind and confine myself to the accidents of the day; and so get you gone
to ombre, and be good girls, and save your money, and be rich against
Presto comes, and write to me now and then: I am thinking it would be a
pretty thing to hear sometimes from saucy MD; but do not hurt your eyes,
Stella, I charge you.

13.  O Lord, here is but a trifle of my letter written yet; what shall
Presto do for prattle-prattle, to entertain MD?  The talk now grows
fresher of the Duke of Ormond for Ireland; though Mr. Addison says he
hears it will be in commission, and Lord Galway {36b} one.  These letters
of mine are a sort of journal, where matters open by degrees; and, as I
tell true or false, you will find by the event whether my intelligence be
good; but I do not care twopence whether it be or no.—At night.  To-day I
was all about St. Paul’s, and up at the top like a fool, with Sir Andrew
Fountaine and two more; and spent seven shillings for my dinner like a
puppy: this is the second time he has served me so; but I will never do
it again, though all mankind should persuade me, unconsidering puppies!
There is a young fellow here in town we are all fond of, and about a year
or two come from the University, one Harrison, {36c} a little pretty
fellow, with a great deal of wit, good sense, and good nature; has
written some mighty pretty things; that in your 6th _Miscellanea_, {37a}
about the Sprig of an Orange, is his: he has nothing to live on but being
governor to one of the Duke of Queensberry’s {37b} sons for forty pounds
a year.  The fine fellows are always inviting him to the tavern, and make
him pay his club.  Henley {37c} is a great crony of his: they are often
at the tavern at six or seven shillings reckoning, and he always makes
the poor lad pay his full share.  A colonel and a lord were at him and me
the same way to-night: I absolutely refused, and made Harrison lag
behind, and persuaded him not to go to them.  I tell you this, because I
find all rich fellows have that humour of using all people without any
consideration of their fortunes; but I will see them rot before they
shall serve me so.  Lord Halifax is always teasing me to go down to his
country house, which will cost me a guinea to his servants, and twelve
shillings coach-hire; and he shall be hanged first.  Is not this a plaguy
silly story?  But I am vexed at the heart; for I love the young fellow,
and am resolved to stir up people to do something for him: he is a Whig,
and I will put him upon some of my cast Whigs; for I have done with them;
and they have, I hope, done with this kingdom for our time.  They were
sure of the four members for London above all places, and they have lost
three in the four. {37d}  Sir Richard Onslow, {37e} we hear, has lost for
Surrey; and they are overthrown in most places.  Lookee, gentlewomen, if
I write long letters, I must write you news and stuff, unless I send you
my verses; and some I dare not; and those on the “Shower in London” I
have sent to the _Tatler_, and you may see them in Ireland.  I fancy you
will smoke me in the _Tatler_ I am going to write; for I believe I have
told you the hint.  I had a letter sent me to-night from Sir Matthew
Dudley, and found it on my table when I came in.  Because it is
extraordinary, I will transcribe it from beginning to end.  It is as
follows: “Is the Devil in you?  Oct. 13, 1710.”  I would have answered
every particular passage in it, only I wanted time.  Here is enough for
to-night, such as it is, etc.

14.  Is that tobacco at the top of the paper, {38a} or what?  I do not
remember I slobbered.  Lord, I dreamt of Stella, etc., so confusedly last
night, and that we saw Dean Bolton {38b} and Sterne {38c} go into a shop:
and she bid me call them to her, and they proved to be two parsons I know
not; and I walked without till she was shifting, and such stuff, mixed
with much melancholy and uneasiness, and things not as they should be,
and I know not how: and it is now an ugly gloomy morning.—At night.  Mr.
Addison and I dined with Ned Southwell, and walked in the Park; and at
the Coffee-house I found a letter from the Bishop of Clogher, and a
packet from MD.  I opened the Bishop’s letter; but put up MD’s, and
visited a lady just come to town; and am now got into bed, and going to
open your little letter: and God send I may find MD well, and happy, and
merry, and that they love Presto as they do fires.  Oh, I will not open
it yet! yes I will! no I will not!  I am going; I cannot stay till I turn
over. {39a}  What shall I do?  My fingers itch; and now I have it in my
left hand; and now I will open it this very moment.—I have just got it,
and am cracking the seal, and cannot imagine what is in it; I fear only
some letter from a bishop, and it comes too late; I shall employ nobody’s
credit but my own.  Well, I see though—  Pshaw, ’tis from Sir Andrew
Fountaine.  What, another!  I fancy that’s from Mrs. Barton; {39b} she
told me she would write to me; but she writes a better hand than this: I
wish you would inquire; it must be at Dawson’s {39c} office at the
Castle.  I fear this is from Patty Rolt, by the scrawl.  Well, I will
read MD’s letter.  Ah, no; it is from poor Lady Berkeley, to invite me to
Berkeley Castle this winter; and now it grieves my heart: she says, she
hopes my lord is in a fair way of recovery; {39d} poor lady! Well, now I
go to MD’s letter: faith, it is all right; I hoped it was wrong.  Your
letter, N. 3, that I have now received, is dated Sept. 26; and Manley’s
letter, that I had five days ago, was dated Oct. 3, that’s a fortnight
difference: I doubt it has lain in Steele’s office, and he forgot.  Well,
there’s an end of that: he is turned out of his place; {39e} and you must
desire those who send me packets, to enclose them in a paper directed to
Mr. Addison, at St. James’s Coffee-house: not common letters, but
packets: the Bishop of Clogher may mention it to the Archbishop when he
sees him.  As for your letter, it makes me mad: slidikins, I have been
the best boy in Christendom, and you come with your two eggs a
penny.—Well; but stay, I will look over my book: adad, I think there was
a chasm between my N. 2 and N. 3.  Faith, I will not promise to write to
you every week; but I will write every night, and when it is full I will
send it; that will be once in ten days, and that will be often enough:
and if you begin to take up the way of writing to Presto, only because it
is Tuesday, a Monday bedad it will grow a task; but write when you have a
mind.—No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—Agad, agad, agad, agad, agad, agad;
no, poor Stellakins. {40a}  Slids, I would the horse were in
your—chamber!  Have not I ordered Parvisol to obey your directions about
him?  And han’t I said in my former letters that you may pickle him, and
boil him, if you will?  What do you trouble me about your horses for?
Have I anything to do with them?—Revolutions a hindrance to me in my
business?  Revolutions to me in my business?  If it were not for the
revolutions, I could do nothing at all; and now I have all hopes
possible, though one is certain of nothing; but to-morrow I am to have an
answer, and am promised an effectual one.  I suppose I have said enough
in this and a former letter how I stand with new people; ten times better
than ever I did with the old; forty times more caressed.  I am to dine
to-morrow at Mr. Harley’s; and if he continues as he has begun, no man
has been ever better treated by another.  What you say about Stella’s
mother, I have spoken enough to it already.  I believe she is not in
town; for I have not yet seen her.  My lampoon is cried up to the skies;
but nobody suspects me for it, except Sir Andrew Fountaine: at least they
say nothing of it to me.  Did not I tell you of a great man who received
me very coldly? {40b}  That’s he; but say nothing; ’twas only a little
revenge.  I will remember to bring it over.  The Bishop of Clogher has
smoked my _Tatler_, {40c} about shortening of words, etc.  But, God So!
{40d} etc.

15.  I will write plainer if I can remember it; for Stella must not spoil
her eyes, and Dingley can’t read my hand very well; and I am afraid my
letters are too long: then you must suppose one to be two, and read them
at twice.  I dined to-day with Mr. Harley: Mr. Prior {41a} dined with us.
He has left my memorial with the Queen, who has consented to give the
First-Fruits and Twentieth Parts, {41b} and will, we hope, declare it
to-morrow in the Cabinet.  But I beg you to tell it to no person alive;
for so I am ordered, till in public: and I hope to get something of
greater value.  After dinner came in Lord Peterborow: {41c} we renewed
our acquaintance, and he grew mightily fond of me.  They began to talk of
a paper of verses called “Sid Hamet.”  Mr. Harley repeated part, and then
pulled them out, and gave them to a gentleman at the table to read,
though they had all read them often.  Lord Peterborow would let nobody
read them but himself: so he did; and Mr. Harley bobbed {41d} me at every
line, to take notice of the beauties.  Prior rallied Lord Peterborow for
author of them; and Lord Peterborow said he knew them to be his; and
Prior then turned it upon me, and I on him.  I am not guessed at all in
town to be the author; yet so it is: but that is a secret only to you.
{41e}  Ten to one whether you see them in Ireland; yet here they run
prodigiously.  Harley presented me to Lord President of Scotland, {41f}
and Mr. Benson, {41g} Lord of the Treasury.  Prior and I came away at
nine, and sat at the Smyrna {42a} till eleven, receiving acquaintance.

16.  This morning early I went in a chair, and Patrick before it, to Mr.
Harley, to give him another copy of my memorial, as he desired; but he
was full of business, going to the Queen, and I could not see him; but he
desired I would send up the paper, and excused himself upon his hurry.  I
was a little baulked; but they tell me it is nothing.  I shall judge by
next visit.  I tipped his porter with half a crown; and so I am well
there for a time at least.  I dined at Stratford’s in the City, and had
Burgundy and Tokay: came back afoot like a scoundrel: then went with Mr.
Addison and supped with Lord Mountjoy, which made me sick all night.  I
forgot that I bought six pounds of chocolate for Stella, and a little
wooden box; and I have a great piece of Brazil tobacco for Dingley, {42b}
and a bottle of palsy-water {42c} for Stella: all which, with the two
handkerchiefs that Mr. Sterne has bought, and you must pay him for, will
be put in the box, directed to Mrs. Curry’s, and sent by Dr. Hawkshaw,
{42d} whom I have not seen; but Sterne has undertaken it.  The chocolate
is a present, madam, for Stella.  Don’t read this, you little rogue, with
your little eyes; but give it to Dingley, pray now; and I will write as
plain as the skies: and let Dingley write Stella’s part, and Stella
dictate to her, when she apprehends her eyes, etc.

