night.  I dined with Ford to-day at his lodgings, and I found wine out of my own cellar, some of my own chest of the great Duke’s wine:  it begins to turn.  They say wine with you in Ireland is half a crown a bottle.  ’Tis as Stella says; nothing that once grows dear in Ireland ever grows cheap again, except corn, with a pox, to ruin the parson.  I had a letter to-day from the Archbishop of Dublin, giving me further thanks about vindicating him to Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John, and telling me a long story about your Mayor’s election,[24] wherein I find he has had a finger, and given way to further talk about him; but we know nothing of it here yet.  This walking to and fro, and dressing myself, takes up so much of my time that I cannot go among company so much as formerly; yet what must a body do?  I thank God I yet continue much better since I left the town; I know not how long it may last.  I am sure it has done me some good for the present.  I do not totter as I did, but walk firm as a cock, only once or twice for a minute, I do not know how; but it went off, and I never followed it.  Does Dingley read my hand as well as ever? do you, sirrah?  Poor Stella must not read Presto’s ugly small hand.

     Preserve your eyes,
     If you be wise.

Your friend Walls’s tea will go in a day or two towards Chester by one Parson Richardson.  My humble service to her, and to good Mrs. Stoyte, and Catherine; and pray walk while you continue in Dublin.  I expect your next but one will be from Wexford.  God bless dearest MD.

24.  Morning.  Mr. Secretary has sent his groom hither, to invite me to dinner to-day, etc.  God Almighty for ever bless and preserve you both, and give you health, etc.  Amen.  Farewell, etc.

Do not I often say the same thing two or three times in the same letter, sirrah?

Great wits, they say, have but short memories; that’s good vile conversation.

LETTER 24.

Chelsea, May 24, 1711.

Morning.  Once in my life the number of my letters and of the day of the month is the same; that’s lucky, boys; that’s a sign that things will meet, and that we shall make a figure together.  What, will you still have the impudence to say London, England, because I say Dublin, Ireland?  Is there no difference between London and Dublin, saucyboxes?  I have sealed up my letter, and am going to town.  Morrow, sirrahs.—­At night.  I dined with the Secretary to-day; we sat down between five and six.  Mr. Harley’s patent passed this morning:  he is now Earl of Oxford, Earl Mortimer, and Lord Harley of Wigmore Castle.  My letter was sealed, or I would have told you this yesterday; but the public news may tell it you.  The Queen, for all her favour, has kept a rod[1] for him in her closet this week; I suppose he will take it from her, though, in a day or two.  At eight o’clock this evening it rained prodigiously, as it did from five; however, I set out, and in half-way the rain lessened, and I got home, but tolerably wet; and this is the first wet walk I have had in a month’s time that I am here but, however, I got to bed, after a short visit to Atterbury.