22. Morning. I must rise and go to the Secretary’s. Mr. Harley has
been out of town this week to refresh himself before he comes into
Parliament. Oh, but I must rise, so there is no more to be said; and so
morrow, sirrahs both.—Night. I dined to-day with the Secretary, who has
engaged me for every Sunday; and I was an hour with him this morning deep
in politics, where I told him the objections of the October Club, and he
answered all except one, that no inquiries are made into past
mismanagement. But indeed I believe they are not yet able to make any:
the late Ministry were too cunning in their rogueries, and fenced
themselves with an Act of general pardon. I believe Mr. Harley must be
Lord Treasurer; yet he makes one difficulty which is hard to answer: he
must be made a lord, and his estate is not large enough, and he is too
generous to make it larger; and if the Ministry should change soon by any
accident, he will be left in the suds. Another difficulty is, that if he
be made a peer, they will want him prodigiously in the House of Commons,
of which he is the great mover, and after him the Secretary, and hardly
any else of weight. Two shillings more to-day for coach and chair. I
shall be ruined.
23. So you expect an answer to your letter, do you so? Yes, yes, you
shall have an answer, you shall, young women. I made a good pun on
Saturday to my Lord Keeper. After dinner we had coarse Doiley napkins,
{199a} fringed at each end, upon the table, to drink with: my Lord Keeper
spread one of them between him and Mr. Prior; I told him I was glad to
see there was such a fringeship [friendship] between Mr. Prior and his
lordship. Prior swore it was the worst he ever heard: I said I thought
so too; but at the same time I thought it was most like one of Stella’s
that ever I heard. I dined to-day with Lord Mountjoy, and this evening
saw the Venetian Ambassador {199b} coming from his first public audience.
His coach was the most monstrous, huge, fine, rich gilt thing that ever I
saw. I loitered this evening, and came home late.
24. I was this morning to visit the Duchess of Ormond, {199c} who has
long desired it, or threatened she would not let me visit her daughters.
I sat an hour with her, and we were good company, when in came the
Countess of Bellamont, {199d} with a pox. I went out, and we did not
know one another; yet hearing me named, she asked, “What, is that Dr.
Swift?” said she and I were very well acquainted, and fell a railing at
me without mercy, as a lady told me that was there; yet I never was but
once in the company of that drab of a Countess. Sir Andrew Fountaine and
I dined with my neighbour Van. I design in two days, if possible, to go
lodge at Chelsea for the air, and put myself under a necessity of walking
to and from London every day. I writ this post to the Bishop of Clogher
a long politic letter, to entertain him. I am to buy statues and harnese
{200a} for them, with a vengeance. I have packed and sealed up MD’s
twelve letters against I go to Chelsea. I have put the last commissions
of MD in my account-book; but if there be any former ones, I have forgot
them. I have Dingley’s pocket-book down, and Stella’s green silk apron,
and the pound of tea; pray send me word if you have any other, and down
they shall go. I will not answer your letter yet, saucy boxes. You are
with the Dean just now, Madam Stella, losing your money. Why do not you
name what number you have received? You say you have received my
letters, but do not tell the number.
25. I was this day dining in the City with very insignificant, low, and
scurvy company. I had a letter from the Archbishop of Dublin, with a
long denial of the report raised on him, {200b} which yet has been since
assured to me from those who say they have it from the first hand; but I
cannot believe them. I will show it to the Secretary to-morrow. I will
not answer yours till I get to Chelsea.
26. Chelsea. I have sent two boxes of lumber to my friend Darteneuf’s
house, and my chest of Florence and other things to Mrs. Vanhomrigh,
where I dined to-day. I was this morning with the Secretary, and showed
him the Archbishop’s letter, and convinced him of his Grace’s innocence,
and I will do the same to Mr. Harley. I got here in the stage-coach with
Patrick and my portmanteau for sixpence, and pay six shillings a week for
one silly room with confounded coarse sheets. {200c} We have had such a
horrible deal of rain, that there is no walking to London, and I must go
as I came until it mends; and besides the whelp has taken my lodging as
far from London as this town could afford, at least half a mile farther
than he need; but I must be content. The best is, I lodge just over
against Dr. Atterbury’s house, and yet perhaps I shall not like the place
the better for that. Well, I will stay till to-morrow before I answer
your letter; and you must suppose me always writing at Chelsea from
henceforward, till I alter, and say London. This letter goes on
Saturday, which will be just a fortnight; so go and cheat Goody Stoyte,
etc.
27. Do you know that I fear my whole chest of Florence is turned sour,
at least the two first flasks were so, and hardly drinkable. How plaguy
unfortunate am I! and the Secretary’s own is the best I ever tasted; and
I must not tell him, but be as thankful as if it were the best in
Christendom. I went to town in the sixpenny stage to-day; and hearing
Mr. Harley was not at home, I went to see him, because I knew by the
message of his lying porter that he was at home. He was very well, and
just going out, but made me promise to dine with him; and betwixt that
and indeed strolling about, I lost four pound seven shillings at
play—with a——a—a—bookseller, and got but about half a dozen books. {201a}
I will buy no more books now, that’s certain. Well, I dined at Mr.
