My last was put in this evening.  I intended to dine with Mr. Masham to-day, and called at White’s chocolate house to see if he was there.  Lord Wharton saw me at the door, and I saw him, but took no notice, and was going away, but he came through the crowd, called after me, and asked me how I did, etc.  This was pretty; and I believe he wished every word he spoke was a halter to hang me.  Masham did not dine at home, so I ate with a friend in the neighbourhood.  The printer has not sent me the second edition; I know not the reason, for it certainly came out to-day; perhaps they are glutted with it already.  I found a letter from Lord Harley on my table, to tell me that his father desires I would make two small alterations.  I am going to be busy, etc.

2.  Morning.  See the blunder; I was making it the 37th day of the month, from the number above.  Well, but I am staying here for old Frowde, who appointed to call this morning:  I am ready dressed to go to church:  I suppose he dare not stir out but on Sundays.[1] The printer called early this morning, told me the second edition went off yesterday in five hours, and he must have a third ready to-morrow, for they might have sold half another:  his men are all at work with it, though it be Sunday.  This old fool will not come, and I shall miss church.  Morrow, sirrahs.—­At night.  I was at Court to-day:  the Queen is well, and walked through part of the rooms.  I dined with the Secretary, and despatched some business.  He tells me the Dutch Envoy designs to complain of that pamphlet.  The noise it makes is extraordinary.  It is fit it should answer the pains I have been at about it.  I suppose it will be printed in Ireland.  Some lay it to Prior, others to Mr. Secretary St. John, but I am always the first they lay everything to.  I’ll go sleep, etc.

3.  I have ordered Patrick not to let any odd fellow come up to me; and a fellow would needs speak with me from Sir George Pretyman.[2] I had never heard of him, and would not see the messenger:  but at last it proved that this Sir George has sold his estate, and is a beggar.  Smithers, the Farnham carrier, brought me this morning a letter from your mother, with three papers enclosed of Lady Giffard’s writing; one owning some exchequer business of 100 pounds to be Stella’s;[3] another for 100 pounds that she has of yours, which I made over to you for Mariston; and a third for 300 pounds; the last is on stamped paper.  I think they had better lie in England in some good hand till Lady Giffard dies; and I will think of some such hand before I come over.  I was asking Smithers about all the people of Farnham.  Mrs. White[4] has left off dressing, is troubled with lameness and swelled legs, and seldom stirs out; but her old hang-dog husband as hearty as ever.  I was this morning with Lord Treasurer, about something he would have altered in the pamphlet;[5] but it can’t be till the fourth edition, which I believe will be