How shall I superscribe to your new lodgings, pray, madams?  Tell me but that, impudence and saucy-face.

Are not you sauceboxes to write “lele"[27] like Presto?  O poor Presto!

Mr. Harley is better to-night, that makes me so pert, you saucy Gog and Magog.

LETTER 18.

London, March 10, 1710-11.

Pretty little MD must expect little from me till Mr. Harley is out of danger.  We hope he is so now; but I am subject to fear for my friends.  He has a head full of the whole business of the nation, was out of order when the villain stabbed him, and had a cruel contusion by the second blow.  But all goes on well yet.  Mr. Ford and I dined with Mr. Lewis, and we hope the best.

11.  This morning Mr. Secretary and I met at Court, where he went to the Queen, who is out of order, and aguish:  I doubt the worse for this accident to Mr. Harley.  We went together to his house, and his wound looks well, and he is not feverish at all, and I think it is foolish in me to be so much in pain as I am.  I had the penknife in my hand, which is broken within a quarter of an inch of the handle.  I have a mind to write and publish an account of all the particularities of this fact:[1] it will be very curious, and I would do it when Mr. Harley is past danger.

12.  We have been in terrible pain to-day about Mr. Harley, who never slept last night, and has been very feverish.  But this evening I called there; and young Mr. Harley (his only son) tells me he is now much better, and was then asleep.  They let nobody see him, and that is perfectly right.  The Parliament cannot go on till he is well, and are forced to adjourn their money businesses, which none but he can help them in.  Pray God preserve him.

13.  Mr. Harley is better to-day, slept well all night, and we are a little out of our fears.  I send and call three or four times every day.  I went into the City for a walk, and dined there with a private man; and coming home this evening, broke my shin in the Strand over a tub of sand left just in the way.  I got home dirty enough, and went straight to bed, where I have been cooking it with gold-beater’s skin, and have been peevish enough with Patrick, who was near an hour bringing a rag from next door.  It is my right shin, where never any humour fell when t’other used to swell; so I apprehend it less:  however, I shall not stir till ’tis well, which I reckon will be in a week.  I am very careful in these sort of things; but I wish I had Mrs. J——­’s water:[2] she is out of town, and I must make a shift with alum.  I will dine with Mrs. Vanhomrigh till I am well, who lives but five doors off; and that I may venture.