LONDON, _March_ 24, 1710–11.
IT was a little cross in Presto not to send to-day to the Coffee-house to
see whether there was a letter from MD before I sent away mine; but,
faith, I did it on purpose, because I would scorn to answer two letters
of yours successively. This way of journal is the worst in the world for
writing of news, unless one does it the last day; and so I will observe
henceforward, if there be any politics or stuff worth sending. My shin
mends in spite of the scratching last night. I dined to-day at Ned
Southwell’s with the Bishop of Ossory {176a} and a parcel of Irish
gentlemen. Have you yet seen any of the _Spectators_? Just three weeks
to-day since I had your last, N. 11. I am afraid I have lost one by the
packet that was taken; that will vex me, considering the pains MD take to
write, especially poor pretty Stella, and her weak eyes. God bless them
and the owner, and send them well, and little me together, I hope ere
long. This illness of Mr. Harley puts everything backwards, and he is
still down, and like to be so, by that extravasated blood which comes
from his breast to the wound: it was by the second blow Guiscard gave him
after the penknife was broken. I am shocked at that villainy whenever I
think of it. Biddy Floyd is past danger, but will lose all her beauty:
she had them mighty thick, especially about her nose.
25. Morning. I wish you a merry New Year; this is the first day of the
year, you know, with us, and ’tis Lady-day. I must rise and go to my
Lord Keeper: it is not shaving-day to-day, so I shall be early. I am to
dine with Mr. Secretary St. John. Good-morrow, my mistresses both,
good-morrow. Stella will be peeping out of her room at Mrs. De Caudres’
{176b} down upon the folks as they come from church; and there comes Mrs.
Proby, {176c} and that is my Lady Southwell, {176d} and there is Lady
Betty Rochfort. {176e} I long to hear how you are settled in your new
lodgings. I wish I were rid of my old ones, and that Mrs. Brent could
contrive to put up my books in boxes, and lodge them in some safe place,
and you keep my papers of importance. But I must rise, I tell you.—At
night. So I visited and dined as I told you, and what of that? We have
let Guiscard be buried at last, after showing him pickled in a trough
this fortnight for twopence apiece: and the fellow that showed would
point to his body, and, “See, gentlemen, this is the wound that was given
him by his Grace the Duke of Ormond; and this is the wound,” etc., and
then the show was over, and another set of rabble came in. ’Tis hard our
laws would not suffer us to hang his body in chains, because he was not
tried; and in the eye of our law every man is innocent till then.—Mr.
Harley is still very weak, and never out of bed.
26. This was a most delicious day; and my shin being past danger, I
walked like lightning above two hours in the Park. We have generally one
fair day, and then a great deal of rain for three or four days together.
All things are at a stop in Parliament for want of Mr. Harley; they
cannot stir an inch without him in their most material affairs: and we
fear, by the caprice of Radcliffe, who will admit none but his own
surgeon, {177} he has not been well looked after. I dined at an alehouse
with Mr. Lewis, but had his wine. Don’t you begin to see the flowers and
blossoms of the field? How busy should I be now at Laracor! No news of
your box? I hope you have it, and are this minute drinking the
chocolate, and that the smell of the Brazil tobacco has not affected it.
I would be glad to know whether you like it, because I would send you
more by people that are now every day thinking of going to Ireland;
therefore pray tell me, and tell me soon: and I will have the strong box.
27. A rainy, wretched, scurvy day from morning till night: and my
neighbour Vanhomrigh invited me to dine with them and this evening I
passed at Mr. Prior’s with Dr. Freind; and ’tis now past twelve, so I
must go sleep.
28. Morning. O, faith, you’re an impudent saucy couple of sluttikins
for presuming to write so soon, said I to myself this morning; who knows
but there may be a letter from MD at the Coffee-house? Well, you must
know, and so, I just now sent Patrick, and he brought me three letters,
but not one from MD, no indeed, for I read all the superscriptions; and
not one from MD. One I opened, it was from the Archbishop; {178a}
t’other I opened, it was from Staunton; {178b} the third I took, and
looked at the hand. Whose hand is this? says I; yes, says I, whose hand
is this? Then there was wax between the folds; then I began to suspect;
then I peeped; faith, it was Walls’s hand after all: then I opened it in
a rage, and then it was little MD’s hand, dear, little, pretty, charming
MD’s sweet hand again. O Lord, an’t here a clutter and a stir, and a
bustle? never saw the like. Faith, I believe yours lay some days at the
post-office, and that it came before my eighteenth went, but that I did
not expect it, and I hardly ever go there. Well, and so you think I’ll
answer this letter now; no, faith, and so I won’t. I’ll make you wait,
young women; but I’ll inquire immediately about poor Dingley’s exchequer
trangum. {178c} What, is that Vedel again a soldier? was he broke? I’ll
put it in Ben Tooke’s hand. I hope Vedel could not sell it.—At night.
