LONDON, _Jan._ 31, 1710–11.
I AM to send you my fourteenth to-morrow; but my head, having some little
disorders, confounds all my journals. I was early this morning with Mr.
Secretary St. John about some business, so I could not scribble my
morning lines to MD. They are here intending to tax all little printed
penny papers a halfpenny every half-sheet, which will utterly ruin Grub
Street, and I am endeavouring to prevent it. {138a} Besides, I was
forwarding an impeachment against a certain great person; that was two of
my businesses with the Secretary, were they not worthy ones? It was
Ford’s birthday, and I refused the Secretary, and dined with Ford. We
are here in as smart a frost for the time as I have seen; delicate
walking weather, and the Canal and Rosamond’s Pond {138b} full of the
rabble sliding and with skates, if you know what those are. Patrick’s
bird’s water freezes in the gallipot, and my hands in bed.
Feb. 1. I was this morning with poor Lady Kerry, who is much worse in
her head than I. She sends me bottles of her bitter; and we are so fond
of one another, because our ailments are the same; don’t you know that,
Madam Stella? Han’t I seen you conning ailments with Joe’s wife, {139a}
and some others, sirrah? I walked into the City to dine, because of the
walk, for we must take care of Presto’s health, you know, because of poor
little MD. But I walked plaguy carefully, for fear of sliding against my
will; but I am very busy.
2. This morning Mr. Ford came to me to walk into the City, where he had
business, and then to buy books at Bateman’s; and I laid out one pound
five shillings for a Strabo and Aristophanes, and I have now got books
enough to make me another shelf, and I will have more, or it shall cost
me a fall; and so as we came back, we drank a flask of right French wine
at Ben Tooke’s chamber; and when I got home, Mrs. Vanhomrigh sent me word
her eldest daughter {139b} was taken suddenly very ill, and desired I
would come and see her. I went, and found it was a silly trick of Mrs.
Armstrong, {139c} Lady Lucy’s sister, who, with Moll Stanhope, was
visiting there: however, I rattled off the daughter.
3. To-day I went and dined at Lady Lucy’s, where you know I have not
been this long time. They are plaguy Whigs, especially the sister
Armstrong, the most insupportable of all women, pretending to wit,
without any taste. She was running down the last _Examiner_, {139d} the
prettiest I had read, with a character of the present Ministry.—I left
them at five, and came home. But I forgot to tell you, that this morning
my cousin Dryden Leach, the printer, came to me with a heavy complaint,
that Harrison the new Tatler had turned him off, and taken the last
Tatler’s printers again. He vowed revenge; I answered gravely, and so he
left me, and I have ordered Patrick to deny me to him from henceforth:
and at night comes a letter from Harrison, telling me the same thing, and
excused his doing it without my notice, because he would bear all the
blame; and in his _Tatler_ of this day {140a} he tells you the story, how
he has taken his old officers, and there is a most humble letter from
Morphew and Lillie to beg his pardon, etc. {140b} And lastly, this
morning Ford sent me two letters from the Coffee-house (where I hardly
ever go), one from the Archbishop of Dublin, and t’other from—Who do you
think t’other was from?—I’ll tell you, because you are friends; why, then
it was, faith, it was from my own dear little MD, N. 10. Oh, but will
not answer it now, no, noooooh, I’ll keep it between the two sheets; here
it is, just under; oh, I lifted up the sheet and saw it there: lie still,
you shan’t be answered yet, little letter; for I must go to bed, and take
care of my head.
4. I avoid going to church yet, for fear of my head, though it has been
much better these last five or six days, since I have taken Lady Kerry’s
bitter. Our frost holds like a dragon. I went to Mr. Addison’s, and
dined with him at his lodgings; I had not seen him these three weeks, we
are grown common acquaintance; yet what have not I done for his friend
Steele? Mr. Harley reproached me the last time I saw him, that to please
me he would be reconciled to Steele, and had promised and appointed to
see him, and that Steele never came. Harrison, whom Mr. Addison
recommended to me, I have introduced to the Secretary of State, who has
promised me to take care of him; and I have represented Addison himself
so to the Ministry, that they think and talk in his favour, though they
hated him before.—Well, he is now in my debt, and there’s an end; and I
never had the least obligation to him, and there’s another end. This
evening I had a message from Mr. Harley, desiring to know whether I was
alive, and that I would dine with him to-morrow. They dine so late, that
since my head has been wrong I have avoided being with them.—Patrick has
been out of favour these ten days; I talk dry and cross to him, and have
called him “friend” three or four times. But, sirrahs, get you gone.
