Tell Walls that I spoke to the Duke of Ormond about his friend’s affairs.  I likewise mentioned his own affair to Mr. Southwell.  But oo must not know zees sings, zey are secrets; and we must keep them flom nauty dallars.  I was with Lord Treasurer to-day, and hat care oo for zat?  Monday is parson’s holiday, and oo lost oo money at cards; ze devil’s device.  Nite, nite, my two deelest logues.

LONDON, April 6, 1713

I was this morning at the rehearsal of Mr. Addison’s play, called “Cato,” which is to be acted on Friday.  There were not above half a score of us to see it.  We stood on the stage, and it was foolish enough to see the actors prompted every moment, and the poet directing them; and the drab that acts Cato’s daughter, in the midst of a passionate part, calling out “What’s next?” I went back and dined with Mr. Addison.

Nothing new to-day; so I’ll seal up this to-night.  Pray write soon....  Farewell, deelest MD, MD, MD.  Love Presto.

* * * * *

LYOF N. TOLSTOY

Childhood, Boyhood, Youth

Childhood (1852), Boyhood (1854), and Youth (1855-57)—­Tolstoy’s first literary efforts—­may be regarded as semi-autobiographical studies; if not in detail, at least in the wider sense that all his books contain pictures more or less accurate of himself and his own experiences.  No plot runs through them; they simply analyse and describe with extraordinary minuteness the feelings of a nervous and morbid boy—­a male Marie Bashkirtseff.  They are tales rather of the developments of the thoughts, than of the life of a child, with a pale background of men and events.  The distinct charm lies in the sincerity with which this development is represented.

I.—­Childhood

August 12, 18—­, was the third day after my tenth birthday anniversary.  Wonderful presents had been given me.  My tutor, Karl Ivanitch, roused me at seven by striking at a fly directly over my head with a flapper made of sugar paper fastened to a stick.  He generally spoke in German, and in his kindly voice exclaimed, “Auf, Kinder, auf; es ist Zeit.  Die Mutter ist schon im Saal.” ("Get up, children, it is time.  Your Mother is already in the drawing-room.”)

Dyadka Nikolai, the valet of us children, a neat little man, brought in the clothes for me and Volodya, who was imitating my sister’s governess, Marya Ivanova, in mocking, merry laughter.  Somewhat sternly presently Karl Ivanitch called from the schoolroom to know if we were nearly ready to begin our lessons.

In the schoolroom, on one shelf was our promiscuous assortment of books, on another, the still more miscellaneous collection which our dear old tutor was pleased to call his library.  I remember that it included a German treatise on cabbage gardens, a history of the Seven Years’ War, and a work on hydrostatic.  Karl Ivanitch spent all his spare time in reading his beloved books, but he never read anything beyond these and the Northern Bee.  After early lessons our tutor conducted us downstairs to greet Mamma.