LONDON, _March_ 10, 1710–11.
PRETTY little MD must expect little from me till Mr. Harley is out of
danger. We hope he is so now; but I am subject to fear for my friends.
He has a head full of the whole business of the nation, was out of order
when the villain stabbed him, and had a cruel contusion by the second
blow. But all goes on well yet. Mr. Ford and I dined with Mr. Lewis,
and we hope the best.
11. This morning Mr. Secretary and I met at Court, where he went to the
Queen, who is out of order, and aguish: I doubt the worse for this
accident to Mr. Harley. We went together to his house, and his wound
looks well, and he is not feverish at all, and I think it is foolish in
me to be so much in pain as I am. I had the penknife in my hand, which
is broken within a quarter of an inch of the handle. I have a mind to
write and publish an account of all the particularities of this fact:
{169a} it will be very curious, and I would do it when Mr. Harley is past
danger.
12. We have been in terrible pain to-day about Mr. Harley, who never
slept last night, and has been very feverish. But this evening I called
there; and young Mr. Harley (his only son) tells me he is now much
better, and was then asleep. They let nobody see him, and that is
perfectly right. The Parliament cannot go on till he is well, and are
forced to adjourn their money businesses, which none but he can help them
in. Pray God preserve him.
13. Mr. Harley is better to-day, slept well all night, and we are a
little out of our fears. I send and call three or four times every day.
I went into the City for a walk, and dined there with a private man; and
coming home this evening, broke my shin in the Strand over a tub of sand
left just in the way. I got home dirty enough, and went straight to bed,
where I have been cooking it with gold-beater’s skin, and have been
peevish enough with Patrick, who was near an hour bringing a rag from
next door. It is my right shin, where never any humour fell when t’other
used to swell; so I apprehend it less: however, I shall not stir till
’tis well, which I reckon will be in a week. I am very careful in these
sort of things; but I wish I had Mrs. J—’s water: {169b} she is out of
town, and I must make a shift with alum. I will dine with Mrs.
Vanhomrigh till I am well, who lives but five doors off; and that I may
venture.
14. My journals are like to be very diverting, now I cannot stir abroad,
between accounts of Mr. Harley’s mending, and of my broken shin. I just
walked to my neighbour Vanhomrigh at two, and came away at six, when
little Harrison the Tatler came to me, and begged me to dictate a paper
to him, which I was forced in charity to do. Mr. Harley still mends; and
I hope in a day or two to trouble you no more with him, nor with my shin.
Go to bed and sleep, sirrahs, that you may rise to-morrow and walk to
Donnybrook, and lose your money with Stoyte and the Dean; do so, dear
little rogues, and drink Presto’s health. O pray, don’t you drink
Presto’s health sometimes with your deans, and your Stoytes, and your
Walls, and your Manleys, and your everybodies, pray now? I drink MD’s to
myself a hundred thousand times.
15. I was this morning at Mr. Secretary St. John’s for all my shin; and
he has given me for young Harrison the Tatler the prettiest employment in
Europe; secretary to my Lord Raby, {170a} who is to be Ambassador
Extraordinary at the Hague, where all the great affairs will be
concerted; so we shall lose the _Tatlers_ in a fortnight. I will send
Harrison to-morrow morning to thank the Secretary. Poor Biddy Floyd
{170b} has got the smallpox. I called this morning to see Lady Betty
Germaine, and when she told me so, I fairly took my leave. I have the
luck of it; {170c} for about ten days ago I was to see Lord Carteret;
{170d} and my lady was entertaining me with telling of a young lady, a
cousin, who was then ill in the house of the smallpox, and is since dead:
it was near Lady Betty’s, and I fancy Biddy took the fright by it. I
dined with Mr. Secretary; and a physician came in just from Guiscard, who
tells us he is dying of his wounds, and can hardly live till to-morrow.
A poor wench that Guiscard kept, sent him a bottle of sack; but the
keeper would not let him touch it, for fear it was poison. He had two
quarts of old clotted blood come out of his side to-day, and is
delirious. I am sorry he is dying; for they had found out a way to hang
him. He certainly had an intention to murder the Queen.
16. I have made but little progress in this letter for so many days,
thanks to Guiscard and Mr. Harley; and it would be endless to tell you
all the particulars of that odious fact. I do not yet hear that Guiscard
is dead, but they say ’tis impossible he should recover. I walked too
much yesterday for a man with a broken shin; to-day I rested, and went no
farther than Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, where I dined; and Lady Betty Butler
coming in about six, I was forced in good manners to sit with her till
nine; then I came home, and Mr. Ford came in to visit my shin, and sat
with me till eleven: so I have been very idle and naughty. It vexes me
to the pluck {171a} that I should lose walking this delicious day. Have
you seen the _Spectator_ {171b} yet, a paper that comes out every day?
’Tis written by Mr. Steele, who seems to have gathered new life, and have
a new fund of wit; it is in the same nature as his _Tatlers_, and they
have all of them had something pretty. I believe Addison and he club. I
never see them; and I plainly told Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John, ten days
ago, before my Lord Keeper and Lord Rivers, that I had been foolish
enough to spend my credit with them in favour of Addison and Steele; but
that I would engage and promise never to say one word in their behalf,
having been used so ill for what I had already done.—So, now I am got
into the way of prating again, there will be no quiet for me.
When Presto begins to prate,
Give him a rap upon the pate.
O Lord, how I blot! it is time to leave off, etc.
17. Guiscard died this morning at two; and the coroner’s inquest have
found that he was killed by bruises received from a messenger, so to
clear the Cabinet Councillors from whom he received his wounds. I had a
letter from Raymond, who cannot hear of your box; but I hope you have it
before this comes to your hands. I dined to-day with Mr. Lewis of the
Secretary’s office. Mr. Harley has abundance of extravasated blood comes
from his breast out of his wound, and will not be well so soon as we
expected. I had something to say, but cannot call it to mind. (What was
it?)