17.  This letter should have gone this post, if I had not been taken up
with business, and two nights being late out; so it must stay till
Thursday.  I dined to-day with your Mr. Sterne, {43a} by invitation, and
drank Irish wine; {43b} but, before we parted, there came in the prince
of puppies, Colonel Edgworth; {43c} so I went away.  This day came out
the _Tatler_, made up wholly of my “Shower,” and a preface to it.  They
say it is the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too.  I suppose the
Bishop of Clogher will show it you.  Pray tell me how you like it.  Tooke
is going on with my _Miscellany_. {43d}  I’d give a penny the letter to
the Bishop of Killaloe {43e} was in it: ’twould do him honour.  Could not
you contrive to say, you hear they are printing my things together; and
that you with the bookseller had that letter among the rest: but don’t
say anything of it as from me.  I forget whether it was good or no; but
only having heard it much commended, perhaps it may deserve it.  Well, I
have to-morrow to finish this letter in, and then I will send it next
day.  I am so vexed that you should write your third to me, when you had
but my second, and I had written five, which now I hope you have all: and
so I tell you, you are saucy, little, pretty, dear rogues, etc.

18.  To-day I dined, by invitation, with Stratford and others, at a young
merchant’s in the City, with Hermitage and Tokay, and stayed till nine,
and am now come home.  And that dog Patrick is abroad, and drinking, and
I cannot I get my night-gown.  I have a mind to turn that puppy away: he
has been drunk ten times in three weeks.  But I han’t time to say more;
so good-night, etc.

19.  I am come home from dining in the city with Mr. Addison, at a
merchant’s; and just now, at the Coffee-house, we have notice that the
Duke of Ormond was this day declared Lord Lieutenant at Hampton Court, in
Council.  I have not seen Mr. Harley since; but hope the affair is done
about First-Fruits.  I will see him, if possible, to-morrow morning; but
this goes to-night.  I have sent a box to Mr. Sterne, to send to you by
some friend: I have directed it for Mr. Curry, at his house; so you have
warning when it comes, as I hope it will soon.  The handkerchiefs will be
put in some friend’s pocket, not to pay custom.  And so here ends my
sixth, sent when I had but three of MD’s: now I am beforehand, and will
keep so; and God Almighty bless dearest MD, etc.



LETTER VII.


                                                  LONDON, _Oct._ 19, 1710.

FAITH, I am undone! this paper is larger than the other, and yet I am
condemned to a sheet; but, since it is MD, I did not value though I were
condemned to a pair.  I told you in my letter to-day where I had been,
and how the day passed; and so, etc.

20.  To-day I went to Mr. Lewis, at the Secretary’s office, to know when
I might see Mr. Harley; and by and by comes up Mr. Harley himself, and
appoints me to dine with him to-morrow.  I dined with Mrs. Vanhomrigh,
{44a} and went to wait on the two Lady Butlers; {44b} but the porter
answered they were not at home: the meaning was, the youngest, Lady Mary,
is to be married to-morrow to Lord Ashburnham, {44c} the best match now
in England, twelve thousand pounds a year, and abundance of money.  Tell
me how my “Shower” is liked in Ireland: I never knew anything pass better
here.  I spent the evening with Wortley Montagu {45a} and Mr. Addison,
over a bottle of Irish wine.  Do they know anything in Ireland of my
greatness among the Tories?  Everybody reproaches me of it here; but I
value them not.  Have you heard of the verses about the “Rod of Sid
Hamet”?  Say nothing of them for your life.  Hardly anybody suspects me
for them; only they think nobody but Prior or I could write them.  But I
doubt they have not reached you.  There is likewise a ballad full of puns
on the Westminster Election, {45b} that cost me half an hour: it runs,
though it be good for nothing.  But this is likewise a secret to all but
MD.  If you have them not, I will bring them over.

21.  I got MD’s fourth to-day at the Coffee-house.  God Almighty bless
poor, dear Stella, and her eyes and head!  What shall we do to cure them?
poor, dear life!  Your disorders are a pull-back for your good qualities.
Would to Heaven I were this minute shaving your poor, dear head, either
here or there!  Pray do not write, nor read this letter, nor anything
else; and I will write plainer for Dingley to read from henceforward,
though my pen is apt to ramble when I think whom I am writing to.  I will
not answer your letter until I tell you that I dined this day with Mr.
Harley, who presented me to the Earl of Stirling, {45c} a Scotch lord;
and in the evening came in Lord Peterborow.  I stayed till nine before
Mr. Harley would let me go, or tell me anything of my affair.  He says
the Queen has now granted the First-Fruits and Twentieth Parts; but he
will not give me leave to write to the Archbishop, because the Queen
designs to signify it to the Bishops in Ireland in form; and to take
notice, that it was done upon a memorial from me; which, Mr. Harley tells
me he does to make it look more respectful to me, etc.; and I am to see
him on Tuesday.  I know not whether I told you that, in my memorial which
was given to the Queen, I begged for two thousand pounds a year more,
though it was not in my commission; but that, Mr. Harley says, cannot yet
be done, and that he and I must talk of it further: however, I have
started it, and it may follow in time.  Pray say nothing of the
First-Fruits being granted, unless I give leave at the bottom of this.  I
believe never anything was compassed so soon, and purely done by my
personal credit with Mr. Harley, who is so excessively obliging, that I
know not what to make of it, unless to show the rascals of the other
party that they used a man unworthily who had deserved better.  The
memorial given to the Queen from me speaks with great plainness of Lord
Wharton.  I believe this business is as important to you as the
Convocation disputes from Tisdall. {46}  I hope in a month or two all the
forms of settling this matter will be over; and then I shall have nothing
to do here.  I will only add one foolish thing more, because it is just
come into my head.  When this thing is made known, tell me impartially
whether they give any of the merit to me, or no; for I am sure I have so
much, that I will never take it upon me.—Insolent sluts! because I say
Dublin, Ireland, therefore you must say London, England: that is Stella’s
malice.—Well, for that I will not answer your letter till to-morrow-day,
and so and so: I will go write something else, and it will not be much;
for ’tis late.

22.  I was this morning with Mr. Lewis, the under-secretary to Lord
Dartmouth, two hours, talking politics, and contriving to keep Steele in
his office of stamped paper: he has lost his place of Gazetteer, three
hundred pounds a year, for writing a _Tatler_, {47a} some months ago,
against Mr. Harley, who gave it him at first, and raised the salary from
sixty to three hundred pounds.  This was devilish ungrateful; and Lewis
was telling me the particulars: but I had a hint given me, that I might
save him in the other employment: and leave was given me to clear matters
with Steele.  Well, I dined with Sir Matthew Dudley, and in the evening
went to sit with Mr. Addison, and offer the matter at distance to him, as
the discreeter person; but found party had so possessed him, that he
talked as if he suspected me, and would not fall in with anything I said.
So I stopped short in my overture, and we parted very drily; and I shall
say nothing to Steele, and let them do as they will; but, if things stand
as they are, he will certainly lose it, unless I save him; and therefore
I will not speak to him, that I may not report to his disadvantage.  Is
not this vexatious? and is there so much in the proverb of proffered
service?  When shall I grow wise?  I endeavour to act in the most exact
points of honour and conscience; and my nearest friends will not
understand it so.  What must a man expect from his enemies?  This would
vex me, but it shall not; and so I bid you good-night, etc.

23.  I know ’tis neither wit nor diversion to tell you every day where I
dine; neither do I write it to fill my letter; but I fancy I shall, some
time or other, have the curiosity of seeing some particulars how I passed
my life when I was absent from MD this time; and so I tell you now that I
dined to-day at Molesworth’s, the Florence Envoy, then went to the
Coffee-house, where I behaved myself coldly enough to Mr. Addison, and so
came home to scribble.  We dine together to-morrow and next day by
invitation; but I shall alter my behaviour to him, till he begs my
pardon, or else we shall grow bare acquaintance.  I am weary of friends;
and friendships are all monsters, but MD’s.

24.  I forgot to tell you, that last night I went to Mr. Harley’s,
hoping—faith, I am blundering, for it was this very night at six; and I
hoped he would have told me all things were done and granted: but he was
abroad, and came home ill, and was gone to bed, much out of order, unless
the porter lied.  I dined to-day at Sir Matthew Dudley’s, with Mr.
Addison, etc.

25.  I was to-day to see the Duke of Ormond; and, coming out, met Lord
Berkeley of Stratton, {48a} who told me that Mrs. Temple, {48b} the
widow, died last Saturday, which, I suppose, is much to the outward grief
and inward joy of the family.  I dined to-day with Addison and Steele,
and a sister of Mr. Addison, who is married to one Mons. Sartre, {48c} a
Frenchman, prebendary of Westminster, who has a delicious house and
garden; yet I thought it was a sort of monastic life in those cloisters,
and I liked Laracor better.  Addison’s sister is a sort of a wit, very
like him.  I am not fond of her, etc.