Vedel, Vedel, poh, pox, I think it is Vedeau; {178d} ay, Vedeau, now I
have it; let me see, do you name him in yours? Yes, Mr. John Vedeau is
the brother; but where does this brother live? I’ll inquire. This was a
fast-day for the public; so I dined late with Sir Matthew Dudley, whom I
have not been with a great while. He is one of those that must lose his
employment whenever the great shake comes; and I can’t contribute to keep
him in, though I have dropped words in his favour to the Ministry; but he
is too violent a Whig, and friend to the Lord Treasurer, {179a} to stay
in. ’Tis odd to think how long they let those people keep their places;
but the reason is, they have not enough to satisfy all expecters, and so
they keep them all in hopes, that they may be good boys in the meantime;
and thus the old ones hold in still. The Comptroller {179b} told me that
there are eight people expect his staff. I walked after dinner to-day
round the Park. What, do I write politics to little young women? Hold
your tongue, and go to your Dean’s.
29. Morning. If this be a fine day, I will walk into the City, and see
Charles Barnard’s library. What care I for your letter, saucy N. 12? I
will say nothing to it yet: faith, I believe this will be full before its
time, and then go it must. I will always write once a fortnight; and if
it goes sooner by filling sooner, why, then there is so much clear gain.
Morrow, morrow, rogues and lasses both, I can’t lie scribbling here in
bed for your play; I must rise, and so morrow again.—At night. Your
friend Montgomery and his sister are here, as I am told by Patrick. I
have seen him often, but take no notice of him: he is grown very ugly and
pimpled. They tell me he is a gamester, and wins money.—How could I help
it, pray? Patrick snuffed the candle too short, and the grease ran down
upon the paper. {179c} It an’t my fault, ’tis Patrick’s fault; pray now
don’t blame Presto. I walked to-day in the City, and dined at a private
house, and went to see the auction of poor Charles Barnard’s books; they
were in the middle of the physic books, so I bought none; and they are so
dear, I believe I shall buy none, and there is an end; and go to
Stoyte’s, and I’ll go sleep.
30. Morning. This is Good Friday, you must know; and I must rise and go
to Mr. Secretary about some business, and Mrs. Vanhomrigh desires me to
breakfast with her, because she is to intercede for Patrick, who is so
often drunk and quarrelsome in the house, that I was resolved to send him
over; but he knows all the places where I send, and is so used to my
ways, that it would be inconvenient to me; but when I come to Ireland, I
will discharge him. {180a} Sir Thomas Mansel, {180b} one of the Lords of
the Treasury, setting me down at my door to-day, saw Patrick, and swore
he was a Teague-lander. {180c} I am so used to his face, I never
observed it, but thought him a pretty fellow. Sir Andrew Fountaine and I
supped this fast-day with Mrs. Vanhomrigh. We were afraid Mr. Harley’s
wound would turn to a fistula; but we think the danger is now past. He
rises every day, and walks about his room, and we hope he will be out in
a fortnight. Prior showed me a handsome paper of verses he has writ on
Mr. Harley’s accident: {180d} they are not out; I will send them to you,
if he will give me a copy.
31. Morning. What shall we do to make April fools this year, now it
happens on Sunday? Patrick brings word that Mr. Harley still mends, and
is up every day. I design to see him in a few days: and he brings me
word too that he has found out Vedeau’s brother’s shop: I shall call
there in a day or two. It seems the wife lodges next door to the
brother. I doubt the scoundrel was broke, and got a commission, or
perhaps is a volunteer gentleman, and expects to get one by his valour.
Morrow, sirrahs, let me rise.—At night. I dined to-day with Sir Thomas
Mansel. We were walking in the Park, and Mr. Lewis came to us. Mansel
asked where we dined. We said, “Together.” He said, we should dine with
him, only his wife {181a} desired him to bring nobody, because she had
only a leg of mutton. I said I would dine with him to choose; but he
would send a servant to order a plate or two: yet this man has ten
thousand pounds a year in land, and is a Lord of the Treasury, and is not
covetous neither, but runs out merely by slattering {181b} and
negligence. The worst dinner I ever saw at the Dean’s was better: but so
it is with abundance of people here. I called at night at Mr. Harley’s,
who begins to walk in his room with a stick, but is mighty weak.—See how
much I have lost with that ugly grease. {181c} ’Tis your fault, pray;
and I’ll go to bed.
