at picket, that is picquet, I mean; but very seldom.—­Out late? why, ’tis only at Lady Masham’s, and that is in our town; but I never come late here from London, except once in rain, when I could not get a coach.  We have had very little thunder here; none these two months.  Why, pray, madam philosopher, how did the rain hinder the thunder from doing any harm?  I suppose it ssquenched it.  So here comes Ppt aden[5] with her little watery postscript.  O Rold, dlunken srut![6] drink Pdfr’s health ten times in a morning! you are a whetter, fais; I sup MD’s fifteen times evly molning in milk porridge.  Lele’s fol oo now—­and lele’s fol oo rettle, and evly kind of sing[7]—­and now I must say something else.  You hear Secretary St. John is made Viscount Bullinbrook.[8] I can hardly persuade him to take that title, because the eldest branch of his family had it in an earldom, and it was last year extinct.  If he did not take it, I advised him to be Lord Pomfret, which I think is a noble title.  You hear of it often in the Chronicles, Pomfret Castle:  but we believed it was among the titles of some other lord.  Jack Hill sent his sister a pattern of a head-dress from Dunkirk; it was like our fashion twenty years ago, only not quite so high, and looked very ugly.  I have made Trapp[9] chaplain to Lord Bullinbroke, and he is mighty happy and thankful for it.  Mr. Addison returned me my visit this morning.  He lives in our town.  I shall be mighty retired, and mighty busy for a while at Windsor.  Pray why don’t MD go to Trim, and see Laracor, and give me an account of the garden, and the river, and the holly and the cherry-trees on the river-walk?

19.  I could not send this letter last post, being called away before I could fold or finish it.  I dined yesterday with Lord Treasurer; sat with him till ten at night; yet could not find a minute for some business I had with him.  He brought me to Kensington, and Lord Bulingbrook would not let me go away till two; and I am now in bed, very lazy and sleepy at nine.  I must shave head and face, and meet Lord Bullinbrook at eleven, and dine again with Lord Treasurer.  To-day there will be another Grub,[10] A Letter from the Pretender to a Whig Lord.  Grub Street has but ten days to live; then an Act of Parliament takes place that ruins it, by taxing every half-sheet at a halfpenny.  We have news just come, but not the particulars, that the Earl of Albemarle,[11] at the head of eight thousand Dutch, is beaten, lost the greatest part of his men, and himself a prisoner.  This perhaps may cool their courage, and make them think of a peace.  The Duke of Ormond has got abundance of credit by his good conduct of affairs in Flanders.  We had a good deal of rain last night, very refreshing.  ’Tis late, and I must rise.  Don’t play at ombre in your waters, sollah.  Farewell, deelest MD, MD MD MD FW FW me me me Lele Lele Lele.

LETTER 51.[1]