26.  I was to-day to see Mr. Congreve, {48d} who is almost blind with
cataracts growing on his eyes; and his case is, that he must wait two or
three years, until the cataracts are riper, and till he is quite blind,
and then he must have them couched; and, besides, he is never rid of the
gout, yet he looks young and fresh, and is as cheerful as ever.  He is
younger by three years or more than I; and I am twenty years younger than
he.  He gave me a pain in the great toe, by mentioning the gout.  I find
such suspicions frequently, but they go off again.  I had a second letter
from Mr. Morgan, {49a} for which I thank you: I wish you were whipped,
for forgetting to send him that answer I desired you in one of my former,
that I could do nothing for him of what he desired, having no credit at
all, etc.  Go, be far enough, you negligent baggages.  I have had also a
letter from Parvisol, with an account how my livings are set; and that
they are fallen, since last year, sixty pounds.  A comfortable piece of
news!  He tells me plainly that he finds you have no mind to part with
the horse, because you sent for him at the same time you sent him my
letter; so that I know not what must be done.  It is a sad thing that
Stella must have her own horse, whether Parvisol will or no.  So now to
answer your letter that I had three or four days ago.  I am not now in
bed, but am come home by eight; and, it being warm, I write up.  I never
writ to the Bishop of Killala, which, I suppose, was the reason he had
not my letter.  I have not time, there is the short of it.—As fond as the
Dean {49b} is of my letter, he has not written to me.  I would only know
whether Dean Bolton {49c} paid him the twenty pounds; and for the rest,
he may kiss—And that you may ask him, because I am in pain about it, that
Dean Bolton is such a whipster.  ’Tis the most obliging thing in the
world in Dean Sterne to be so kind to you.  I believe he knows it will
please me, and makes up, that way, his other usage. {49d}  No, we have
had none of your snow, but a little one morning; yet I think it was great
snow for an hour or so, but no longer.  I had heard of Will Crowe’s {49e}
death before, but not the foolish circumstance that hastened his end.
No, I have taken care that Captain Pratt {50a} shall not suffer by Lord
Anglesea’s death. {50b}  I will try some contrivance to get a copy of my
picture from Jervas.  I will make Sir Andrew Fountaine buy one as for
himself, and I will pay him again, and take it, that is, provided I have
money to spare when I leave this.—Poor John! is he gone? and Madam
Parvisol {50c} has been in town! Humm.  Why, Tighe {50d} and I, when he
comes, shall not take any notice of each other; I would not do it much in
this town, though we had not fallen out.—I was to-day at Mr. Sterne’s
lodging: he was not within; and Mr. Leigh is not come to town; but I will
do Dingley’s errand when I see him.  What do I know whether china be dear
or no?  I once took a fancy of resolving to grow mad for it, but now it
is off; I suppose I told you in some former letter.  And so you only want
some salad-dishes, and plates, and etc.  Yes, yes, you shall.  I suppose
you have named as much as will cost five pounds.—Now to Stella’s little
postscript; and I am almost crazed that you vex yourself for not writing.
Cannot you dictate to Dingley, and not strain your little, dear eyes?  I
am sure it is the grief of my soul to think you are out of order.  Pray
be quiet; and, if you will write, shut your eyes, and write just a line,
and no more, thus, “How do you do, Mrs. Stella?”  That was written with
my eyes shut.  Faith, I think it is better than when they are open: and
then Dingley may stand by, and tell you when you go too high or too
low.—My letters of business, with packets, if there be any more occasion
for such, must be enclosed to Mr. Addison, at St. James’s Coffee-house:
but I hope to hear, as soon as I see Mr. Harley, that the main
difficulties are over, and that the rest will be but form.—Take two or
three nutgalls, take two or three—galls, stop your receipt in your—I have
no need on’t.  Here is a clutter!  Well, so much for your letter, which I
will now put up in my letter-partition in my cabinet, as I always do
every letter as soon as I answer it.  Method is good in all things.
Order governs the world.  The Devil is the author of confusion.  A
general of an army, a minister of state; to descend lower, a gardener, a
weaver, etc.  That may make a fine observation, if you think it worth
finishing; but I have not time.  Is not this a terrible long piece for
one evening?  I dined to-day with Patty Rolt at my cousin Leach’s, {51a}
with a pox, in the City: he is a printer, and prints the _Postman_, oh
hoo, and is my cousin, God knows how, and he married Mrs. Baby Aires of
Leicester; and my cousin Thomson was with us: and my cousin Leach offers
to bring me acquainted with the author of the _Postman_; {51b} and says
he does not doubt but the gentleman will be glad of my acquaintance; and
that he is a very ingenious man, and a great scholar, and has been beyond
sea.  But I was modest and said, may be the gentleman was shy, and not
fond of new acquaintance; and so put it off: and I wish you could hear me
repeating all I have said of this in its proper tone, just as I am
writing it.  It is all with the same cadence with “Oh hoo,” or as when
little girls say, “I have got an apple, miss, and I won’t give you some.”
It is plaguy twelvepenny weather this last week, and has cost me ten
shillings in coach and chair hire.  If the fellow that has your money
will pay it, let me beg you to buy Bank Stock with it, which is fallen
near thirty per cent. and pays eight pounds per cent. and you have the
principal when you please: it will certainly soon rise.  I would to God
Lady Giffard would put in the four hundred pounds she owes you, {51c} and
take the five per cent. common interest, and give you the remainder.  I
will speak to your mother about it when I see her.  I am resolved to buy
three hundred pounds of it for myself, and take up what I have in
Ireland; and I have a contrivance for it, that I hope will do, by making
a friend of mine buy it as for himself, and I will pay him when I can get
in my money.  I hope Stratford will do me that kindness.  I’ll ask him
to-morrow or next day.

27.  Mr. Rowe {52a} the poet desired me to dine with him to-day.  I went
to his office (he is under-secretary in Mr. Addison’s place that he had
in England), and there was Mr. Prior; and they both fell commending my
“Shower” beyond anything that has been written of the kind: there never
was such a “Shower” since Danae’s, etc.  You must tell me how it is liked
among you.  I dined with Rowe; Prior could not come: and after dinner we
went to a blind tavern, {52b} where Congreve, Sir Richard Temple, {52c}
Estcourt, {52d} and Charles Main, {52e} were over a bowl of bad punch.
The knight sent for six flasks of his own wine for me, and we stayed till
twelve.  But now my head continues pretty well; I have left off my
drinking, and only take a spoonful mixed with water, for fear of the
gout, or some ugly distemper; and now, because it is late, I will, etc.

28.  Garth and Addison and I dined to-day at a hedge {52f} tavern; then I
went to Mr. Harley, but he was denied, or not at home: so I fear I shall
not hear my business is done before this goes.  Then I visited Lord
Pembroke, {52g} who is just come to town; and we were very merry talking
of old things; and I hit him with one pun.  Then I went to see the Ladies
Butler, and the son of a whore of a porter denied them: so I sent them a
threatening message by another lady, for not excepting me always to the
porter.  I was weary of the Coffee-house, and Ford {53a} desired me to
sit with him at next door; which I did, like a fool, chatting till
twelve, and now am got into bed.  I am afraid the new Ministry is at a
terrible loss about money: the Whigs talk so, it would give one the
spleen; and I am afraid of meeting Mr. Harley out of humour.  They think
he will never carry through this undertaking.  God knows what will come
of it.  I should be terribly vexed to see things come round again: it
will ruin the Church and clergy for ever; but I hope for better.  I will
send this on Tuesday, whether I hear any further news of my affair or
not.

29.  Mr. Addison and I dined to-day with Lord Mountjoy; which is all the
adventures of this day.—I chatted a while to-night in the Coffee-house,
this being a full night; and now am come home, to write some business.

30.  I dined to-day at Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, and sent a letter to poor Mrs.
Long, {53b} who writes to us, but is God knows where, and will not tell
anybody the place of her residence.  I came home early, and must go
write.

31.  The month ends with a fine day; and I have been walking, and
visiting Lewis, and concerting where to see Mr. Harley.  I have no news
to send you.  Aire, {53c} they say, is taken, though the Whitehall
letters this morning say quite the contrary: ’tis good, if it be true.  I
dined with Mr. Addison and Dick Stewart, Lord Mountjoy’s brother; {53d} a
treat of Addison’s.  They were half-fuddled, but not I; for I mixed water
with my wine, and left them together between nine and ten; and I must
send this by the bellman, which vexes me, but I will put it off no
longer.  Pray God it does not miscarry.  I seldom do so; but I can put
off little MD no longer.  Pray give the under note to Mrs. Brent.

I am a pretty gentleman; and you lose all your money at cards, sirrah
Stella.  I found you out; I did so.

I am staying before I can fold up this letter, till that ugly D is dry in
the last line but one.  Do not you see it?  O Lord, I am loth to leave
you, faith—but it must be so, till the next time.  Pox take that D; I
will blot it, to dry it.



LETTER VIII.


                                                  LONDON, _Oct._ 31, 1710.

SO, now I have sent my seventh to your fourth, young women; and now I
will tell you what I would not in my last, that this morning, sitting in
my bed, I had a fit of giddiness: the room turned round for about a
minute, and then it went off, leaving me sickish, but not very: and so I
passed the day as I told you; but I would not end a letter with telling
you this, because it might vex you: and I hope in God I shall have no
more of it.  I saw Dr. Cockburn {54a} to-day, and he promises to send me
the pills that did me good last year; and likewise has promised me an oil
for my ear, that he has been making for that ailment for somebody else.

Nov. 1.  I wish MD a merry new year.  You know this is the first day of
it with us. {54b}  I had no giddiness to-day; but I drank brandy, and
have bought a pint for two shillings.  I sat up the night before my
giddiness pretty late, and writ very much; so I will impute it to that.
But I never eat fruit, nor drink ale; but drink better wine than you do,
as I did to-day with Mr. Addison at Lord Mountjoy’s: then went at five to
see Mr. Harley, who could not see me for much company; but sent me his
excuse, and desired I would dine with him on Friday; and then I expect
some answer to this business, which must either be soon done, or begun
again; and then the Duke of Ormond and his people will interfere for
their honour, and do nothing.  I came home at six, and spent my time in
my chamber, without going to the Coffee-house, which I grow weary of; and
I studied at leisure, writ not above forty lines, some inventions of my
own, and some hints, and read not at all, and this because I would take
care of Presto, for fear little MD should be angry.

2.  I took my four pills last night, and they lay an hour in my throat,
and so they will do to-night.  I suppose I could swallow four affronts as
easily.  I dined with Dr. Cockburn to-day, and came home at seven; but
Mr. Ford has been with me till just now, and it is near eleven.  I have
had no giddiness to-day.  Mr. Dopping {55a} I have seen; and he tells me
coldly, my “Shower” is liked well enough; there’s your Irish judgment!  I
writ this post to the Bishop of Clogher.  It is now just a fortnight
since I heard from you.  I must have you write once a fortnight, and then
I will allow for wind and weather.  How goes ombre?  Does Mrs. Walls
{55b} win constantly, as she used to do?  And Mrs. Stoyte; {55c} I have
not thought of her this long time: how does she?  I find we have a cargo
of Irish coming for London: I am sorry for it; but I never go near them.
And Tighe is landed; but Mrs. Wesley, {55d} they say, is going home to
her husband, like a fool.  Well, little monkeys mine, I must go write;
and so good-night.

