I mention these things because I hate concealment, and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within me.  Our friends have been very good.  Sam Le Grice, [2] who was then in town, was with me the three or four first days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humoring my poor father; talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man’s recollection that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the coroner’s inquest was sitting over the way!).  Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was forced to go.  Mr. Norris, of Christ’s Hospital, has been as a father to me, Mrs. Norris as a mother, though we had few claims on them.  A gentleman, brother to my god-mother, from whom we never had right or reason to expect any such assistance, sent my father twenty pounds; and to crown all these God’s blessings to our family at such a time, an old lady, a cousin of my father and aunt’s, a gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my aunt and make her comfortable for the short remainder of her days.  My aunt is recovered, and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going, and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister’s use.  Reckoning this, we have, Daddy and I, for oar two selves and an old maid-servant to look after him when I am out, which will be necessary, L170, or L180 rather, a year, out of which we can spare L50 or L60 at least for Mary while she stays at Islington, where she roust and shall stay during her father’s life, for his and her comfort.  I know John will make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital.  The good lady of the madhouse and her daughter, an elegant, sweet-behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her amazingly; and I know from her own mouth she loves them, and longs to be with them as much.  Poor thing, they say she was but the other morning saying she knew she must go to Bethlem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be obliged to go with the stream; that she had often, as she passed Bethlem, thought it likely, “here it may be my fate to end my days,” conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before.  A legacy of L100 which my father will have at Christmas, and this L20 I mentioned before, with what is in the house, will much more than set us clear.  If my father, an old servant-maid, and I can’t live, and live comfortably, on L130 or L120 a year, we ought to burn by slow fires; and I almost would, that Mary might not go into an hospital.