When Presto begins to prate,
Give him a rap upon the pate.
LETTER 18.
75
The Journal to Stella
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[9] up my leg on the seat; and as I came home, I went to see poor Charles Barnard’s[10] 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,[11] 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 goodnight, 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[12] 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 tomorrow, 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.
LETTER 18.
76
The Journal to Stella
22. Yesterday was a short day’s journal: but what care I? what cares saucy Presto? Darteneuf[13] 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.,[14] 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,[15] 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.[16] ‘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 tomorrow, 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.
LETTER 19.
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[1] 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.