3.  I ought to read these letters I write, after I have done; for,
looking over thus much, I found two or three literal mistakes, which
should not be when the hand is so bad.  But I hope it does not puzzle
little Dingley to read, for I think I mend: but methinks, when I write
plain, I do not know how, but we are not alone, all the world can see us.
A bad scrawl is so snug, it looks like a PMD. {56a}  We have scurvy
_Tatlers_ of late: so pray do not suspect me.  I have one or two hints I
design to send him, and never any more: he does not deserve it.  He is
governed by his wife most abominably, {56b} as bad as —.  I never saw her
since I came; nor has he ever made me an invitation: either he dares not,
or is such a thoughtless Tisdall {56c} fellow, that he never minds {56d}
it.  So what care I for his wit? for he is the worst company in the
world, till he has a bottle of wine in his head.  I cannot write
straighter in bed, so you must be content.—At night in bed.  Stay, let me
see where’s this letter to MD among these papers?  Oh! here.  Well, I
will go on now; but I am very busy (smoke the new pen.)  I dined with Mr.
Harley to-day, and am invited there again on Sunday.  I have now leave to
write to the Primate and Archbishop of Dublin, that the Queen has granted
the First-Fruits; but they are to take no notice of it, till a letter is
sent them by the Queen’s orders from Lord Dartmouth, Secretary of State,
to signify it.  The bishops are to be made a corporation, to dispose of
the revenue, etc.; and I shall write to the Archbishop of Dublin
to-morrow (I have had no giddiness to-day).  I know not whether they will
have any occasion for me longer to be here; nor can I judge till I see
what letter the Queen sends to the bishops, and what they will do upon
it.  If despatch be used, it may be done in six weeks; but I cannot
judge.  They sent me to-day a new Commission, signed by the Primate and
Archbishop of Dublin, {57a} and promise me letters to the two archbishops
here; but mine a — for it all.  The thing is done, and has been so these
ten days; though I had only leave to tell it to-day.  I had this day
likewise a letter from the Bishop of Clogher, who complains of my not
writing; and, what vexes me, says he knows you have long letters from me
every week.  Why do you tell him so?  ’Tis not right, faith: but I won’t
be angry with MD at distance.  I writ to him last post, before I had his;
and will write again soon, since I see he expects it, and that Lord and
Lady Mountjoy {57b} put him off upon me, to give themselves ease.
Lastly, I had this day a letter from a certain naughty rogue called MD,
and it was N. 5; which I shall not answer to-night, I thank you.  No,
faith, I have other fish to fry; but to-morrow or next day will be time
enough.  I have put MD’s commissions in a memorandum paper.  I think I
have done all before, and remember nothing but this to-day about glasses
and spectacles and spectacle cases.  I have no commission from Stella,
but the chocolate and handkerchiefs; and those are bought, and I expect
they will be soon sent.  I have been with, and sent to, Mr. Sterne, two
or three times to know; but he was not within.  Odds my life, what am I
doing?  I must go write and do business.

4.  I dined to-day at Kensington, with Addison, Steele, etc., came home,
and writ a short letter to the Archbishop of Dublin, to let him know the
Queen has granted the thing, etc.  I writ in the Coffee-house, for I
stayed at Kensington till nine, and am plaguy weary; for Colonel Proud
{58a} was very ill company, and I will never be of a party with him
again; and I drank punch, and that and ill company has made me hot.

5.  I was with Mr. Harley from dinner to seven this night, and went to
the Coffee-house, where Dr. Davenant {58b} would fain have had me gone
and drink a bottle of wine at his house hard by, with Dr. Chamberlen,
{58c} but the puppy used so many words, that I was afraid of his company;
and though we promised to come at eight, I sent a messenger to him, that
Chamberlen was going to a patient, and therefore we would put it off till
another time: so he, and the Comptroller, {58d} and I, were prevailed on
by Sir Matthew Dudley to go to his house, where I stayed till twelve, and
left them.  Davenant has been teasing me to look over some of his
writings that he is going to publish; but the rogue is so fond of his own
productions, that I hear he will not part with a syllable; and he has
lately put out a foolish pamphlet, called _The Third Part of Tom Double_;
to make his court to the Tories, whom he had left.

6.  I was to-day gambling {59a} in the City to see Patty Rolt, who is
going to Kingston, where she lodges; but, to say the truth, I had a mind
for a walk to exercise myself, and happened to be disengaged: for dinners
are ten times more plentiful with me here than ever, or than in Dublin.
I won’t answer your letter yet, because I am busy.  I hope to send this
before I have another from MD: it would be a sad thing to answer two
letters together, as MD does from Presto.  But when the two sides are
full, away the letter shall go, that is certain, like it or not like it;
and that will be about three days hence, for the answering-night will be
a long one.

7.  I dined to-day at Sir Richard Temple’s, with Congreve, Vanbrugh,
Lieutenant-General Farrington, {59b} etc.  Vanbrugh, I believe I told
you, had a long quarrel with me about those verses on his house; {59c}
but we were very civil and cold.  Lady Marlborough used to tease him with
them, which had made him angry, though he be a good-natured fellow.  It
was a Thanksgiving-day, {59d} and I was at Court, where the Queen passed
us by with all Tories about her; not one Whig: Buckingham, {60a}
Rochester, {60b} Leeds, {60c} Shrewsbury, {60d} Berkeley of Stratton,
{60e} Lord Keeper Harcourt, {60f} Mr. Harley, Lord Pembroke, {60g} etc.;
and I have seen her without one Tory.  The Queen made me a curtsey, and
said, in a sort of familiar way to Presto, “How does MD?”  I considered
she was a Queen, and so excused her. {60h}  I do not miss the Whigs at
Court; but have as many acquaintance there as formerly.

8.  Here’s ado and a clutter!  I must now answer MD’s fifth; but first
you must know I dined at the Portugal Envoy’s {60i} to-day, with Addison,
Vanbrugh, Admiral Wager, {60j} Sir Richard Temple, {60k} Methuen, {60l}
etc.  I was weary of their company, and stole away at five, and came home
like a good boy, and studied till ten, and had a fire, O ho! and now am
in bed.  I have no fireplace in my bed-chamber; but ’tis very warm
weather when one’s in bed.  Your fine cap, {60m} Madam Dingley, is too
little, and too hot: I will have that fur taken off; I wish it were far
enough; and my old velvet cap is good for nothing.  Is it velvet under
the fur?  I was feeling, but cannot find: if it be, ’twill do without it
else I will face it; but then I must buy new velvet: but may be I may beg
a piece.  What shall I do?  Well, now to rogue MD’s letter.  God be
thanked for Stella’s eyes mending; and God send it holds; but faith you
writ too much at a time: better write less, or write it at ten times.
Yes, faith, a long letter in a morning from a dear friend is a dear
thing.  I smoke a compliment, little mischievous girls, I do so.  But who
are those _Wiggs_ that think I am turned Tory?  Do you mean Whigs?  Which
_Wiggs_ and _wat_ do you mean?  I know nothing of Raymond, and only had
one letter from him a little after I came here. [Pray remember Morgan.]
Raymond is indeed like to have much influence over me in London, and to
share much of my conversation.  I shall, no doubt, introduce him to
Harley, and Lord Keeper, and the Secretary of State.  The _Tatler_ upon
Ithuriel’s spear {61a} is not mine, madam.  What a puzzle there is
betwixt you and your judgment!  In general you may be sometimes sure of
things, as that about _style_, {61b} because it is what I have frequently
spoken of; but guessing is mine a—, and I defy mankind, if I please.
Why, I writ a pamphlet when I was last in London, that you and a thousand
have seen, and never guessed it to be mine.  Could you have guessed the
“Shower in Town” to be mine?  How chance you did not see that before your
last letter went? but I suppose you in Ireland did not think it worth
mentioning.  Nor am I suspected for the lampoon; only Harley said he
smoked me; (have I told you so before?) and some others knew it.  ’Tis
called “The Rod of Sid Hamet.”  And I have written several other things
that I hear commended, and nobody suspects me for them; nor you shall not
know till I see you again.  What do you mean, “That boards near me, that
I dine with now and then?”  I know no such person: I do not dine with
boarders. {62a}  What the pox!  You know whom I have dined with every day
since I left you, better than I do.  What do you mean, sirrah?  Slids, my
ailment has been over these two months almost.  Impudence, if you vex me,
I will give ten shillings a week for my lodging; for I am almost st—k out
of this with the sink, and it helps me to verses in my “Shower.” {62b}
Well, Madam Dingley, what say you to the world to come?  What ballad?
Why go look, it was not good for much: have patience till I come back:
patience is a gay thing as, etc.  I hear nothing of Lord Mountjoy’s
coming for Ireland.  When is Stella’s birthday? in March?  Lord bless me,
my turn at Christ Church; {62c} it is so natural to hear you write about
that, I believe you have done it a hundred times; it is as fresh in my
mind, the verger coming to you; and why to you?  Would he have you preach
for me?  O, pox on your spelling of Latin, _Johnsonibus atque_, that is
the way.  How did the Dean get that name by the end?  ’Twas you betrayed
me: not I, faith; I’ll not break his head.  Your mother is still in the
country, I suppose; for she promised to see me when she came to town.  I
writ to her four days ago, to desire her to break it to Lady Giffard, to
put some money for you in the Bank, which was then fallen thirty per
cent.  Would to God mine had been here, I should have gained one hundred
pounds, and got as good interest as in Ireland, and much securer.  I
would fain have borrowed three hundred pounds; but money is so scarce
here, there is no borrowing, by this fall of stocks.  ’Tis rising now,
and I knew it would: it fell from one hundred and twenty-nine to
ninety-six.  I have not heard since from your mother.  Do you think I
would be so unkind not to see her, that you desire me in a style so
melancholy?  Mrs. Raymond, {63a} you say, is with child: I am sorry for
it; and so is, I believe, her husband.  Mr. Harley speaks all the kind
things to me in the world; and, I believe, would serve me, if I were to
stay here; but I reckon in time the Duke of Ormond may give me some
addition to Laracor.  Why should the Whigs think I came to England to
leave them?  Sure my journey was no secret.  I protest sincerely, I did
all I could to hinder it, as the Dean can tell you, although now I do not
repent it.  But who the Devil cares what they think?  Am I under
obligations in the least to any of them all?  Rot ’em, for ungrateful
dogs; I will make them repent their usage before I leave this place.
They say here the same thing of my leaving the Whigs; but they own they
cannot blame me, considering the treatment I have had.  I will take care
of your spectacles, as I told you before, and of the Bishop of Killala’s;
but I will not write to him, I have not time.  What do you mean by my
fourth, Madam Dinglibus?  Does not Stella say you have had my fifth,
Goody Blunder?  You frighted me till I looked back.  Well, this is enough
for one night.  Pray give my humble service to Mrs. Stoyte and her
sister, Kate is it, or Sarah? {63b}  I have forgot her name, faith.  I
think I will even (and to Mrs. Walls and the Archdeacon) send this
to-morrow: no, faith, that will be in ten days from the last.  I will
keep it till Saturday, though I write no more.  But what if a letter from
MD should come in the meantime?  Why then I would only say, “Madam, I
have received your sixth letter; your most humble servant to command,
Presto”; and so conclude.  Well, now I will write and think a little, and
so to bed, and dream of MD.

