LONDON, _Dec._ 23, 1710.
I HAVE sent my 11th to-night as usual, and begin the dozenth, and I told
you I dined with Stratford at Lord Mountjoy’s, and I will tell you no
more at present, guess for why; because I am going to mind things, and
mighty affairs, not your nasty First-Fruits—I let them alone till Mr.
Harley gets the Queen’s letter—but other things of greater moment, that
you shall know one day, when the ducks have eaten up all the dirt. So
sit still a while just by me, while I am studying, and don’t say a word,
I charge you, and when I am going to bed, I will take you along, and talk
with you a little while, so there, sit there.—Come then, let us see what
we have to say to these saucy brats, that will not let us go sleep at
past eleven. Why, I am a little impatient to know how you do; but that I
take it for a standing maxim, that when you are silent, all is pretty
well, because that is the way I will deal with you; and if there was
anything you ought to know now, I would write by the first post, although
I had written but the day before. Remember this, young women; and God
Almighty preserve you both, and make us happy together; and tell me how
accompts stand between us, that you may be paid long before it is due,
not to want. I will return no more money while I stay, so that you need
not be in pain to be paid; but let me know at least a month before you
can want. Observe this, d’ye hear, little dear sirrahs, and love Presto,
as Presto loves MD, etc.
24. You will have a merrier Christmas Eve than we here. I went up to
Court before church; and in one of the rooms, there being but little
company, a fellow in a red coat without a sword came up to me, and, after
words of course, asked me how the ladies did? I asked, “What ladies?”
He said, “Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson.” “Very well,” said I, “when I
heard from them last: and pray when came you from thence, sir?” He said,
“I never was in Ireland”; and just at that word Lord Winchelsea {104a}
comes up to me, and the man went off: as I went out I saw him again, and
recollected him, it was Vedeau {104b} with a pox: I then went and made my
apologies, that my head was full of something I had to say to Lord
Winchelsea, etc., and I asked after his wife, and so all was well; and he
inquired after my lodging, because he had some favour to desire of me in
Ireland, to recommend somebody to somebody, I know not what it is. When
I came from church, I went up to Court again, where Sir Edmond Bacon
{104c} told me the bad news from Spain, {104d} which you will hear before
this reaches you; as we have it now, we are undone there, and it was odd
to see the whole countenances of the Court changed so in two hours. Lady
Mountjoy {104e} carried me home to dinner, where I stayed not long after,
and came home early, and now am got into bed, for you must always write
to your MD’s in bed, that is a maxim.
Mr. White and Mr. Red,
Write to MD when abed;
Mr. Black and Mr. Brown,
Write to MD when you’re down;
Mr. Oak and Mr. Willow,
Write to MD on your pillow.—
What is this? faith, I smell fire; what can it be? this house has a
thousand stinks in it. I think to leave it on Thursday, and lodge over
the way. Faith, I must rise, and look at my chimney, for the smell grows
stronger, stay—I have been up, and in my room, and found all safe, only a
mouse within the fender to warm himself, which I could not catch. I
smelt nothing there, but now in my bed-chamber I smell it again; I
believe I have singed the woollen curtain, and that is all, though I
cannot smoke it. Presto is plaguy silly to-night, an’t he? Yes, and so
he be. Ay, but if I should wake and see fire. Well; I will venture; so
good-night, etc.
25. Pray, young women, if I write so much as this every day, how will
this paper hold a fortnight’s work, and answer one of yours into the
bargain? You never think of this, but let me go on like a simpleton. I
wish you a merry Christmas, and many, many a one with poor Presto at some
pretty place. I was at church to-day by eight, and received the
Sacrament, and came home by ten; then went to Court at two: it was a
Collar-day, that is, when the Knights of the Garter wear their collars;
but the Queen stayed so late at Sacrament, that I came back, and dined
with my neighbour Ford, because all people dine at home on this day.
