on 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.

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'(2) down upon the folks as they come from church; and there
comes Mrs. Proby,(3) and that is my Lady Southwell,(4) and there is
Lady Betty Rochfort.(5) 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 fortnigh