9.  I have my mouth full of water, and was going to spit it out, because
I reasoned with myself, how could I write when my mouth was full?  Han’t
you done things like that, reasoned wrong at first thinking?  Well, I was
to see Mr. Lewis this morning, and am to dine a few days hence, as he
tells me, with Mr. Secretary St. John; and I must contrive to see Harley
soon again, to hasten this business from the Queen.  I dined to-day at
Lord Mountrath’s, {64a} with Lord Mountjoy, {64b} etc.; but the wine was
not good, so I came away, stayed at the Coffee-house till seven, then
came home to my fire, the maidenhead of my second half-bushel, and am now
in bed at eleven, as usual.  ’Tis mighty warm; yet I fear I should catch
cold this wet weather, if I sat an evening in my room after coming from
warm places: and I must make much of myself, because MD is not here to
take care of Presto; and I am full of business, writing, etc., and do not
care for the Coffee-house; and so this serves for all together, not to
tell it you over and over, as silly people do; but Presto is a wiser man,
faith, than so, let me tell you, gentlewomen.  See, I am got to the third
side; but, faith, I will not do that often; but I must say something
early to-day, till the letter is done, and on Saturday it shall go; so I
must leave something till to-morrow, till to-morrow and next day.

10.  O Lord, I would this letter was with you with all my heart!  If it
should miscarry, what a deal would be lost!  I forgot to leave a gap in
the last line but one for the seal, like a puppy; but I should have
allowed for night, good-night; but when I am taking leave, I cannot leave
a bit, faith; but I fancy the seal will not come there.  I dined to-day
at Lady Lucy’s, where they ran down my “Shower”; and said, “Sid Hamet”
was the silliest poem they ever read; and told Prior so, whom they
thought to be author of it.  Don’t you wonder I never dined there before?
But I am too busy, and they live too far off; and, besides, I do not like
women so much as I did.  (MD, you must know, are not women.)  I supped
to-night at Addison’s, with Garth, Steele, and Mr. Dopping; and am come
home late.  Lewis has sent to me to desire I will dine with some company
I shall like.  I suppose it is Mr. Secretary St. John’s appointment.  I
had a letter just now from Raymond, who is at Bristol, and says he will
be at London in a fortnight, and leave his wife behind him; and desires
any lodging in the house where I am: but that must not be.  I shall not
know what to do with him in town: to be sure, I will not present him to
any acquaintance of mine; and he will live a delicate life, a parson and
a perfect stranger!  Paaast twelvvve o’clock, {65} and so good-night,
etc.  Oh! but I forgot, Jemmy Leigh is come to town; says he has brought
Dingley’s things, and will send them with the first convenience.  My
parcel, I hear, is not sent yet.  He thinks of going for Ireland in a
month, etc.  I cannot write to-morrow, because—what, because of the
Archbishop; because I will seal my letter early; because I am engaged
from noon till night; because of many kind of things; and yet I will
write one or two words to-morrow morning, to keep up my journal constant,
and at night I will begin my ninth.

11.  Morning by candlelight.  You must know that I am in my nightgown
every morning between six and seven, and Patrick is forced to ply me
fifty times before I can get on my nightgown; and so now I will take my
leave of my own dear MD for this letter, and begin my next when I come
home at night.  God Almighty bless and protect dearest MD.  Farewell,
etc.

This letter’s as long as a sermon, faith.



LETTER IX.


                                                  LONDON, _Nov._ 11, 1710.

I DINED to-day, by invitation, with the Secretary of State, Mr. St. John.
Mr. Harley came in to us before dinner, and made me his excuses for not
dining with us, because he was to receive people who came to propose
advancing money to the Government: there dined with us only Mr. Lewis,
and Dr. Freind {66a} (that writ “Lord Peterborow’s Actions in Spain”).  I
stayed with them till just now between ten and eleven, and was forced
again to give my eighth to the bellman, which I did with my own hands,
rather than keep it till next post.  The Secretary used me with all the
kindness in the world.  Prior came in after dinner; and, upon an
occasion, he (the Secretary) said, “The best thing I ever read is not
yours, but Dr. Swift’s on Vanbrugh”; which I do not reckon so very good
neither. {66b}  But Prior was damped, until I stuffed him with two or
three compliments.  I am thinking what a veneration we used to have for
Sir William Temple, because he might have been Secretary of State at
fifty; and here is a young fellow, hardly thirty, in that employment.
{66c}  His father is a man of pleasure, {66d} that walks the Mall, and
frequents St. James’s Coffee-house, and the chocolate-houses; and the
young son is principal Secretary of State.  Is there not something very
odd in that?  He told me, among other things, that Mr. Harley complained
he could keep nothing from me, I had the way so much of getting into him.
I knew that was a refinement; and so I told him, and it was so: indeed,
it is hard to see these great men use me like one who was their betters,
and the puppies with you in Ireland hardly regarding me: but there are
some reasons for all this, which I will tell you when we meet.  At coming
home, I saw a letter from your mother, in answer to one I sent her two
days ago.  It seems she is in town; but cannot come out in a morning,
just as you said; and God knows when I shall be at leisure in an
afternoon: for if I should send her a penny-post letter, and afterwards
not be able to meet her, it would vex me; and, besides, the days are
short, and why she cannot come early in a morning, before she is wanted,
I cannot imagine.  I will desire her to let Lady Giffard know that she
hears I am in town; and that she would go to see me, to inquire after
you.  I wonder she will confine herself so much to that old beast’s
humour.  You know I cannot in honour see Lady Giffard, {67a} and
consequently not go into her house.  This I think is enough for the first
time.

12.  And how could you write with such thin paper?  (I forgot to say this
in my former.)  Cannot you get thicker?  Why, that’s a common caution
that writing-masters give their scholars; you must have heard it a
hundred times.  ’Tis this:

    “If paper be thin,
    Ink will slip in;
    But, if it be thick,
    You may write with a stick.” {67b}

I had a letter to-day from poor Mrs. Long, {67c} giving me an account of
her present life, obscure in a remote country town, and how easy she is
under it.  Poor creature! ’tis just such an alteration in life, as if
Presto should be banished from MD, and condemned to converse with Mrs.
Raymond.  I dined to-day with Ford, Sir Richard Levinge, {67d} etc., at a
place where they board, {68a} hard by.  I was lazy, and not very well,
sitting so long with company yesterday.  I have been very busy writing
this evening at home, and had a fire: I am spending my second half-bushel
of coals; and now am in bed, and ’tis late.

13.  I dined to-day in the City, and then went to christen Will
Frankland’s {68b} child; and Lady Falconbridge {68c} was one of the
godmothers: this is a daughter of Oliver Cromwell, and extremely like him
by his pictures that I have seen.  I stayed till almost eleven, and am
now come home and gone to bed.  My business in the City was, to thank
Stratford for a kindness he has done me, which now I will tell you.  I
found Bank Stock was fallen thirty-four in the hundred, and was mighty
desirous to buy it; but I was a little too late for the cheapest time,
being hindered by business here; for I was so wise to guess to a day when
it would fall.  My project was this: I had three hundred pounds in
Ireland; and so I writ to Mr. Stratford in the City, to desire he would
buy me three hundred pounds in Bank Stock, and that he should keep the
papers, and that I would be bound to pay him for them; and, if it should
rise or fall, I would take my chance, and pay him interest in the
meantime.  I showed my letter to one or two people who understand those
things; and they said money was so hard to be got here, that no man would
do it for me.  However, Stratford, who is the most generous man alive,
has done it: but it costs one hundred pounds and a half, that is, ten
shillings; so that three hundred pounds cost me three hundred pounds and
thirty shillings.  This was done about a week ago, and I can have five
pounds for my bargain already.  Before it fell, it was one hundred and
thirty pounds; and we are sure it will be the same again.  I told you I
writ to your mother, to desire that Lady Giffard would do the same with
what she owes you; but she tells your mother she has no money.  I would
to God all you had in the world was there.  Whenever you lend money, take
this rule, to have two people bound, who have both visible fortunes; for
they will hardly die together; and, when one dies, you fall upon the
other, and make him add another security: and if Rathburn (now I have his
name) pays you in your money, let me know, and I will direct Parvisol
accordingly: however, he shall wait on you and know.  So, ladies, enough
of business for one night.  Paaaaast twelvvve o’clock.  I must only add,
that, after a long fit of rainy weather, it has been fair two or three
days, and is this day grown cold and frosty; so that you must give poor
little Presto leave to have a fire in his chamber morning and evening
too; and he will do as much for you.

14.  What, has your Chancellor {69a} lost his senses, like Will Crowe?
{69b}  I forgot to tell Dingley that I was yesterday at Ludgate,
bespeaking the spectacles at the great shop there, and shall have them in
a day or two.  This has been an insipid day.  I dined with Mrs.
Vanhomrigh, and came gravely home, after just visiting the Coffee-house.
Sir Richard Cox, {69c} they say, is sure of going over Lord Chancellor,
who is as arrant a puppy as ever ate bread: but the Duke of Ormond has a
natural affection to puppies; which is a thousand pities, being none
himself.  I have been amusing myself at home till now, and in bed bid you
good-night.

15.  I have been visiting this morning, but nobody was at home, Secretary
St. John, Sir Thomas Hanmer, {69d} Sir Chancellor Cox-comb, etc.  I
attended the Duke of Ormond with about fifty other Irish gentlemen at
Skinners’ Hall, where the Londonderry Society laid out three hundred
pounds to treat us and his Grace with a dinner.  Three great tables with
the dessert laid in mighty figure.  Sir Richard Levinge and I got
discreetly to the head of the second table, to avoid the crowd at the
first: but it was so cold, and so confounded a noise with the trumpets
and hautboys, that I grew weary, and stole away before the second course
came on; so I can give you no account of it, which is a thousand pities.
I called at Ludgate for Dingley’s glasses, and shall have them in a day
or two; and I doubt it will cost me thirty shillings for a microscope,
but not without Stella’s permission; for I remember she is a virtuoso.
Shall I buy it or no?  ’Tis not the great bulky ones, nor the common
little ones, to impale a louse (saving your presence) upon a needle’s
point; but of a more exact sort, and clearer to the sight, with all its
equipage in a little trunk that you may carry in your pocket.  Tell me,
sirrah, shall I buy it or not for you?  I came home straight, etc.

16.  I dined to-day in the city with Mr. Manley, {70} who invited Mr.
Addison and me, and some other friends, to his lodging, and entertained
us very handsomely.  I returned with Mr. Addison, and loitered till nine
in the Coffee-house, where I am hardly known, by going so seldom.  I am
here soliciting for Trounce; you know him: he was gunner in the former
yacht, and would fain be so in the present one if you remember him, a
good, lusty, fresh-coloured fellow.  Shall I stay till I get another
letter from MD before I close up this?  Mr. Addison and I meet a little
seldomer than formerly, although we are still at bottom as good friends
as ever, but differ a little about party.

