LETTER 53.[1]
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.[2]
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.[3] 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[4] 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,[5] 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,[6] 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,[7] at Windsor: but I
could not answer it then; poor Pdfr was vely kick[8] 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.[9]
I should love such a sort of jaunt. Is that lad Swanton[10] 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.[11] I believe I 'scaped the new fever[12] 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;[13] 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.[14] 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,[15] 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[16] next. O, fais, I must be ise;[17] 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.[18] 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[19] 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.[20]