18. I was to-day at Court to look for the Duke of Argyle, and gave him
the memorial about Bernage. The Duke goes with the first fair wind. I
could not find him, but I have given the memorial to another to give him;
and, however, it shall be sent after him. Bernage has made a blunder in
offering money to his colonel without my advice; however, he is made
captain-lieutenant, only he must recruit the company, which will cost him
forty pounds, and that is cheaper than an hundred. I dined to-day with
Mr. Secretary St. John, and stayed till seven, but would not drink his
champagne and burgundy, for fear of the gout. My shin mends, but is not
well. I hope it will by the time I send this letter, next Saturday.
19. I went to-day into the City, but in a coach, and sossed {172a} up my
leg on the seat; and as I came home, I went to see poor Charles Barnard’s
{172b} books, which are to be sold by auction, and I itch to lay out nine
or ten pounds for some fine editions of fine authors. But ’tis too far,
and I shall let it slip, as I usually do all such opportunities. I dined
in a coffee-house with Stratford upon chops and some of his wine. Where
did MD dine? Why, poor MD dined at home to-day, because of the
Archbishop, and they could not go abroad, and had a breast of mutton and
a pint of wine. I hope Mrs. Walls mends; and pray give me an account
what sort of godfather I made, and whether I behaved myself handsomely.
The Duke of Argyle is gone; and whether he has my memorial, I know not,
till I see Dr. Arbuthnot, {173a} to whom I gave it. That hard name
belongs to a Scotch doctor, an acquaintance of the Duke’s and me; Stella
can’t pronounce it. Oh that we were at Laracor this fine day! the
willows begin to peep, and the quicks to bud. My dream is out: I was
a-dreamed last night that I ate ripe cherries.—And now they begin to
catch the pikes, and will shortly the trouts (pox on these
Ministers!)—and I would fain know whether the floods were ever so high as
to get over the holly bank or the river walk; if so, then all my pikes
are gone; but I hope not. Why don’t you ask Parvisol these things,
sirrahs? And then my canal, and trouts, and whether the bottom be fine
and clear? But harkee, ought not Parvisol to pay in my last year’s rents
and arrears out of his hands? I am thinking, if either of you have heads
to take his accounts, it should be paid in to you; otherwise to Mr.
Walls. I will write an order on t’other side; and do as you will.
Here’s a world of business; but I must go sleep, I’m drowsy; and so
good-night, etc.
20. This sore shin ruins me in coach-hire; no less than two shillings
to-day going and coming from the City, where I dined with one you never
heard of, and passed an insipid day. I writ this post to Bernage, with
the account I told you above. I hope he will like it; ’tis his own
fault, or it would have been better. I reckon your next letter will be
full of Mr. Harley’s stabbing. He still mends, but abundance of
extravasated blood has come out of the wound: he keeps his bed, and sees
nobody. The Speaker’s eldest son {173b} is just dead of the smallpox,
and the House is adjourned a week, to give him time to wipe off his
tears. I think it very handsomely done; but I believe one reason is,
that they want Mr. Harley so much. Biddy Floyd is like to do well: and
so go to your Dean’s, and roast his oranges, and lose your money, do so,
you saucy sluts. Stella, you lost three shillings and fourpence t’other
night at Stoyte’s, yes, you did, and Presto stood in a corner, and saw
you all the while, and then stole away. I dream very often I am in
Ireland, and that I have left my clothes and things behind me, and have
not taken leave of anybody; and that the Ministry expect me to-morrow,
and such nonsense.
21. I would not for a guinea have a letter from you till this goes; and
go it shall on Saturday, faith. I dined with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, to save my
shin, and then went on some business to the Secretary, and he was not at
home.
22. Yesterday was a short day’s journal: but what care I? what cares
saucy Presto? Darteneuf {174a} invited me to dinner to-day. Do not you
know Darteneuf? That’s the man that knows everything, and that everybody
knows; and that knows where a knot of rabble are going on a holiday, and
when they were there last: and then I went to the Coffee-house. My shin
mends, but is not quite healed: I ought to keep it up, but I don’t; I
e’en let it go as it comes. Pox take Parvisol and his watch! If I do
not receive the ten-pound bill I am to get towards it, I will neither
receive watch nor chain; so let Parvisol know.
23. I this day appointed the Duke of Ormond to meet him at Ned
Southwell’s, about an affair of printing Irish Prayer-Books, etc., {174b}
but the Duke never came. There Southwell had letters that two packets
are taken; so if MD writ then, the letters are gone; for they are packets
coming hither. Mr. Harley is not yet well, but his extravasated blood
continues, and I doubt he will not be quite well in a good while: I find
you have heard of the fact by Southwell’s letters from Ireland: what do
you think of it? I dined with Sir John Perceval, {175a} and saw his lady
sitting in the bed, in the forms of a lying-in woman; and coming home my
sore shin itched, and I forgot what it was, and rubbed off the scab, and
blood came; but I am now got into bed, and have put on alum curd, and it
is almost well. Lord Rivers told me yesterday a piece of bad news, as a
secret, that the Pretender is going to be married to the Duke of Savoy’s
daughter. {175b} ’Tis very bad if it be true. We were walking in the
Mall with some Scotch lords, and he could not tell it until they were
gone, and he bade me tell it to none but the Secretary of State and MD.
This goes to-morrow, and I have no room but to bid my dearest little MD
good-night.
24. I will now seal up this letter, and send it; for I reckon to have
none from you (’tis morning now) between this and night; and I will put
it in the post with my own hands. I am going out in great haste; so
farewell, etc.