5. Morning. I am going this morning to see Prior, who dines with me at
Mr. Harley’s; so I can’t stay fiddling and talking with dear little brats
in a morning, and ’tis still terribly cold.—I wish my cold hand was in
the warmest place about you, young women, I’d give ten guineas upon that
account with all my heart, faith; oh, it starves my thigh; so I’ll rise
and bid you good-morrow, my ladies both, good-morrow. Come, stand away,
let me rise: Patrick, take away the candle. Is there a good
fire?—So—up-a-dazy.—At night. Mr. Harley did not sit down till six, and
I stayed till eleven; henceforth I will choose to visit him in the
evenings, and dine with him no more if I can help it. It breaks all my
measures, and hurts my health; my head is disorderly, but not ill, and I
hope it will mend.
6. Here has been such a hurry with the Queen’s Birthday, so much fine
clothes, and the Court so crowded that I did not go there. All the frost
is gone. It thawed on Sunday, and so continues, yet ice is still on the
Canal (I did not mean that of Laracor, but St. James’s Park) and boys
sliding on it. Mr. Ford pressed me to dine with him in his chamber.—Did
not I tell you Patrick has got a bird, a linnet, to carry over to
Dingley? It was very tame at first, and ’tis now the wildest I ever saw.
He keeps it in a closet, where it makes a terrible litter; but I say
nothing: I am as tame as a clout. When must we answer our MD’s letter?
One of these odd-come-shortlies. This is a week old, you see, and no
farther yet. Mr. Harley desired I would dine with him again to-day; but
I refused him, for I fell out with him yesterday, {141} and will not see
him again till he makes me amends: and so I go to bed.
7. I was this morning early with Mr. Lewis of the Secretary’s office,
and saw a letter Mr. Harley had sent to him, desiring to be reconciled;
but I was deaf to all entreaties, and have desired Lewis to go to him,
and let him know I expect further satisfaction. If we let these great
Ministers pretend too much, there will be no governing them. He promises
to make me easy, if I will but come and see him; but I won’t, and he
shall do it by message, or I will cast him off. I’ll tell you the cause
of our quarrel when I see you, and refer it to yourselves. In that he
did something, which he intended for a favour; and I have taken it quite
otherwise, disliking both the thing and the manner, and it has heartily
vexed me, and all I have said is truth, though it looks like jest; and I
absolutely refused to submit to his intended favour, and expect further
satisfaction. Mr. Ford and I dined with Mr. Lewis. We have a monstrous
deal of snow, and it has cost me two shillings to-day in chair and coach,
and walked till I was dirty besides. I know not what it is now to read
or write after I am in bed. The last thing I do up is to write something
to our MD, and then get into bed, and put out my candle, and so go sleep
as fast as ever I can. But in the mornings I do write sometimes in bed,
as you know.
8. Morning. _I have desired Apronia to be always careful_, _especially
about the legs_. Pray, do you see any such great wit in that sentence?
I must freely own that I do not. But party carries everything nowadays,
and what a splutter have I heard about the wit of that saying, repeated
with admiration above a hundred times in half an hour! Pray read it over
again this moment, and consider it. I think the word is _advised_, and
not _desired_. I should not have remembered it if I had not heard it so
often. Why—ay—You must know I dreamed it just now, and waked with it in
my mouth. Are you bit, or are you not, sirrahs? I met Mr. Harley in the
Court of Requests, and he asked me how long I had learnt the trick of
writing to myself? He had seen your letter through the glass case at the
Coffee-house, and would swear it was my hand; and Mr. Ford, who took and
sent it me, was of the same mind. I remember others have formerly said
so too. I think I was little MD’s writing-master. {143}—But come, what
is here to do, writing to young women in a morning? I have other fish to
fry; so good-morrow, my ladies all, good-morrow. Perhaps I’ll answer
your letter to-night, perhaps I won’t; that’s as saucy little Presto
takes the humour.—At night. I walked in the Park to-day in spite of the
weather, as I do always when it does not actually rain. Do you know what
it has gone and done? We had a thaw for three days, then a monstrous
dirt and snow, and now it freezes, like a pot-lid, upon our snow. I
dined with Lady Betty Germaine, the first time since I came for England;
and there did I sit, like a booby, till eight, looking over her and
another lady at piquet, when I had other business enough to do. It was
the coldest day I felt this year.