17.  To-day I went to Lewis at the Secretary’s office; where I saw and
spoke to Mr. Harley, who promised, in a few days, to finish the rest of
my business.  I reproached him for putting me on the necessity of minding
him of it, and rallied him, etc., which he took very well.  I dined
to-day with one Mr. Gore, elder brother to a young merchant of my
acquaintance; and Stratford and my other friend merchants dined with us,
where I stayed late, drinking claret and burgundy; and am just got to
bed, and will say no more, but that it now begins to be time to have a
letter from my own little MD; for the last I had above a fortnight ago,
and the date was old too.

18.  To-day I dined with Lewis and Prior at an eating-house, but with
Lewis’s wine.  Lewis went away, and Prior and I sat on, where we
complimented one another for an hour or two upon our mutual wit and
poetry.  Coming home at seven, a gentleman unknown stopped me in the Pall
Mall, and asked my advice; said he had been to see the Queen (who was
just come to town), and the people in waiting would not let him see her;
that he had two hundred thousand men ready to serve her in the war; that
he knew the Queen perfectly well, and had an apartment at Court, and if
she heard he was there, she would send for him immediately; that she owed
him two hundred thousand pounds, etc., and he desired my opinion, whether
he should go try again whether he could see her; or because, perhaps, she
was weary after her journey, whether he had not better stay till
to-morrow.  I had a mind to get rid of my companion, and begged him of
all love to go and wait on her immediately; for that, to my knowledge,
the Queen would admit him; that this was an affair of great importance,
and required despatch: and I instructed him to let me know the success of
his business, and come to the Smyrna Coffee-house, where I would wait for
him till midnight; and so ended this adventure.  I would have fain given
the man half a crown; but was afraid to offer it him, lest he should be
offended; for, beside his money, he said he had a thousand pounds a year.
I came home not early; and so, madams both, good-night, etc.

19.  I dined to-day with poor Lord Mountjoy, who is ill of the gout; and
this evening I christened our coffee-man Elliot’s {72a} child, where the
rogue had a most noble supper, and Steele and I sat among some scurvy
company over a bowl of punch; so that I am come home late, young women,
and can’t stay to write to little rogues.

20.  I loitered at home, and dined with Sir Andrew Fountaine at his
lodging, and then came home: a silly day.

21.  I was visiting all this morning, and then went to the Secretary’s
office, and found Mr. Harley, with whom I dined; and Secretary St. John,
etc., and Harley promised in a very few days to finish what remains of my
business.  Prior was of the company, and we all dine at the Secretary’s
to-morrow.  I saw Stella’s mother this morning: she came early, and we
talked an hour.  I wish you would propose to Lady Giffard to take the
three hundred pounds out of her hands, and give her common interest for
life, and security that you will pay her: the Bishop of Clogher, or any
friend, would be security for you, if you gave them counter-security; and
it may be argued that it will pass better to be in your hands than hers,
in case of mortality, etc.  Your mother says, if you write, she will
second it; and you may write to your mother, and then it will come from
her.  She tells me Lady Giffard has a mind to see me, by her discourse;
but I told her what to say, with a vengeance.  She told Lady Giffard she
was going to see me: she looks extremely well.  I am writing {72b} in my
bed like a tiger; and so good-night, etc.

22.  I dined with Secretary St. John; and Lord Dartmouth, who is t’other
Secretary, dined with us, and Lord Orrery {72c} and Prior, etc.  Harley
called, but could not dine with us, and would have had me away while I
was at dinner; but I did not like the company he was to have.  We stayed
till eight, and I called at the Coffee-house, and looked where the
letters lie; but no letter directed for Mr. Presto: at last I saw a
letter to Mr. Addison, and it looked like a rogue’s hand; so I made the
fellow give it me, and opened it before him, and saw three letters all
for myself: so, truly, I put them in my pocket, and came home to my
lodging.  Well, and so you shall hear: well, and so I found one of them
in Dingley’s hand, and t’other in Stella’s, and the third in Domville’s.
{73a}  Well, so you shall hear; so, said I to myself, What now, two
letters from MD together?  But I thought there was something in the wind;
so I opened one, and I opened t’other; and so you shall hear, one was
from Walls.  Well, but t’other was from our own dear MD; yes it was.  O
faith, have you received my seventh, young women, already?  Then I must
send this to-morrow, else there will be old {73b} doings at our house,
faith.—Well, I won’t answer your letter in this: no, faith, catch me at
that, and I never saw the like.  Well; but as to Walls, tell him (with
service to him and wife, etc.) that I have no imagination of Mr. Pratt’s
{73c} losing his place: and while Pratt continues, Clements is in no
danger; and I have already engaged Lord Hyde {73d} he speaks of, for
Pratt and twenty others; but, if such a thing should happen, I will do
what I can.  I have above ten businesses of other people’s now on my
hands, and, I believe, shall miscarry in half.  It is your sixth I now
have received.  I writ last post to the Bishop of Clogher again.  Shall I
send this to-morrow?  Well, I will, to oblige MD.  Which would you
rather, a short letter every week, or a long one every fortnight?  A long
one; well, it shall be done, and so good-night.  Well, but is this a long
one?  No, I warrant you: too long for naughty girls.

23.  I only ask, have you got both the ten pounds, or only the first; I
hope you mean both.  Pray be good housewives; and I beg you to walk when
you can, for health.  Have you the horse in town? and do you ever ride
him? how often?  Confess.  Ahhh, sirrah, have I caught you?  Can you
contrive to let Mrs. Fenton {74a} know, that the request she has made me
in her letter I will use what credit I have to bring about, although I
hear it is very difficult, and I doubt I shall not succeed?  Cox is not
to be your Chancellor: all joined against him.  I have been supping with
Lord Peterborow at his house, with Prior, Lewis, and Dr. Freind.  ’Tis
the ramblingest lying rogue on earth.  Dr. Raymond is come to town: ’tis
late, and so I bid you good-night.

24.  I tell you, pretty management!  Ned Southwell told me the other day
he had a letter from the bishops of Ireland, with an address to the Duke
of Ormond, to intercede with the Queen to take off the First-Fruits.  I
dined with him to-day, and saw it, with another letter to him from the
Bishop of Kildare, {74b} to call upon me for the papers, etc.; and I had
last post one from the Archbishop of Dublin, telling me the reason of
this proceeding; that, upon hearing the Duke of Ormond was declared Lord
Lieutenant, they met; and the bishops were for this project, and talked
coldly of my being solicitor, as one that was favoured by t’other party,
etc., but desired that I would still solicit. {74c}  Now the wisdom of
this is admirable; for I had given the Archbishop an account of my
reception from Mr. Harley, and how he had spoken to the Queen, and
promised it should be done; but Mr. Harley ordered me to tell no person
alive.  Some time after, he gave me leave to let the Primate and
Archbishop know that the Queen had remitted the First-Fruits; and that in
a short time they should have an account of it in form from Lord
Dartmouth, Secretary of State.  So while their letter was on the road to
the Duke of Ormond and Southwell, mine was going to them with an account
of the thing being done.  I writ a very warm answer {75} to the
Archbishop immediately; and showed my resentments, as I ought, against
the bishops; only, in good manners, excepting himself.  I wonder what
they will say when they hear the thing is done.  I was yesterday forced
to tell Southwell so, that the Queen had done it, etc.; for he said, my
Lord Duke would think of it some months hence, when he was going for
Ireland; and he had it three years in doing formerly, without any
success.  I give you free leave to say, on occasion, that it is done; and
that Mr. Harley prevailed on the Queen to do it, etc., as you please.  As
I hope to live, I despise the credit of it, out of an excess of pride;
and desire you will not give me the least merit when you talk of it; but
I would vex the bishops, and have it spread that Mr. Harley had done it:
pray do so.  Your mother sent me last night a parcel of wax candles, and
a bandbox full of small plumcakes.  I thought it had been something for
you; and, without opening them, sent answer by the maid that brought
them, that I would take care to send the things, etc.; but I will write
her thanks.  Is this a long letter, sirrahs?  Now, are you satisfied?  I
have had no fit since the first: I drink brandy every morning, and take
pills every night.  Never fear, I an’t vexed at this puppy business of
the bishops, although I was a little at first.  I will tell you my
reward: Mr. Harley will think he has done me a favour; the Duke of
Ormond, perhaps, that I have put a neglect on him; and the bishops in
Ireland, that I have done nothing at all.  So goes the world.  But I have
got above all this, and, perhaps, I have better reason for it than they
know: and so you shall hear no more of First-Fruits, dukes, Harleys,
archbishops, and Southwells.

I have slipped off Raymond upon some of his countrymen, to show him the
town, etc., and I lend him Patrick.  He desires to sit with me in the
evenings; upon which I have given Patrick positive orders that I am not
within at evenings.



LETTER X.


                                                  LONDON, _Nov._ 25, 1710.

I WILL tell you something that’s plaguy silly: I had forgot to say on the
23d in my last, where I dined; and because I had done it constantly, I
thought it was a great omission, and was going to interline it; but at
last the silliness of it made me cry, Pshah, and I let it alone.  I was
to-day to see the Parliament meet; but only saw a great crowd; and Ford
and I went to see the tombs at Westminster, and sauntered so long I was
forced to go to an eating-house for my dinner.  Bromley {76a} is chosen
Speaker, _nemine contradicente_: Do you understand those two words?  And
Pompey, Colonel Hill’s {76b} black, designs to stand Speaker for the
footmen. {76c}  I am engaged to use my interest for him, and have spoken
to Patrick to get him some votes.  We are now all impatient for the
Queen’s speech, what she will say about removing the Ministry, etc.  I
have got a cold, and I don’t know how; but got it I have, and am hoarse:
I don’t know whether it will grow better or worse.  What’s that to you?
I won’t answer your letter to-night.  I’ll keep you a little longer in
suspense: I can’t send it.  Your mother’s cakes are very good, and one of
them serves me for a breakfast, and so I’ll go sleep like a good boy.