April 1. The Duke of Buckingham’s house fell down last night with an
earthquake, and is half swallowed up; won’t you go and see it?—An April
fool, an April fool, oh ho, young women. Well, don’t be angry. I will
make you an April fool no more till the next time; we had no sport here,
because it is Sunday, and Easter Sunday. I dined with the Secretary, who
seemed terribly down and melancholy, which Mr. Prior and Lewis observed
as well as I: perhaps something is gone wrong; perhaps there is nothing
in it. God bless my own dearest MD, and all is well.
2. We have such windy weather, ’tis troublesome walking, yet all the
rabble have got into our Park these Easter holidays. I am plagued with
one Richardson, an Irish parson, and his project of printing Irish
Bibles, etc., to make you Christians in that country: I befriend him what
I can, on account of the Archbishop and Bishop of Clogher.—But what
business have I to meddle, etc. Do not you remember that, sirrah Stella?
what was that about, when you thought I was meddling with something that
was not my business? O, faith, you are an impudent slut, I remember your
doings, I’ll never forget you as long as I live. Lewis and I dined
together at his lodgings. But where’s the answer to this letter of MD’s?
O, faith, Presto, you must think of that. Time enough, says saucy
Presto.
3. I was this morning to see Mrs. Barton: I love her better than anybody
here, and see her seldomer. Why, really now, so it often happens in the
world, that where one loves a body best—pshah, pshah, you are so silly
with your moral observations. Well, but she told me a very good story.
An old gentlewoman died here two months ago, and left in her will, to
have eight men and eight maids bearers, who should have two guineas
apiece, ten guineas to the parson for a sermon, and two guineas to the
clerk. But bearers, parson, and clerk must be all true virgins; and not
to be admitted till they took their oaths of virginity: so the poor woman
still lies unburied, and so must do till the general resurrection.—I
called at Mr. Secretary’s, to see what the D— ailed him on Sunday. I
made him a very proper speech; told him I observed he was much out of
temper; that I did not expect he would tell me the cause, but would be
glad to see he was in better; and one thing I warned him of, never to
appear cold to me, for I would not be treated like a schoolboy; that I
had felt too much of that in my life already (meaning from Sir William
Temple); that I expected every great Minister who honoured me with his
acquaintance, if he heard or saw anything to my disadvantage, would let
me know it in plain words, and not put me in pain to guess by the change
or coldness of his countenance or behaviour; for it was what I would
hardly bear from a crowned head, and I thought no subject’s favour was
worth it; and that I designed to let my Lord Keeper {182a} and Mr. Harley
know the same thing, that they might use me accordingly. He took all
right; said I had reason; vowed nothing ailed him but sitting up whole
nights at business, and one night at drinking; would have had me dine
with him and Mrs. Masham’s brother, to make up matters; but I would not.
I don’t know, but I would not. But indeed I was engaged with my old
friend Rollinson; {182b} you never heard of him before.
4. I sometimes look a line or two back, and see plaguy mistakes of the
pen; how do you get over them? You are puzzled sometimes. Why, I think
what I said to Mr. Secretary was right. Don’t you remember how I used to
be in pain when Sir William Temple would look cold and out of humour for
three or four days, and I used to suspect a hundred reasons? I have
plucked up my spirit since then, faith; he spoilt a fine gentleman. I
dined with my neighbour Vanhomrigh, and MD, poor MD, at home on a loin of
mutton and half a pint of wine, and the mutton was raw, poor Stella could
not eat, poor dear rogue, and Dingley was so vexed; but we will dine at
Stoyte’s to-morrow. Mr. Harley promised to see me in a day or two, so I
called this evening; but his son and others were abroad, and he asleep,
so I came away, and found out Mrs. Vedeau. She drew out a letter from
Dingley, and said she would get a friend to receive the money. I told
her I would employ Mr. Tooke in it henceforward. Her husband bought a
lieutenancy of foot, and is gone to Portugal. He sold his share of the
shop to his brother, and put out the money to maintain her, all but what
bought the commission. She lodges within two doors of her brother. She
told me it made her very melancholy to change her manner of life thus,
but trade was dead, etc. She says she will write to you soon. I design
to engage Ben Tooke, and then receive the parchment from her.—I gave Mr.