9. Morning. After I had been abed an hour last night, I was forced to
rise and call to the landlady and maid to have the fire removed in a
chimney below stairs, which made my bed-chamber smoke, though I had no
fire in it. I have been twice served so. I never lay so miserable an
hour in my life. Is it not plaguy vexatious?—It has snowed all night,
and rains this morning.—Come, where’s MD’s letter? Come, Mrs. Letter,
make your appearance. Here am I, says she, answer me to my face.—O,
faith, I am sorry you had my twelfth so soon; I doubt you will stay
longer for the rest. I’m so ’fraid you have got my fourteenth while I am
writing this; and I would always have one letter from Presto reading, one
travelling, and one writing. As for the box, I now believe it lost. It
is directed for Mr. Curry, at his house in Capel Street, etc. I had a
letter yesterday from Dr. Raymond in Chester, who says he sent his man
everywhere, and cannot find it; and God knows whether Mr. Smyth will have
better success. Sterne spoke to him, and I writ to him with the bottle
of palsy-water; that bottle, I hope, will not miscarry: I long to hear
you have it. O, faith, you have too good an opinion of Presto’s care. I
am negligent enough of everything but MD, and I should not have trusted
Sterne.—But it shall not go so: I will have one more tug for it.—As to
what you say of Goodman Peasly and Isaac, {144a} I answer as I did
before. Fie, child, you must not give yourself the way to believe any
such thing: and afterwards, only for curiosity, you may tell me how these
things are approved, and how you like them; and whether they instruct you
in the present course of affairs, and whether they are printed in your
town, or only sent from hence.—Sir Andrew Fountaine is recovered; so take
your sorrow again, but don’t keep it, fling it to the dogs. And does
little MD walk indeed?—I’m glad of it at heart.—Yes, we have done with
the plague here: it was very saucy in you to pretend to have it before
your betters. Your intelligence that the story is false about the
officers forced to sell, {144b} is admirable. You may see them all three
here every day, no more in the army than you. Twelve shillings for
mending the strong box; that is, for putting a farthing’s worth of iron
on a hinge, and gilding it; give him six shillings, and I’ll pay it, and
never employ him or his again.—No indeed, I put off preaching as much as
I can. I am upon another foot: nobody doubts here whether I can preach,
and you are fools.—The account you give of that weekly paper {144c}
agrees with us here. Mr. Prior was like to be insulted in the street for
being supposed the author of it; but one of the last papers cleared him.
Nobody knows who it is, but those few in the secret, I suppose the
Ministry and the printer.—Poor Stella’s eyes! God bless them, and send
them better. Pray spare them, and write not above two lines a day in
broad daylight. How does Stella look, Madam Dingley? Pretty well, a
handsome young woman still. Will she pass in a crowd? Will she make a
figure in a country church?—Stay a little, fair ladies. I this minute
sent Patrick to Sterne: he brings back word that your box is very safe
with one Mr. Earl’s sister in Chester, and that Colonel Edgworth’s widow
{145a} goes for Ireland on Monday next, and will receive the box at
Chester, and deliver it you safe: so there are some hopes now.—Well, let
us go on to your letter.—The warrant is passed for the First-Fruits. The
Queen does not send a letter; but a patent will be drawn here, and that
will take up time. Mr. Harley of late has said nothing of presenting me
to the Queen: I was overseen {145b} when I mentioned it to you. He has
such a weight of affairs on him, that he cannot mind all; but he talked
of it three or four times to me, long before I dropped it to you. What,
is not Mrs. Walls’ business over yet? I had hopes she was up and well,
and the child dead before this time.—You did right, at last, to send me
your accompts; but I did not stay for them, I thank you. I hope you have
your bill sent in my last, and there will be eight pounds’ interest soon
due from Hawkshaw: pray look at his bond. I hope you are good managers;
and that, when I say so, Stella won’t think I intend she should grudge
herself wine. But going to those expensive lodgings requires some fund.