26.  I have got a cruel cold, and stayed within all this day in my
nightgown, and dined on sixpennyworth of victuals, and read and writ, and
was denied to everybody.  Dr. Raymond {77a} called often, and I was
denied; and at last, when I was weary, I let him come up, and asked him,
without consequence, how Patrick denied me, and whether he had the art of
it?  So by this means he shall be used to have me denied to him;
otherwise he would be a plaguy trouble and hindrance to me: he has sat
with me two hours, and drank a pint of ale cost me fivepence, and smoked
his pipe, and it is now past eleven that he is just gone.  Well, my
eighth is with you now, young women; and your seventh to me is somewhere
in a post-boy’s bag; and so go to your gang of deans, and Stoytes, and
Walls, and lose your money; go, sauceboxes: and so good-night, and be
happy, dear rogues.  Oh, but your box was sent to Dr. Hawkshaw by Sterne,
and you will have it with Hawkshaw, and spectacles, etc., etc.

27.  To-day Mr. Harley met me in the Court of Requests, {77b} and
whispered me to dine with him.  At dinner I told him what those bishops
had done, and the difficulty I was under.  He bid me never trouble
myself; he would tell the Duke of Ormond the business was done, and that
he need not concern himself about it.  So now I am easy, and they may
hang themselves for a parcel of insolent, ungrateful rascals.  I suppose
I told you in my last, how they sent an address to the Duke of Ormond,
and a letter to Southwell, to call on me for the papers, after the thing
was over; but they had not received my letter, though the Archbishop
might, by what I writ to him, have expected it would be done.  Well,
there is an end of that; and in a little time the Queen will send them
notice, etc.  And so the methods will be settled; and then I shall think
of returning, although the baseness of those bishops makes me love
Ireland less than I did.

28.  Lord Halifax sent to invite me to dinner; where I stayed till six,
and crossed him in all his Whig talk, and made him often come over to me.
I know he makes court to the new men, although he affects to talk like a
Whig.  I had a letter to-day from the Bishop of Clogher; but I writ to
him lately, that I would obey his commands to the Duke of Ormond.  He
says I bid him read the London “Shaver,” and that you both swore it was
“Shaver,” and not “Shower.” {78a}  You all lie, and you are puppies, and
can’t read Presto’s hand.  The Bishop is out entirely in his conjectures
of my share in the _Tatlers_.—I have other things to mind, and of much
greater importance; {78b} else I have little to do to be acquainted with
a new Ministry, who consider me a little more than Irish bishops do.

29.  Now for your saucy, good dear letter: let me see, what does it say?
come then.  I dined to-day with Ford, and went home early; he debauched
{78c} me to his chamber again with a bottle of wine till twelve: so
good-night.  I cannot write an answer now, you rogues.

30.  To-day I have been visiting, which I had long neglected; and I dined
with Mrs. Barton alone; and sauntered at the Coffee-house till past
eight, and have been busy till eleven, and now I’ll answer your letter,
saucebox.  Well, let me see now again.  My wax candle’s almost out, but
however I’ll begin.  Well then, do not be so tedious, Mr. Presto; what
can you say to MD’s letter?  Make haste, have done with your
preambles—Why, I say I am glad you are so often abroad; your mother
thinks it is want of exercise hurts you, and so do I.  (She called here
to-night, but I was not within, that’s by the bye.)  Sure you do not
deceive me, Stella, when you say you are in better health than you were
these three weeks; for Dr. Raymond told me yesterday, that Smyth of the
Blind Quay had been telling Mr. Leigh that he left you extremely ill; and
in short, spoke so, that he almost put poor Leigh into tears, and would
have made me run distracted; though your letter is dated the 11th
instant, and I saw Smyth in the city above a fortnight ago, as I passed
by in a coach.  Pray, pray, don’t write, Stella, until you are mighty,
mighty, mighty, mighty well in your eyes, and are sure it won’t do you
the least hurt.  Or come, I’ll tell you what; you, Mistress Stella, shall
write your share at five or six sittings, one sitting a day; and then
comes Dingley all together, and then Stella a little crumb towards the
end, to let us see she remembers Presto; and then conclude with something
handsome and genteel, as your most humblecumdumble, or, etc.  O Lord!
does Patrick write word of my not coming till spring?  Insolent man! he
know my secrets?  No; as my Lord Mayor said, No; if I thought my shirt
knew, etc.  Faith, I will come as soon as it is any way proper for me to
come; but, to say the truth, I am at present a little involved with the
present Ministry in some certain things (which I tell you as a secret);
and soon as ever I can clear my hands, I will stay no longer; for I hope
the First-Fruit business will be soon over in all its forms.  But, to say
the truth, the present Ministry have a difficult task, and want me, etc.
Perhaps they may be just as grateful as others: but, according to the
best judgment I have, they are pursuing the true interest of the public;
and therefore I am glad to contribute what is in my power.  For God’s
sake, not a word of this to any alive.—Your Chancellor? {80a}  Why,
madam, I can tell you he has been dead this fortnight.  Faith, I could
hardly forbear our little language about a nasty dead Chancellor, as you
may see by the blot. {80b}  Ploughing?  A pox plough them; they’ll plough
me to nothing.  But have you got your money, both the ten pounds?  How
durst he pay you the second so soon?  Pray be good huswifes.  Ay, well,
and Joe, why, I had a letter lately from Joe, desiring I would take some
care of their poor town, {80c} who, he says, will lose their liberties.
To which I desired Dr. Raymond would return answer, that the town had
behaved themselves so ill to me, so little regarded the advice I gave
them, and disagreed so much among themselves, that I was resolved never
to have more to do with them; but that whatever personal kindness I could
do to Joe, should be done.  Pray, when you happen to see Joe, tell him
this, lest Raymond should have blundered or forgotten—Poor Mrs.
Wesley!—Why these poligyes {80d} for being abroad?  Why should you be at
home at all, until Stella is quite well?—So, here is Mistress Stella
again, with her two eggs, etc.  My “Shower” admired with you; why, the
Bishop of Clogher says, he has seen something of mine of the same sort,
better than the “Shower.”  I suppose he means “The Morning”; {80e} but it
is not half so good.  I want your judgment of things, and not your
country’s.  How does MD like it? and do they taste it _all_? etc.  I am
glad Dean Bolton {81a} has paid the twenty pounds.  Why should not I
chide the Bishop of Clogher for writing to the Archbishop of Cashel,
{81b} without sending the letter first to me?  It does not signify a —;
for he has no credit at Court.  Stuff—they are all puppies.  I will break
your head in good earnest, young woman, for your nasty jest about Mrs.
Barton. {81c}  Unlucky sluttikin, what a word is there!  Faith, I was
thinking yesterday, when I was with her, whether she could break them or
no, and it quite spoilt my imagination.  “Mrs. Walls, does Stella win as
she pretends?”  “No indeed, Doctor; she loses always, and will play so
_ventersomely_, how can she win?”  See here now; an’t you an impudent
lying slut?  Do, open Domville’s letter; what does it signify, if you
have a mind?  Yes, faith, you write smartly with your eyes shut; all was
well but the _n_.  See how I can do it; _Madam Stella_, _your humble
servant_. {81d}  O, but one may look whether one goes crooked or no, and
so write on.  I will tell you what you may do; you may write with your
eyes half shut, just as when one is going to sleep: I have done so for
two or three lines now; it is but just seeing enough to go straight.—Now,
Madam Dingley, I think I bid you tell Mr. Walls that, in case there be
occasion, I will serve his friend as far as I can; but I hope there will
be none.  Yet I believe you will have a new Parliament; but I care not
whether you have or no a better.  You are mistaken in all your
conjectures about the _Tatlers_.  I have given him one or two hints, and
you have heard me talk about the Shilling. {81e}  Faith, these answering
letters are very long ones: you have taken up almost the room of a week
in journals; and I will tell you what, I saw fellows wearing crosses
to-day, {81f} and I wondered what was the matter; but just this minute I
recollect it is little Presto’s birthday; and I was resolved these three
days to remember it when it came, but could not.  Pray, drink my health
to-day at dinner; do, you rogues.  Do you like “Sid Hamet’s Rod”?  Do you
understand it all?  Well, now at last I have done with your letter, and
so I will lay me down to sleep, and about, fair maids; and I hope merry
maids all.

Dec. 1.  Morning.  I wish Smyth were hanged.  I was dreaming the most
melancholy things in the world of poor Stella, and was grieving and
crying all night.—Pshah, it is foolish: I will rise and divert myself; so
good-morrow; and God of His infinite mercy keep and protect you!  The
Bishop of Clogher’s letter is dated Nov. 21.  He says you thought of
going with him to Clogher.  I am heartily glad of it, and wish you would
ride there, and Dingley go in a coach.  I have had no fit since my first,
although sometimes my head is not quite in good order.—At night.  I was
this morning to visit Mr. Pratt, who is come over with poor, sick Lord
Shelburne: they made me dine with them; and there I stayed, like a booby,
till eight, looking over them at ombre, and then came home.  Lord
Shelburne’s giddiness is turned into a colic, and he looks miserably.

2.  Steele, the rogue, has done the imprudentest thing in the world: he
said something in a _Tatler_, {82a} that we ought to use the word Great
Britain, and not England, in common conversation, as, “The finest lady in
Great Britain,” etc.  Upon this, Rowe, Prior, and I sent him a letter,
turning this into ridicule.  He has to-day printed the letter, {82b} and
signed it J.S., M.P., and N.R., the first letters of all our names.
Congreve told me to-day, he smoked it immediately.  Congreve and I, and
Sir Charles Wager, dined to-day at Delaval’s, the Portugal Envoy; and I
stayed there till eight, and came home, and am now writing to you before
I do business, because that dog Patrick is not at home, and the fire is
not made, and I am not in my gear.  Pox take him!—I was looking by chance
at the top of this side, and find I make plaguy mistakes in words; so
that you must fence against that as well as bad writing.  Faith, I can’t
nor won’t read what I have written.  (Pox of this puppy!) Well, I’ll
leave you till I am got to bed, and then I will say a word or two.—Well,
’tis now almost twelve, and I have been busy ever since, by a fire too (I
have my coals by half a bushel at a time, I’ll assure you), and now I am
got to bed.  Well, and what have you to say to Presto now he is abed?
Come now, let us hear your speeches.  No, ’tis a lie; I an’t sleepy yet.
Let us sit up a little longer, and talk.  Well, where have you been
to-day, that you are but just this minute come home in a coach?  What
have you lost?  Pay the coachman, Stella.  No, faith, not I, he’ll
grumble.—What new acquaintance have you got? come, let us hear.  I have
made Delaval promise to send me some Brazil tobacco from Portugal for
you, Madam Dingley.  I hope you will have your chocolate and spectacles
before this comes to you.

3.  Pshaw, I must be writing to these dear saucy brats every night,
whether I will or no, let me have what business I will, or come home ever
so late, or be ever so sleepy; but an old saying, and a true one,

    “Be you lords, or be you earls,
    You must write to naughty girls.”

