English, as I think, affectedly wrong in many places.  My plaguing time is coming.  A young fellow brought me a letter from Judge Coote,[19] with recommendation to be lieutenant of a man-of-war.  He is the son of one Echlin,[20] who was minister of Belfast before Tisdall, and I have got some other new customers; but I shall trouble my friends as little as possible.  Saucy Stella used to jeer me for meddling with other folks’ affairs; but now I am punished for it.—­Patrick has brought the candle, and I have no more room.  Farewell, etc. etc.

Here is a full and true account of Stella’s new spelling:—­[21]

Plaguely, Plaguily.  Dineing, Dining. 
Straingers, Strangers.  Chais, Chase. 
Waist, Wast.  Houer, Hour. 
Immagin, Imagine.  A bout, About. 
Intellegence, Intelligence.  Merrit, Merit. 
Aboundance, Abundance.  Secreet, Secret. 
Phamphlets, Pamphlets.  Bussiness, Business.

Tell me truly, sirrah, how many of these are mistakes of the pen, and how many are you to answer for as real ill spelling?  There are but fourteen; I said twenty by guess.  You must not be angry, for I will have you spell right, let the world go how it will.  Though, after all, there is but a mistake of one letter in any of these words.  I allow you henceforth but six false spellings in every letter you send me.

LETTER 33.

London, Oct. 23, 1711.

I dined with Lord Dupplin as I told you I would, and put my thirty-second into the post-office my own self; and I believe there has not been one moment since we parted wherein a letter was not upon the road going or coming to or from PMD.  If the Queen knew it, she would give us a pension; for it is we bring good luck to their post-boys and their packets; else they would break their necks and sink.  But, an old saying and a true one: 

     Be it snow, or storm, or hail,
     PMD’s letters never fail;
     Cross winds may sometimes make them tarry,
     But PMD’s letters can’t miscarry.

Terrible rain to-day, but it cleared up at night enough to save my twelvepence coming home.  Lord Treasurer is much better this evening.  I hate to have him ill, he is so confoundedly careless.  I won’t answer your letter yet, so be satisfied.

24.  I called at Lord Treasurer’s to-day at noon:  he was eating some broth in his bed-chamber, undressed, with a thousand papers about him.  He has a little fever upon him, and his eye terribly bloodshot; yet he dressed himself and went out to the Treasury.  He told me he had a letter from a lady with a complaint against me; it was from Mrs. Cutts, a sister of Lord Cutts, who writ to him that I had abused her brother:[1] you remember the “Salamander,” it is printed in the Miscellany.  I told my lord that I would never regard complaints, and that I expected,