9.  I was to-day at the House of Commons again about their yarn, at Lord Anglesea’s desire; but the business is again put off till Monday.  I dined with Sir John Stanley, by an assignation I had made with Mr. St. John, and George Granville, the Secretary at War; but they let in other company, some ladies, and so we were not so easy as I intended.  My head is pretty tolerable, but every day I feel some little disorders; I have left off snuff since Sunday, finding myself much worse after taking a good deal at the Secretary’s.  I would not let him drink one drop of champagne or burgundy without water, and in compliment I did so myself.  He is much better; but when he is well, he is like Stella, and will not be governed.  So go to your Stoyte’s, and I’ll go sleep.

10.  I have been visiting Lady Worsley and Mrs. Barton today, and dined soberly with my friend Lewis.  The Dauphin is dead of an apoplexy; I wish he had lived till the finishing of this letter, that it might be news to you.  Duncombe,[5] the rich alderman, died to-day, and I hear has left the Duke of Argyle, who married his niece, two hundred thousand pounds; I hope it is true, for I love that Duke mightily.  I writ this evening to the Archbishop of Dublin, about what I told you; and then went to take leave of poor Mrs. St. John, who gave me strict charge to take care of the Secretary in her absence; said she had none to trust but me; and the poor creature’s tears came fresh in her eyes.  Before we took leave, I was drawn in by the other ladies and Sir John Stanley to raffle for a fan, with a pox; it was four guineas, and we put in seven shillings apiece, several raffling for absent people; but I lost, and so missed an opportunity of showing my gallantry to Mrs. St. John, whom I designed to have presented it to if I had won.  Is Dilly[6] gone to the Bath?  His face will whizz in the water; I suppose he will write to us from thence, and will take London in his way back.—­The rabble will say, “There goes a drunken parson”; and, which is worse, they will say true.  Oh, but you must know I carried Ford to dine with Mr. St. John last Sunday, that he may brag, when he goes back, of dining with a Secretary of State.  The Secretary and I went away early, and left him drinking with the rest, and he told me that two or three of them were drunk.  They talk of great promotions to be made; that Mr. Harley is to be Lord Treasurer, and Lord Poulett[7] Master of the Horse, etc., but they are only conjecture.  The Speaker is to make Mr. Harley a compliment the first time he comes into the House, which I hope will be in a week.  He has had an ill surgeon, by the caprice of that puppy Dr. Radcliffe, which has kept him back so long; and yesterday he got a cold, but is better to-day.—­What!  I think I am stark mad, to write so much in one day to little saucy MD; here is a deal of stuff, indeed! can’t you bid those little dear rogues good-night, and let them go sleep, Mr. Presto?  When your tongue runs there’s no ho with you, pray.