LONDON, _Oct._ 9, 1712.
I HAVE left Windsor these ten days, and am deep in pills with asafoetida,
and a steel bitter drink; and I find my head much better than it was. I
was very much discouraged; for I used to be ill for three or four days
together, ready to totter as I walked. I take eight pills a day, and
have taken, I believe, a hundred and fifty already. The Queen, Lord
Treasurer, Lady Masham, and I, were all ill together, but are now all
better; only Lady Masham expects every day to lie in at Kensington.
There was never such a lump of lies spread about the town together as
now. I doubt not but you will have them in Dublin before this comes to
you, and all without the least grounds of truth. I have been mightily
put backward in something I am writing by my illness, but hope to fetch
it up, so as to be ready when the Parliament meets. Lord Treasurer has
had an ugly fit of the rheumatism, but is now near quite well. I was
playing at one-and-thirty with him and his family t’other night. He gave
us all twelvepence apiece to begin with: it put me in mind of Sir William
Temple. {459a} I asked both him and Lady Masham seriously whether the
Queen were at all inclined to a dropsy, and they positively assured me
she was not: so did her physician Arbuthnot, who always attends her. Yet
these devils have spread that she has holes in her legs, and runs at her
navel, and I know not what. Arbuthnot has sent me from Windsor a pretty
Discourse upon Lying, and I have ordered the printer to come for it. It
is a proposal for publishing a curious piece, called _The Art of
Political Lying_, in two volumes, etc. And then there is an abstract of
the first volume, just like those pamphlets which they call _The Works of
the Learned_. {459b} Pray get it when it comes out. The Queen has a
little of the gout in one of her hands. I believe she will stay a month
still at Windsor. Lord Treasurer showed me the kindest letter from her
in the world, by which I picked out one secret, that there will be soon
made some Knights of the Garter. You know another is fallen by Lord
Godolphin’s death: he will be buried in a day or two at Westminster
Abbey. I saw Tom Leigh {459c} in town once. The Bishop of Clogher has
taken his lodging for the winter; they are all well. I hear there are in
town abundance of people from Ireland; half a dozen bishops at least. The
poor old Bishop of London, {459d} at past fourscore, fell down backward
going upstairs, and I think broke or cracked his skull; yet is now
recovering. The town is as empty as at midsummer; and if I had not
occasion for physic, I would be at Windsor still. Did I tell you of Lord
Rivers’s will? He has left legacies to about twenty paltry old whores by
name, and not a farthing to any friend, dependent, or relation: he has
left from his only child, Lady Barrymore, {460a} her mother’s estate, and
given the whole to his heir-male, a popish priest, a second cousin, who
is now Earl Rivers, and whom he used in his life like a footman. After
him it goes to his chief wench and bastard. Lord Treasurer and Lord
Chamberlain are executors of this hopeful will. I loved the man, and
detest his memory. We hear nothing of peace yet: I believe verily the
Dutch are so wilful, because they are told the Queen cannot live. I had
poor MD’s letter, N. 3, {460b} at Windsor: but I could not answer it
then; poor Pdfr was vely kick {460c} then: and, besides, it was a very
inconvenient place to send letters from. Oo thought to come home the
same day, and stayed a month: that was a sign the place was agreeable.
{460d} I should love such a sort of jaunt. Is that lad Swanton {460e} a
little more fixed than he used to be? I think you like the girl very
well. She has left off her grave airs, I suppose. I am now told Lord
Godolphin was buried last night.—O poo Ppt! lay down oo head aden, fais I
. . . ; I always reckon if oo are ill I shall hear it, and therefore hen
oo are silent I reckon all is well. {460f} I believe I ’scaped the new
fever {460g} for the same reason that Ppt did, because I am not well; but
why should DD ’scape it, pray? She is melthigal, oo know, and ought to
have the fever; but I hope it is now too late, and she won’t have it at
all. Some physicians here talk very melancholy, and think it foreruns
the plague, which is actually at Hamburg. I hoped Ppt would have done
with her illness; but I think we both have that faculty never to part
with a disorder for ever; we are very constant. I have had my giddiness
twenty-three years by fits. Will Mrs. Raymond never have done lying-in?
He intends to leave beggars enough; for I daresay he has squandered away
the best part of his fortune already, and is not out of debt. I had a
letter from him lately.
Oct. 11. Lord Treasurer sent for me yesterday and the day before to sit
with him, because he is not yet quite well enough to go abroad; and I
could not finish my letter. How the deuce come I to be so exact in ME
money? Just seventeen shillings and eightpence more than due; I believe
you cheat me. If Hawkshaw does not pay the interest I will have the
principal; pray speak to Parvisol and have his advice what I should do
about it. Service to Mrs. Stoyte and Catherine and Mrs. Walls. Ppt
makes a petition with many apologies. John Danvers, you know, is Lady
Giffard’s friend. The rest I never heard of. I tell you what, as things
are at present, I cannot possibly speak to Lord Treasurer for anybody. I
need tell you no more. Something or nothing will be done in my own
affairs: if the former, I will be a solicitor for your sister; {461a} if
the latter, I have done with Courts for ever. Opportunities will often
fall in my way, if I am used well, and I will then make it my business.
It is my delight to do good offices for people who want and deserve, and
a tenfold delight to do it to a relation of Ppt, whose affairs she has so
at heart. {461b} I have taken down his name and his case (not _her_
case), and whenever a proper time comes, I will do all I can; zat’s
enough to say when I can do no more; and I beg oo pardon a sousand times,
{462a} that I cannot do better. I hope the Dean of St. P[atrick’s] is
well of his fever: he has never writ to me: I am glad of it; pray don’t
desire him to write. I have dated your bill late, because it must not
commence, ung oomens, till the first of November {462b} next. O, fais, I
must be ise; {462c} iss, fais, must I; else ME will cheat Pdfr. Are you
good housewives and readers? Are you walkers? I know you are gamesters.
Are you drinkers? Are you— O Rold, I must go no further, for fear of
abusing fine radies. {462d} Parvisol has never sent me one word how he
set this year’s tithes. Pray ask whether tithes set well or ill this
year. The Bishop of Killaloe {462e} tells me wool bears a good rate in
Ireland: but how is corn? I dined yesterday with Lady Orkney, and we sat
alone from two till eleven at night.—You have heard of her, I suppose. I
have twenty letters upon my hands, and am so lazy and so busy, I cannot
answer them, and they grow upon me for several months. Have I any apples
at Laracor? It is strange every year should blast them, when I took so
much care for shelter. Lord Bolingbroke has been idle at his
country-house this fortnight, which puts me backward in a business I
have. I am got into an ordinary room two pair of stairs, and see nobody,
if I can help it; yet some puppies have found me out, and my man is not
such an artist as Patrick at denying me. Patrick has been soliciting to
come to me again, but in vain. The printer has been here with some of
the new whims printed, and has taken up my time. I am just going out,
and can only bid oo farewell. Farewell, deelest ickle MD, MD MD MD FW FW
FW FW ME ME ME ME. Lele deel ME. Lele lele lele sollahs bose. {462f}