Dopping a copy of Prior’s verses on Mr. Harley; he sent them yesterday to
Ireland, so go look for them, for I won’t be at the trouble to transcribe
them here. They will be printed in a day or two. Give my hearty service
to Stoyte and Catherine: upon my word I love them dearly, and desire you
will tell them so: pray desire Goody Stoyte not to let Mrs. Walls and
Mrs. Johnson cheat her of her money at ombre, but assure her from me that
she is a bungler. Dine with her to-day, and tell her so, and drink my
health, and good voyage, and speedy return, and so you’re a rogue.
5. Morning. Now let us proceed to examine a saucy letter from one Madam
MD.—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. When I find you are
happy or merry there, it makes me so here, and 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, but not
always in the morning, because that is not so modest to young
ladies.—What, you would fain palm a letter on me more than you sent: and
I, like a fool, must look over all yours, to see whether this was really
N. 12, or more. [Patrick has this moment brought me letters from the
Bishop of Clogher and Parvisol; my heart was at my mouth for fear of one
from MD; what a disgrace would it be to have two of yours to answer
together! But, faith, this shall go to-night, for fear; and then come
when it will, I defy it.] No, you are not naughty at all, write when you
are disposed. And so the Dean told you the story of Mr. Harley from the
Archbishop; I warrant it never spoiled your supper, or broke off your
game. Nor yet, have not you the box? I wish Mrs. Edgworth had the —.
But you have it now, I suppose; and is the chocolate good, or has the
tobacco spoilt it? Leigh stays till Sterne has done his business, no
longer; and when that will be, God knows: I befriend him as much as I
can, but Harley’s accident stops that as well as all things else. You
guess, Madam Dingley, that I shall stay a round twelvemonth; as hope
saved, I would come over, if I could, this minute; but we will talk of
that by and by. Your affair of Vedeau I have told you of already; now to
the next, turn over the leaf. Mrs. Dobbins lies, I have no more
provision here or in Ireland than I had. I am pleased that Stella the
conjurer approves what I did with Mr. Harley; {184} but your generosity
makes me mad; I know you repine inwardly at Presto’s absence; you think
he has broken his word of coming in three months, and that this is always
his trick; and now Stella says she does not see possibly how I can come
away in haste, and that MD is satisfied, etc. An’t you a rogue to
overpower me thus? I did not expect to find such friends as I have done.
They may indeed deceive me too. But there are important reasons [Pox on
this grease, this candle tallow!] why they should not. {185a} I have
been used barbarously by the late Ministry; I am a little piqued in
honour to let people see I am not to be despised. The assurances they
give me, without any scruple or provocation, are such as are usually
believed in the world; they may come to nothing, but the first
opportunity that offers, and is neglected, I shall depend no more, but
come away. I could say a thousand things on this head, if I were with
you. I am thinking why Stella should not go to the Bath, if she be told
it will do her good. I will make Parvisol get up fifty pounds, and pay
it you; and you may be good housewives, and live cheap there some months,
and return in autumn, or visit London, as you please: pray think of it.
I writ to Bernage, directed to Curry’s; I wish he had the letter. I will
send the bohea tea, if I can. The Bishop of Kilmore, {185b} I don’t keep
such company; an old dying fool whom I never was with in my life. So I
am no godfather; {185c} all the better. Pray, Stella, explain those two
words of yours to me, what you mean by _villian_ and _dainger_; {185d}
and you, Madam Dingley, what is _christianing_?—Lay your letter _this
way_, _this way_, and the devil a bit of difference between this way and
the other way. No; I will show you, lay them _this way_, _this way_, and
not _that way_, _that way_. {185e}—You shall have your aprons; and I will
put all your commissions as they come, in a paper together, and do not
think I will forget MD’s orders, because they are friends; I will be as
careful as if they were strangers. I knew not what to do about this
Clements. {186a} Walls will not let me say anything as if Mr. Pratt was
against him; and now the Bishop of Clogher has written to me in his
behalf. This thing does not rightly fall in my way, and that people
never consider: I always give my good offices where they are proper, and
that I am judge of; however, I will do what I can. But, if he has the
name of a Whig, it will be hard, considering my Lord Anglesea and Hyde
{186b} are very much otherwise, and you know they have the employment of
Deputy Treasurer. If the frolic should take you of going to the Bath, I
here send you a note on Parvisol; if not, you may tear it, and there’s an
end. Farewell.
If you have an imagination that the Bath will do you good, I say again, I
would have you go; if not, or it be inconvenient, burn this note. Or, if
you would go, and not take so much money, take thirty pounds, and I will
return you twenty from hence. Do as you please, sirrahs. I suppose it
will not be too late for the first season; if it be, I would have you
resolve however to go the second season, if the doctors say it will do
you good, and you fancy so.