I was to-day at Court, and saw Raymond among the Beefeaters, staying to
see the Queen: so I put him in a better station, made two or three dozen
of bows, and went to church, and then to Court again, to pick up a
dinner, as I did with Sir John Stanley; and then we went to visit Lord
Mountjoy, and just now left him; and ’tis near eleven at night, young
women; and methinks this letter comes pretty near to the bottom, and ’tis
but eight days since the date, and don’t think I’ll write on the other
side, I thank you for nothing.  Faith, if I would use you to letters on
sheets as broad as this room, you would always expect them from me.  O,
faith, I know you well enough; but an old saying, etc.,

    “Two sides in a sheet,
    And one in a street.”

I think that’s but a silly old saying; and so I’ll go to sleep, and do
you so too.

4.  I dined to-day with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and then came home, and studied
till eleven.  No adventure at all to-day.

5.  So I went to the Court of Requests (we have had the Devil and all of
rain by the bye) to pick up a dinner; and Henley made me go dine with him
and one Colonel Bragg {84a} at a tavern; cost me money, faith.  Congreve
was to be there, but came not.  I came with Henley to the Coffee-house,
where Lord Salisbury {84b} seemed mighty desirous to talk with me; and,
while he was wriggling himself into my favour, that dog Henley asked me
aloud, whether I would go to see Lord Somers as I had promised (which was
a lie); and all to vex poor Lord Salisbury, who is a high Tory.  He
played two or three other such tricks; and I was forced to leave my lord,
and I came home at seven, and have been writing ever since, and will now
go to bed.  The other day I saw Jack Temple {84c} in the Court of
Requests: it was the first time of seeing him; so we talked two or three
careless words, and parted.  Is it true that your Recorder and Mayor, and
fanatic aldermen, a month or two ago, at a solemn feast, drank Mr.
Harley’s, Lord Rochester’s, {84d} and other Tory healths?  Let me know;
it was confidently said here.—The scoundrels!  It shan’t do, Tom.

6.  When is this letter to go, I wonder? harkee, young women, tell me
that.  Saturday next for certain, and not before: then it will be just a
fortnight; time enough for naughty girls, and long enough for two
letters, faith.  Congreve and Delaval have at last prevailed on Sir
Godfrey Kneller to entreat me to let him draw my picture for nothing; but
I know not yet when I shall sit. {84e}—It is such monstrous rainy
weather, that there is no doing with it.  Secretary St. John sent to me
this morning, that my dining with him to-day was put off till to-morrow;
so I peaceably sat with my neighbour Ford, dined with him, and came home
at six, and am now in bed as usual; and now it is time to have another
letter from MD, yet I would not have it till this goes; for that would
look like two letters for one.  Is it not whimsical that the Dean has
never once written to me?  And I find the Archbishop very silent to that
letter I sent him with an account that the business was done.  I believe
he knows not what to write or say; and I have since written twice to him,
both times with a vengeance. {85a}  Well, go to bed, sirrahs, and so will
I.  But have you lost to-day?  Three shillings!  O fie, O fie!

7.  No, I won’t send this letter to-day, nor till Saturday, faith; and I
am so afraid of one from MD between this and that; if it comes, I will
just say I received a letter, and that is all.  I dined to-day with Mr.
Secretary St. John, where were Lord Anglesea, {85b} Sir Thomas Hanmer,
Prior, Freind, etc., and then made a debauch after nine at Prior’s house,
and have eaten cold pie, and I hate the thoughts of it, and I am full,
and I don’t like it, and I will go to bed, and it is late, and so
good-night.

8.  To-day I dined with Mr. Harley and Prior; but Mr. St. John did not
come, though he promised: he chid me for not seeing him oftener.  Here is
a damned, libellous pamphlet come out against Lord Wharton, giving the
character first, and then telling some of his actions: the character is
very well, but the facts indifferent. {85c}  It has been sent by dozens
to several gentlemen’s lodgings, and I had one or two of them; but nobody
knows the author or printer.  We are terribly afraid of the plague; they
say it is at Newcastle. {86a}  I begged Mr. Harley for the love of God to
take some care about it, or we are all ruined.  There have been orders
for all ships from the Baltic to pass their quarantine before they land;
but they neglect it.  You remember I have been afraid these two years.

9.  O, faith, you are a saucy rogue.  I have had your sixth letter just
now, before this is gone; but I will not answer a word of it, only that I
never was giddy since my first fit; but I have had a cold just a
fortnight, and cough with it still morning and evening; but it will go
off.  It is, however, such abominable weather that no creature can walk.
They say here three of your Commissioners will be turned out, Ogle,
South, and St. Quintin; {86b} and that Dick Stewart {86c} and Ludlow will
be two of the new ones.  I am a little soliciting for another: it is poor
Lord Abercorn, {86d} but that is a secret; I mean, that I befriend him is
a secret; but I believe it is too late, by his own fault and ill fortune.
I dined with him to-day.  I am heartily sorry you do not go to Clogher,
faith, I am; and so God Almighty protect poor, dear, dear, dear, dearest
MD.  Farewell till to-night.  I’ll begin my eleventh to-night; so I am
always writing to little MD.



LETTER XI.


                                                   LONDON, _Dec._ 9, 1710.

SO, young women, I have just sent my tenth to the post-office, and, as I
told you, have received your seventh (faith, I am afraid I mistook, and
said your sixth, and then we shall be all in confusion this month.)
Well, I told you I dined with Lord Abercorn to-day; and that is enough
till by and bye; for I must go write idle things, and twittle twattle.
{87a}  What’s here to do with your little MD’s? and so I put this by for
a while.  ’Tis now late, and I can only say MD is a dear, saucy rogue,
and what then?  Presto loves them the better.

10.  This son of a b— Patrick is out of the way, and I can do nothing; am
forced to borrow coals: ’tis now six o’clock, and I am come home after a
pure walk in the park; delicate weather, begun only to-day.  A terrible
storm last night: we hear one of your packet-boats is cast away, and
young Beau Swift {87b} in it, and General Sankey: {87c}  I know not the
truth; you will before me.  Raymond talks of leaving the town in a few
days, and going in a month to Ireland, for fear his wife should be too
far gone, and forced to be brought to bed here.  I think he is in the
right; but perhaps this packet-boat will fright him.  He has no relish
for London; and I do not wonder at it.  He has got some Templars from
Ireland that show him the town.  I do not let him see me above twice a
week, and that only while I am dressing in the morning.—So, now the
puppy’s come in, and I have got my own ink, but a new pen; and so now you
are rogues and sauceboxes till I go to bed; for I must go study, sirrahs.
Now I think of it, tell the Bishop of Clogher, he shall not cheat me of
one inch of my bell metal.  You know it is nothing but to save the town
money; and Enniskillen can afford it better than Laracor: he shall have
but one thousand five hundred weight.  I have been reading, etc., as
usual, and am now going to bed; and I find this day’s article is long
enough: so get you gone till to-morrow, and then.  I dined with Sir
Matthew Dudley.

11.  I am come home again as yesterday, and the puppy had again locked up
my ink, notwithstanding all I said to him yesterday; but he came home a
little after me, so all is well: they are lighting my fire, and I’ll go
study.  The fair weather is gone again, and it has rained all day.  I do
not like this open weather, though some say it is healthy.  They say it
is a false report about the plague at Newcastle. {88a}  I have no news
to-day: I dined with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, to desire them to buy me a scarf;
and Lady Abercorn {88b} is to buy me another, to see who does best: mine
is all in rags.  I saw the Duke of Richmond {88c} yesterday at Court
again, but would not speak to him: I believe we are fallen out.  I am now
in bed; and it has rained all this evening, like wildfire: have you so
much rain in your town?  Raymond was in a fright, as I expected, upon the
news of this shipwreck; but I persuaded him, and he leaves this town in a
week.  I got him acquainted with Sir Robert Raymond, {88d} the
Solicitor-General, who owns him to be of his family; and I believe it may
do him a kindness, by being recommended to your new Lord Chancellor.—I
had a letter from Mrs. Long, that has quite turned my stomach against
her: no less than two nasty jests in it, with dashes to suppose them.
She is corrupted in that country town {88e} with vile conversation.—I
will not answer your letter till I have leisure: so let this go on as it
will, what care I? what cares saucy Presto?

12.  I was to-day at the Secretary’s office with Lewis, and in came Lord
Rivers; {88f} who took Lewis out and whispered him; and then came up to
me to desire my acquaintance, etc., so we bowed and complimented a while,
and parted and I dined with Phil. Savage {89a} and his Irish Club, at
their boarding-place; and, passing an evening scurvily enough, did not
come home till eight.  Mr. Addison and I hardly meet once a fortnight;
his Parliament and my different friendships keep us asunder.  Sir Matthew
Dudley turned away his butler yesterday morning; and at night the poor
fellow died suddenly in the streets: was not it an odd event?  But what
care you?  But then I knew the butler.—Why, it seems your packet-boat is
not lost: psha, how silly that is, when I had already gone through the
forms, and said it was a sad thing, and that I was sorry for it!  But
when must I answer this letter of our MD’s?  Here it is, it lies between
this paper on t’other side of the leaf: one of these odd-come-shortly’s
I’ll consider, and so good-night.

13.  Morning.  I am to go trapesing with Lady Kerry {89b} and Mrs. Pratt
{89c} to see sights all this day: they engaged me yesterday morning at
tea.  You hear the havoc making in the army: Meredith, Maccartney, and
Colonel Honeywood {89d} are obliged to sell their commands at half-value,
and leave the army, for drinking destruction to the present Ministry, and
dressing up a hat on a stick, and calling it Harley; then drinking a
glass with one hand, and discharging a pistol with the other at the
maukin, {90a} wishing it were Harley himself; and a hundred other such
pretty tricks, as inflaming their soldiers, and foreign Ministers,
against the late changes at Court.  Cadogan {90b} has had a little
paring: his mother {90c} told me yesterday he had lost the place of
Envoy; but I hope they will go no further with him, for he was not at
those mutinous meetings.—Well, these saucy jades take up so much of my
time with writing to them in a morning; but, faith, I am glad to see you
whenever I can: a little snap and away; and so hold your tongue, for I
must rise: not a word, for your life.  How nowww?  So, very well; stay
till I come home, and then, perhaps, you may hear further from me.  And
where will you go to-day, for I can’t be with you for these ladies?  It
is a rainy, ugly day.  I’d have you send for Walls, and

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