This is likewise a Collar-day all over England in every house, at least
where there is _brawn_: that’s very well.—I tell you a good pun; a fellow
hard by pretends to cure agues, and has set out a sign, and spells it
_egoes_; a gentleman and I observing it, he said, “How does that fellow
pretend to cure _agues_?” I said I did not know; but I was sure it was
not by a _spell_. That is admirable. And so you asked the Bishop about
that pun of Lord Stawel’s brother. Bite! Have I caught you, young
women? Must you pretend to ask after roguish puns, and Latin ones too?
Oh but you smoked me, and did not ask the Bishop. Oh but you are a fool,
and you did. I met Vedeau again at Court to-day, and I observed he had a
sword on; I fancy he was broke, and has got a commission, but I never
asked him. Vedeau I think his name is, yet Parvisol’s man is Vedel, that
is true. Bank Stock will fall like stock-fish by this bad news, and two
days ago I could have got twelve pounds by my bargain; but I do not
intend to sell, and in time it will rise. It is odd that my Lord
Peterborow foretold this loss two months ago, one night at Mr. Harley’s,
when I was there; he bid us count upon it, that Stanhope would lose Spain
before Christmas; that he would venture his head upon it, and gave us
reasons; and though Mr. Harley argued the contrary, he still held to his
opinion. I was telling my Lord Angelsea this at Court this morning; and
a gentleman by said he had heard my Lord Peterborow affirm the same
thing. I have heard wise folks say, “An ill tongue may do much.” And
’tis an odd saying,
“Once I guessed right,
And I got credit by’t;
Thrice I guessed wrong,
And I kept my credit on.”
No, it is you are sorry, not I.
26. By the Lord Harry, I shall be undone here with Christmas boxes. The
rogues of the Coffee-house have raised their tax, everyone giving a
crown; and I gave mine for shame, besides a great many half-crowns to
great men’s porters, etc. I went to-day by water into the city, and
dined with no less a man than the City Printer. {106a} There is an
intimacy between us, built upon reasons that you shall know when I see
you; but the rain caught me within twelvepenny length of home. I called
at Mr. Harley’s, who was not within, dropped my half-crown with his
porter, drove to the Coffee-house, where the rain kept me till nine. I
had letters to-day from the Archbishop of Dublin and Mr. Bernage; {106b}
the latter sends me a melancholy account of Lady Shelburne’s {106c}
death, and his own disappointments, and would gladly be a captain; if I
can help him, I will.
27. Morning. I bespoke a lodging over the way for to-morrow, and the
dog let it yesterday to another; I gave him no earnest, so it seems he
could do it; Patrick would have had me give him earnest to bind him; but
I would not. So I must go saunter to-day for a lodging somewhere else.
Did you ever see so open a winter in England? We have not had two frosty
days; but it pays it off in rain: we have not had three fair days these
six weeks. O, faith, I dreamt mightily of MD last night; but so
confused, I cannot tell a word. I have made Ford acquainted with Lewis;
and to-day we dined together: in the evening I called at one or two
neighbours, hoping to spend a Christmas evening; but none were at home,
they were all gone to be merry with others. I have often observed this,
that in merry times everybody is abroad; where the deuce are they? So I
went to the Coffee-house, and talked with Mr. Addison an hour, who at
last remembered to give me two letters, which I cannot answer to-night,
nor to-morrow neither, I can assure you, young women, count upon that. I
have other things to do than to answer naughty girls, an old saying and
true,
Letters from MD’s
Must not be answered in ten days:
it is but bad rhyme, etc.
28. To-day I had a message from Sir Thomas Hanmer, to dine with him; the
famous Dr. Smalridge {107a} was of the company, and we sat till six; and
I came home to my new lodgings in St. Albans Street, {107b} where I pay
the same rent (eight shillings a week) for an apartment two pair of
stairs; but I have the use of the parlour to receive persons of quality,
and I am got into my new bed, etc.
29. Sir Andrew Fountaine has been very ill this week; and sent to me
early this morning to have prayers, which you know is the last thing. I
found the doctors and all in despair about him. I read prayers to him,
found he had settled all things; and, when I came out, the nurse asked me
whether I thought it possible he could live; for the doctors thought not.
