29. Sir Andrew Fountaine has been very ill this
week; and sent to me early this morning to have prayers,
which you know is the last thing. I found the
doctors and all in despair about him. I read
prayers to him, found he had settled all things; and,
when I came out, the nurse asked me whether I thought
it possible he could live; for the doctors thought
not. I said, I believed he would live; for I
found the seeds of life in him, which I observe seldom
fail (and I found them in poor, dearest Stella, when
she was ill many years ago); and to-night I was with
him again, and he was mightily recovered, and I hope
he will do well, and the doctor approved my reasons;
but, if he should die, I should come off scurvily.
The Secretary of State (Mr. St. John) sent to me to
dine with him; Mr. Harley and Lord Peterborow dined
there too; and at night came Lord Rivers. Lord
Peterborow goes to Vienna in a day or two: he
has promised to make me write to him. Mr.
Harley
went away at six; but we stayed till seven.
I took the Secretary aside, and complained to him of
Mr. Harley, that he had got the Queen to grant the
First-Fruits, promised to bring me to her, and get
her letter to the bishops of Ireland; but the last
part he had not done in six weeks, and I was in danger
to lose reputation, etc. He took the matter
right, desired me to be with him on Sunday morning,
and promises me to finish the affair in four days;
so I shall know in a little time what I have to trust
to.—It is nine o’clock, and I must
go study, you little rogues; and so good-night, etc.
30. Morning. The weather grows cold, you
sauceboxes. Sir Andrew Fountaine, they bring
me word, is better. I will go rise, for my hands
are starving while I write in bed. Night.
Now Sir Andrew Fountaine is recovering, he desires
to be at ease; for I called in the morning to read
prayers, but he had given orders not to be disturbed.
I have lost a legacy by his living; for he told me
he had left me a picture and some books, etc.
I called to see my quondam neighbour Ford (do you
know what quondam is, though?), and he engaged me
to dine with him; for he always dines at home on Opera-days.
I came home at six, writ to the Archbishop, then
studied till past eleven, and stole to bed, to write
to MD these few lines, to let you know I am in good
health at the present writing hereof, and hope in
God MD is so too. I wonder I never write politics
to you: I could make you the profoundest politician
in all the lane.—Well, but when shall we
answer this letter, No. 8 of MD’s? Not
till next year, faith. O Lord—bo—but
that will be a Monday next. Cod’s-so, is
it? and so it is: never saw the like.—I
made a pun t’other day to Ben Portlack[11] about
a pair of drawers. Poh, said he, that’s
mine a—– all over. Pray, pray,
Dingley, let me go sleep; pray, pray, Stella, let me
go slumber; and put out my wax-candle.
31. Morning. It is now seven, and I have
got a fire, but am writing abed in my bed-chamber.
’Tis not shaving-day, so I shall be ready early
to go before church to Mr. St. John; and to-morrow
I will answer our MD’s letter.
