A pitiful fellow!  Such a ridiculous kind of pity his, as those silly souls have, who would not kill an innocent chicken for the world; but when killed to their hands, are always the most greedy devourers of it.

Now this letter gives the servant the small-pox:  and she has given it to her unhappy vapourish lady.  Vapourish people are perpetual subjects for diseases to work upon.  Name but the malady, and it is theirs in a moment.  Ever fitted for inoculation.—­The physical tribe’s milch-cows.  —­A vapourish or splenetic patient is a fiddle for the doctors; and they are eternally playing upon it.  Sweet music does it make them.  All their difficulty, except a case extraordinary happens, (as poor Mrs. Fretchville’s, who has realized her apprehensions,) is but to hold their countenance, while their patient is drawing up a bill of indictment against himself;—­and when they have heard it, proceed to punish—­the right word for prescribe.  Why should they not, when the criminal has confessed his guilt?—­And punish they generally do with a vengeance.

Yet, silly toads too, now I think of it.  For why, when they know they cannot do good, may they not as well endeavour to gratify, as to nauseate, the patient’s palate?

Were I a physician, I’d get all the trade to myself:  for Malmsey, and Cyprus, and the generous product of the Cape, a little disguised, should be my principal doses:  as these would create new spirits, how would the revived patient covet the physic, and adore the doctor!

Give all the paraders of the faculty whom thou knowest this hint.—­There could but one inconvenience arise from it.  The apothecaries would find their medicines cost them something:  but the demand for quantities would answer that:  since the honest nurse would be the patient’s taster; perpetually requiring repetitions of the last cordial julap.

Well, but to the letter—­Yet what need of further explanation after the hints in my former?  The widow can’t be removed; and that’s enough:  and Mennell’s work is over; and his conscience left to plague him for his own sins, and not another man’s:  and, very possibly, plague enough will give him for those.

This letter is directed, To Robert Lovelace, Esq. or, in his absence, to his Lady.  She has refused dining with me, or seeing me:  and I was out when it came.  She opened it:  so is my lady by her own consent, proud and saucy as she is.

I am glad at my heart that it came before we entirely make up.  She would else perhaps have concluded it to be contrived for a delay:  and now, moreover, we can accommodate our old and new quarrels together; and that’s contrivance, you know.  But how is her dear haughty heart humbled to what it was when I knew her first, that she can apprehend any delays from me; and have nothing to do but to vex at them!

I came in to dinner.  She sent me down the letter, desiring my excuse for opening it.—­Did it before she was aware.  Lady-pride, Belford! recollection, then retrogradation!