Harley’s, came away at six, shifted my gown, cassock, and periwig, and
walked hither to Chelsea, as I always design to do when it is fair. I am
heartily sorry to find my friend the Secretary stand a little ticklish
with the rest of the Ministry; there have been one or two disobliging
things that have happened, too long to tell: and t’other day in
Parliament, upon a debate of about thirty-five millions that have not
been duly accounted for, Mr. Secretary, in his warmth of speech, and zeal
for his friend Mr. Brydges, {201b} on whom part of the blame was falling,
said he did not know that either Mr. Brydges or the late Ministry were at
all to blame in this matter; which was very desperately spoken, and
giving up the whole cause: for the chief quarrel against the late
Ministry was the ill management of the treasure, and was more than all
the rest together. I had heard of this matter: but Mr. Foley {202a}
beginning to discourse to-day at table, without naming Mr. St. John, I
turned to Mr. Harley, and said if the late Ministry were not to blame in
that article, he (Mr. Harley) ought to lose his head for putting the
Queen upon changing them. He made it a jest; but by some words dropped,
I easily saw that they take things ill of Mr. St. John; and by some hints
given me from another hand that I deal with, I am afraid the Secretary
will not stand long. This is the fate of Courts. I will, if I meet Mr.
St. John alone on Sunday, tell him my opinion, and beg him to set himself
right, else the consequences may be very bad; for I see not how they can
well want him neither, and he would make a troublesome enemy. But enough
of politics.
28. Morning. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Harley asked me yesterday
how he came to disoblige the Archbishop of Dublin. Upon which (having
not his letter about me) I told him what the Bishop had written to me on
that subject, {202b} and desired I might read him the letter some other
time. But after all, from what I have heard from other hands, I am
afraid the Archbishop is a little guilty. Here is one Brent Spencer, a
brother of Mr. Proby’s, {202c} who affirms it, and says he has leave to
do so from Charles Dering, {202d} who heard the words; and that
Ingoldsby, {202e} abused the Archbishop, etc. Well, but now for your
saucy letter: I have no room to answer it; O yes, enough on t’other side.
Are you no sicker? Stella jeers Presto for not coming over by Christmas;
but indeed Stella does not jeer, but reproach, poor poor Presto. And how
can I come away and the First-Fruits not finished? I am of opinion the
Duke of Ormond will do nothing in them before he goes, which will be in a
fortnight, they say; and then they must fall to me to be done in his
absence. No, indeed, I have nothing to print: you know they have printed
the _Miscellanies_ {203a} already. Are they on your side yet? If you
have my snuff box, I will have your strong box. Hi, does Stella take
snuff again? or is it only because it is a fine box? Not the _Meddle_,
but the _Medley_, {203b} you fool. Yes, yes, a wretched thing, because
it is against you Tories: now I think it very fine, and the _Examiner_ a
wretched thing.—Twist your mouth, sirrah. Guiscard, and what you will
read in the _Narrative_, {203c} I ordered to be written, and nothing
else. The _Spectator_ is written by Steele, with Addison’s help: it is
often very pretty. Yesterday it was made of a noble hint I gave him long
ago for his _Tatlers_, about an Indian supposed to write his Travels into
England. {203d} I repent he ever had it. I intended to have written a
book on that subject. I believe he has spent it all in one paper, and
all the under-hints there are mine too; but I never see him or Addison.
The Queen is well, but I fear will be no long liver; for I am told she
has sometimes the gout in her bowels (I hate the word _bowels_). My ears
have been, these three months past, much better than any time these two
years; but now they begin to be a little out of order again. My head is
better, though not right; but I trust to air and walking. You have got
my letter, but what number? I suppose 18. Well, my shin has been well
this month. No, Mrs. Westley {203e} came away without her husband’s
knowledge, while she was in the country: she has written to me for some
tea. They lie; Mr. Harley’s wound was very terrible: he had convulsions,
and very narrowly escaped. The bruise was nine times worse than the
wound: he is weak still. Well, Brooks married; I know all that. I am
sorry for Mrs. Walls’s eye: I hope ’tis better. O yes, you are great
walkers: but I have heard them say, “Much talkers, little walkers”: and I
believe I may apply the old proverb to you—
If you talked no more than you walked,
Those that think you wits would be baulked.
Yes, Stella shall have a large printed Bible: I have put it down among my
commissions for MD. I am glad to hear you have taken the fancy of
intending to read the Bible. Pox take the box; is not it come yet? This
is trusting to your young fellows, young women; ’tis your fault: I
thought you had such power with Sterne that he would fly over Mount Atlas
to serve you. You say you are not splenetic; but if you be, faith, you
will break poor Presto’s—I will not say the rest; but I vow to God, if I
could decently come over now, I would, and leave all schemes of politics
and ambition for ever. I have not the opportunities here of preserving
my health by riding, etc., that I have in Ireland; and the want of health
is a great cooler of making one’s court. You guess right about my being
bit with a direction from Walls, and the letter from MD: I believe I
described it in one of my last. This goes to-night; and I must now rise
and walk to town, and walk back in the evening. God Almighty bless and
preserve poor MD. Farewell.
O, faith, don’t think, saucy noses, that I’ll fill this third side: I
can’t stay a letter above a fortnight: it must go then; and you would
rather see a short one like this, than want it a week longer.
My humble service to the Dean, and Mrs. Walls, and good, kind, hearty
Mrs. Stoyte, and honest Catherine.