I said, I believed he would live; for I found the seeds of life in him,
which I observe seldom fail (and I found them in poor, dearest Stella,
when she was ill many years ago); and to-night I was with him again, and
he was mightily recovered, and I hope he will do well, and the doctor
approved my reasons; but, if he should die, I should come off scurvily.
The Secretary of State (Mr. St. John) sent to me to dine with him; Mr.
Harley and Lord Peterborow dined there too; and at night came Lord
Rivers. Lord Peterborow goes to Vienna in a day or two: he has promised
to make me write to him. Mr. Harley went away at six; but we stayed till
seven. I took the Secretary aside, and complained to him of Mr. Harley,
that he had got the Queen to grant the First-Fruits, promised to bring me
to her, and get her letter to the bishops of Ireland; but the last part
he had not done in six weeks, and I was in danger to lose reputation,
etc. He took the matter right, desired me to be with him on Sunday
morning, and promises me to finish the affair in four days; so I shall
know in a little time what I have to trust to.—It is nine o’clock, and I
must go study, you little rogues; and so good-night, etc.
30. Morning. The weather grows cold, you sauceboxes. Sir Andrew
Fountaine, they bring me word, is better. I will go rise, for my hands
are starving while I write in bed. Night. Now Sir Andrew Fountaine is
recovering, he desires to be at ease; for I called in the morning to read
prayers, but he had given orders not to be disturbed. I have lost a
legacy by his living; for he told me he had left me a picture and some
books, etc. I called to see my quondam neighbour Ford (do you know what
_quondam_ is, though?), and he engaged me to dine with him; for he always
dines at home on Opera-days. I came home at six, writ to the Archbishop,
then studied till past eleven, and stole to bed, to write to MD these few
lines, to let you know I am in good health at the present writing hereof,
and hope in God MD is so too. I wonder I never write politics to you: I
could make you the profoundest politician in all the lane.—Well, but when
shall we answer this letter, No. 8 of MD’s? Not till next year, faith.
O Lord—bo—but that will be a Monday next. Cod’s-so, is it? and so it is:
never saw the like.—I made a pun t’other day to Ben Portlack {109} about
a pair of drawers. Poh, said he, that’s mine a— all over. Pray, pray,
Dingley, let me go sleep; pray, pray, Stella, let me go slumber; and put
out my wax-candle.
31. Morning. It is now seven, and I have got a fire, but am writing
abed in my bed-chamber. ’Tis not shaving-day, so I shall be ready early
to go before church to Mr. St. John; and to-morrow I will answer our MD’s
letter.
Would you answer MD’s letter,
On New Year’s Day you’ll do it better;
For, when the year with MD ’gins,
It without MD never lins.
(These proverbs have always old words in them; lins is leave off.)
But, if on New Year you write nones,
MD then will bang your bones.
But Patrick says I must rise.—Night. I was early this morning with
Secretary St. John, and gave him a memorial to get the Queen’s letter for
the First-Fruits, who has promised to do it in a very few days. He told
me he had been with the Duke of Marlborough, who was lamenting his former
wrong steps in joining with the Whigs, and said he was worn out with age,
fatigues, and misfortunes. I swear it pitied me; and I really think they
will not do well in too much mortifying that man, although indeed it is
his own fault. He is covetous as hell, and ambitious as the Prince of
it: he would fain have been General for life, and has broken all
endeavours for peace, to keep his greatness and get money. He told the
Queen he was neither covetous nor ambitious. She said if she could have
conveniently turned about, she would have laughed, and could hardly
forbear it in his face. He fell in with all the abominable measures of
the late Ministry, because they gratified him for their own designs. Yet
he has been a successful General, and I hope he will continue his
command. O Lord, smoke the politics to MD! Well; but, if you like them,
I will scatter a little now and then, and mine are all fresh from the
chief hands. Well, I dined with Mr. Harley, and came away at six: there
was much company, and I was not merry at all. Mr. Harley made me read a
paper of verses of Prior’s. I read them plain, without any fine manner;
and Prior swore, I should never read any of his again; but he would be
revenged, and read some of mine as bad. I excused myself, and said I was
famous for reading verses the worst in the world; and that everybody
snatched them from me when I offered to begin. So we laughed.—Sir Andrew
Fountaine still continues ill. He is plagued with some sort of bile.
