him often, but take no notice of him:  he is grown very ugly and pimpled.  They tell me he is a gamester, and wins money.—­How could I help it, pray?  Patrick snuffed the candle too short, and the grease ran down upon the paper.[13] It an’t my fault, ’tis Patrick’s fault; pray now don’t blame Presto.  I walked today in the City, and dined at a private house, and went to see the auction of poor Charles Barnard’s books; they were in the middle of the physic books, so I bought none; and they are so dear, I believe I shall buy none, and there is an end; and go to Stoyte’s, and I’ll go sleep.

30.  Morning.  This is Good Friday, you must know; and I must rise and go to Mr. Secretary about some business, and Mrs. Vanhomrigh desires me to breakfast with her, because she is to intercede for Patrick, who is so often drunk and quarrelsome in the house, that I was resolved to send him over; but he knows all the places where I send, and is so used to my ways, that it would be inconvenient to me; but when I come to Ireland, I will discharge him.[14] Sir Thomas Mansel,[15] one of the Lords of the Treasury, setting me down at my door to-day, saw Patrick, and swore he was a Teague-lander.[16] I am so used to his face, I never observed it, but thought him a pretty fellow.  Sir Andrew Fountaine and I supped this fast-day with Mrs. Vanhomrigh.  We were afraid Mr. Harley’s wound would turn to a fistula; but we think the danger is now past.  He rises every day, and walks about his room, and we hope he will be out in a fortnight.  Prior showed me a handsome paper of verses he has writ on Mr. Harley’s accident:[17] they are not out; I will send them to you, if he will give me a copy.

31.  Morning.  What shall we do to make April fools this year, now it happens on Sunday?  Patrick brings word that Mr. Harley still mends, and is up every day.  I design to see him in a few days:  and he brings me word too that he has found out Vedeau’s brother’s shop:  I shall call there in a day or two.  It seems the wife lodges next door to the brother.  I doubt the scoundrel was broke, and got a commission, or perhaps is a volunteer gentleman, and expects to get one by his valour.  Morrow, sirrahs, let me rise.—­At night.  I dined to-day with Sir Thomas Mansel.  We were walking in the Park, and Mr. Lewis came to us.  Mansel asked where we dined.  We said, “Together.”  He said, we should dine with him, only his wife[18] desired him to bring nobody, because she had only a leg of mutton.  I said I would dine with him to choose; but he would send a servant to order a plate or two:  yet this man has ten thousand pounds a year in land, and is a Lord of the Treasury, and is not covetous neither, but runs out merely by slattering[19] and negligence.  The worst dinner I ever saw at the Dean’s was better:  but so it is with abundance of people here.  I called at night at Mr. Harley’s, who begins to walk in his room with a stick, but is mighty weak.—­See how much I have lost with that ugly grease.[20] ’Tis your fault, pray; and I’ll go to bed.