I wish you had stayed till I came over, for some reasons. That
Frenchwoman {145c} will be grumbling again in a little time: and if you
are invited anywhere to the country, it will vex you to pay in absence;
and the country may be necessary for poor Stella’s health: but do as you
like, and do not blame Presto.—Oh, but you are telling your
reasons.—Well, I have read them; do as you please.—Yes, Raymond says he
must stay longer than he thought, because he cannot settle his affairs.
M— is in the country at some friend’s, comes to town in spring, and then
goes to settle in Herefordshire. Her husband is a surly, ill-natured
brute, and cares not she should see anybody. O Lord, see how I
blundered, and left two lines short; it was that ugly score in the paper
{146a} that made me mistake.—I believe you lie about the story of the
fire, only to make it more odd. Bernage must go to Spain; and I will see
to recommend him to the Duke of Argyle, his General, when I see the Duke
next: but the officers tell me it would be dishonourable in the last
degree for him to sell now, and he would never be preferred in the army;
so that, unless he designs to leave it for good and all, he must go.
Tell him so, and that I would write if I knew where to direct to him;
which I have said fourscore times already. I had rather anything almost
than that you should strain yourselves to send a letter when it is
inconvenient; we have settled that matter already. I’ll write when I
can, and so shall MD; and upon occasions extraordinary I will write,
though it be a line; and when we have not letters soon, we agree that all
things are well; and so that’s settled for ever, and so hold your
tongue.—Well, you shall have your pins; but for candles’ ends, I cannot
promise, because I burn them to the stumps; besides, I remember what
Stella told Dingley about them many years ago, and she may think the same
thing of me.—And Dingley shall have her hinged spectacles.—Poor dear
Stella, how durst you write those two lines by candlelight? bang your
bones! Faith, this letter shall go to-morrow, I think, and that will be
in ten days from the last, young women; that’s too soon of all
conscience: but answering yours has filled it up so quick, and I do not
design to use you to three pages in folio, no, nooooh. All this is one
morning’s work in bed;—and so good-morrow, little sirrahs; that’s for the
rhyme. {146b} You want politics: faith, I can’t think of any; but may be
at night I may tell you a passage. Come, sit off the bed, and let me
rise, will you?—At night. I dined to-day with my neighbour Vanhomrigh;
it was such dismal weather I could not stir further. I have had some
threatenings with my head, but no fits. I still drink Dr. Radcliffe’s
{147a} bitter, and will continue it.
10. I was this morning to see the Secretary of State, and have engaged
him to give a memorial from me to the Duke of Argyle in behalf of
Bernage. The Duke is a man that distinguishes people of merit, and I
will speak to him myself; but the Secretary backing it will be very
effectual, and I will take care to have it done to purpose. Pray tell
Bernage so, and that I think nothing can be luckier for him, and that I
would have him go by all means. I will order it that the Duke shall send
for him when they are in Spain; or, if he fails, that he shall receive
him kindly when he goes to wait on him. Can I do more? Is not this a
great deal?—I now send away this letter, that you may not stay.—I dined
with Ford upon his Opera-day, and am now come home, and am going to
study; do not you presume to guess, sirrahs, impudent saucy dear boxes.
Towards the end of a letter I could not say saucy boxes without putting
dear between. An’t that right now? Farewell. _This_ should _be_
longer, _but_ that _I_ send _it_ to-_night_. {147b}
O silly, silly loggerhead!
I send a letter this post to one Mr. Staunton, and I direct it to Mr.
Acton’s in St. Michael’s Lane. He formerly lodged there, but he has not
told me where to direct. Pray send to that Acton, whether {147c} the
letter is come there, and whether he has sent it to Staunton.
If Bernage designs to sell his commission and stay at home, pray let him
tell me so, that my recommendation to the Duke of Argyle may not be in
vain.