Jan. 1. Morning. I wish my dearest, pretty Dingley and Stella a happy
New Year, and health, and mirth, and good stomachs, and Fr’s company.
Faith, I did not know how to write Fr. I wondered what was the matter;
but now I remember I always write Pdfr. Patrick wishes me a happy New
Year, and desires I would rise, for it is a good fire, and faith ’tis
cold. I was so politic last night with MD, never saw the like. Get the
_Examiners_, and read them; the last nine or ten are full of the reasons
for the late change, and of the abuses of the last Ministry; and the
great men assure me they are all true. They are written by their
encouragement and direction. I must rise and go see Sir Andrew
Fountaine; but perhaps to-night I may answer MD’s letter: so good-morrow,
my mistresses all, good-morrow.
I wish you both a merry New Year,
Roast beef, minced pies, and good strong beer,
And me a share of your good cheer,
That I was there, or you were here;
And you’re a little saucy dear.
Good-morrow again, dear sirrahs; one cannot rise for your play.—At night.
I went this morning to visit Lady Kerry and Lord Shelburne; and they made
me dine with them. Sir Andrew Fountaine is better. And now let us come
and see what this saucy, dear letter of MD says. Come out, letter, come
out from between the sheets; here it is underneath, and it will not come
out. Come out again, I say: so there. Here it is. What says Presto to
me, pray? says it. Come, and let me answer for you to your ladies. Hold
up your head then, like a good letter. There. Pray, how have you got up
with Presto, Madam Stella? You write your eighth when you receive mine:
now I write my twelfth when I receive your eighth. Do not you allow for
what are upon the road, simpleton? What say you to that? And so you
kept Presto’s little birthday, I warrant: would to God I had been at the
health rather than here, where I have no manner of pleasure, nothing but
eternal business upon my hands. I shall grow wise in time; but no more
of that: only I say Amen with my heart and vitals, that we may never be
asunder again ten days together while poor Presto lives.—————————————I
can’t be merry so near any splenetic talk; so I made that long line, and
now all’s well again. Yes, you are a pretending slut, indeed, with your
fourth and fifth in the margin, and your journal, and everything.
Wind—we saw no wind here, nothing at all extraordinary at any time. We
had it once when you had it not. But an old saying and a true:
“I hate all wind,
Before and behind,
From cheeks with eyes,
Or from blind.—”
Your chimney fall down! God preserve you. I suppose you only mean a
brick or two: but that’s a d—ned lie of your chimney being carried to the
next house with the wind. Don’t put such things upon us; those matters
will not pass here: keep a little to possibilities. My Lord Hertford
{112a} would have been ashamed of such a stretch. You should take care
of what company you converse with: when one gets that faculty, ’tis hard
to break one’s self of it. Jemmy Leigh talks of going over; but
_quando_? I do not know when he will go. Oh, now you have had my ninth,
now you are come up with me; marry come up with you, indeed. I know all
that business of Lady S—. {112b} Will nobody cut that D—y’s throat?
Five hundred pounds do you call poor pay for living three months the life
of a king? They say she died with grief, partly, being forced to appear
as a witness in court about some squabble among their servants.—The
Bishop of Clogher showed you a pamphlet. {112c} Well, but you must not
give your mind to believe those things; people will say anything. The
_Character_ is here reckoned admirable, but most of the facts are
trifles. It was first printed privately here; and then some bold cur
ventured to do it publicly, and sold two thousand in two days: who the
author is must remain uncertain. Do you pretend to know, impudence? How
durst you think so? Pox on your Parliaments: the Archbishop has told me
of it; but we do not vouchsafe to know anything of it here. No, no, no
more of your giddiness yet; thank you, Stella, for asking after it; thank
you; God Almighty bless you for your kindness to poor Presto. You write
to Lady Giffard and your mother upon what I advise when it is too late.
But yet I fancy this bad news will bring down stocks so low, that one
might buy to great advantage. I design to venture going to see your
mother some day when Lady Giffard is abroad. Well, keep your Rathburn
{112d} and stuff. I thought he was to pay in your money upon his houses
to be flung down about the what do you call it.—Well, Madam Dingley, I
sent your enclosed to Bristol, but have not heard from Raymond since he
went. Come, come, young women, I keep a good fire; it costs me
twelvepence a week, and I fear something more; vex me, and I will have
one in my bed-chamber too. No, did not I tell you but just now, we have
no high winds here? Have you forgot already?—Now you’re at it again,
silly Stella; why does your mother say my candles are scandalous? They
are good sixes in the pound, and she said I was extravagant enough to
burn them by daylight. I never burn fewer at a time than one. What
would people have? The D— burst Hawkshaw. He told me he had not the
box; and the next day Sterne told me he had sent it a fortnight ago.
Patrick could not find him t’other day, but he shall to-morrow. Dear
life and heart, do you tease me? does Stella tease Presto? That
palsy-water was in the box; it was too big for a packet, and I was afraid
of its breaking. Leigh was not in town then; or I would not have trusted
it to Sterne, whom yet I have befriended enough to do me more kindness
than that. I’ll never rest till you have it, or till it is in a way for
you to have it. Poor dear rogue, naughty to think it teases me; how
could I ever forgive myself for neglecting anything that related to your
health? Sure I were a Devil if I did. ———————————— See how far I am
forced to stand from Stella, because I am afraid she thinks poor Presto
has not been careful about her little things; I am sure I bought them
immediately according to order, and packed them up with my own hands, and
sent them to Sterne, and was six times with him about sending them away.
I am glad you are pleased with your glasses. I have got another velvet
cap; a new one Lord Herbert {113} bought and presented me one morning I
was at breakfast with him, where he was as merry and easy as ever I saw
him, yet had received a challenge half an hour before, and half an hour
after fought a duel. It was about ten days ago. You are mistaken in
your guesses about _Tatlers_: I did neither write that on Noses nor
Religion, {114} nor do I send him of late any hints at all.—Indeed,
Stella, when I read your letter, I was not uneasy at all; but when I came
to answer the particulars, and found that you had not received your box,
it grated me to the heart, because I thought, through your little words,
that you imagined I had not taken the care I ought. But there has been
some blunder in this matter, which I will know to-morrow, and write to
Sterne, for fear he should not be within.—And pray, pray, Presto, pray
now do.—No, Raymond was not above four times with me while he stayed, and
then only while I was dressing. Mrs. Fenton has written me another
letter about some money of hers in Lady Giffard’s hands, that is
entrusted to me by my mother, not to come to her husband. I send my
letters constantly every fortnight, and, if you will have them oftener,
you may, but then they will be the shorter. Pray, let Parvisol sell the
horse. I think I spoke to you of it in a former letter: I am glad you
are rid of him, and was in pain while I thought you rode him; but, if he
would buy you another, or anybody else, and that you could be often able
to ride, why do not you do it?
2. I went this morning early to the Secretary of State, Mr. St. John;
and he told me from Mr. Harley that the warrant was now drawn, in order
for a patent for the First-Fruits: it must pass through several offices,
and take up some time, because in things the Queen gives they are always
considerate; but that, he assures me, ’tis granted and done, and past all
dispute, and desires I will not be in any pain at all. I will write
again to the Archbishop to-morrow, and tell him this, and I desire you
will say it on occasion. From the Secretary I went to Mr. Sterne, who
said he would write to you to-night; and that the box must be at Chester;
and that some friend of his goes very soon, and will carry it over. I
dined with Mr. Secretary St. John, and at six went to Darteneufs house to
drink punch with him, and Mr. Addison, and little Harrison, {115a} a
young poet, whose fortune I am making. Steele was to have been there,
but came not, nor never did twice, since I knew him, to any appointment.
I stayed till past eleven, and am now in bed. Steele’s last _Tatler_
came out to-day. You will see it before this comes to you, and how he
takes leave of the world. He never told so much as Mr. Addison of it,
who was surprised as much as I; but, to say the truth, it was time, for
he grew cruel dull and dry. To my knowledge he had several good hints to
go upon; but he was so lazy and weary of the work that he would not
improve them. I think I will send this after {115b} to-morrow: shall I
before ’tis full, Dingley?
3. Lord Peterborow yesterday called me into a barber’s shop, and there
we talked deep politics: he desired me to dine with him to-day at the
Globe in the Strand; he said he would show me so clearly how to get
Spain, that I could not possibly doubt it. I went to-day accordingly,
and saw him among half a dozen lawyers and attorneys and hang-dogs,
signing of deeds and stuff before his journey; for he goes to-morrow to
Vienna. I sat among that scurvy company till after four, but heard
nothing of Spain; only I find, by what he told me before, that he fears
he shall do no good in his present journey. {115c} We are to be mighty
constant correspondents. So I took my leave of him, and called at Sir
Andrew Fountaine’s, who mends much. I came home, an’t please you, at
six, and have been studying till now past eleven.
4. Morning. Morrow, little dears. O, faith, I have been dreaming; I
was to be put in prison. I do not know why, and I was so afraid of a
black dungeon; and then all I had been inquiring yesterday of Sir Andrew
Fountaine’s sickness I thought was of poor Stella. The worst of dreams
is, that one wakes just in the humour they leave one. Shall I send this
to-day? With all my heart: it is two days within the fortnight; but may
be MD are in haste to have a round dozen: and then how are you come up to
me with your eighth, young women? But you indeed ought to write twice
slower than I, because there are two of you; I own that. Well then, I
will seal up this letter by my morning candle, and carry it into the city
with me, where I go to dine, and put it into the post-office with my own
fair hands. So, let me see whether I have any news to tell MD. They say
they will very soon make some inquiries into the corruptions of the late
Ministry; and they must do it, to justify their turning them out.
Atterbury, {116a} we think, is to be Dean of Christ Church in Oxford; but
the College would rather have Smalridge—What’s all this to you? What
care you for Atterburys and Smalridges? No, you care for nothing but
Presto, faith. So I will rise, and bid you farewell; yet I am loth to do
so, because there is a great bit of paper yet to talk upon; but Dingley
will have it so: “Yes,” says she, “make your journals shorter, and send
them oftener;” and so I will. And I have cheated you another way too;
for this is clipped paper, and holds at least six lines less than the
former ones. I will tell you a good thing I said to my Lord Carteret.
{116b} “So,” says he, “my Lord came up to me, and asked me,” etc. “No,”
said I, “my Lord never did, nor ever can come up to you.” We all pun
here sometimes. Lord Carteret set down Prior t’other day in his chariot;
and Prior thanked him for his _charity_; that was fit for Dilly. {117a}
I do not remember I heard one good one from the Ministry; which is really
a shame. Henley is gone to the country for Christmas. The puppy comes
here without his wife, {117b} and keeps no house, and would have me dine
with him at eating-houses; but I have only done it once, and will do it
no more. He had not seen me for some time in the Coffee-house, and
asking after me, desired Lord Herbert to tell me I was a beast for ever,
after the order of Melchisedec. Did you ever read the Scripture? {117c}
It is only changing the word priest to beast.—I think I am bewitched, to
write so much in a morning to you, little MD. Let me go, will you? and
I’ll come again to-night in a fine clean sheet of paper; but I can nor
will stay no longer now; no, I won’t, for all your wheedling: no, no,
look off, do not smile at me, and say, “Pray, pray, Presto, write a
little more.” Ah! you are a wheedling slut, you be so. Nay, but prithee
turn about, and let me go, do; ’tis a good girl, and do. O, faith, my
morning candle is just out, and I must go now in spite of my teeth; for
my bed-chamber is dark with curtains, and I am at the wrong side. So
farewell, etc. etc.
I am in the dark almost: I must have another candle, when I am up, to
seal this; but I will fold it up in the dark, and make what you can of
this, for I can only see this paper I am writing upon. Service to Mrs.
Walls and Mrs. Stoyte.
God Almighty bless you, etc. What I am doing I can’t see; but I will
fold it up, and not look on it again.