Duke of Ormond:  he loves me very well, I believe, and would, in my turn, give me something to make me easy; and I have good interest among his best friends.  But I don’t think of anything further than the business I am upon.  You see I writ to Manley before I had your letter, and I fear he will be out.  Yes, Mrs. Owl, Bligh’s corpse[22] came to Chester when I was there; and I told you so in my letter, or forgot it.  I lodge in Bury Street, where I removed a week ago.  I have the first floor, a dining-room, and bed-chamber, at eight shillings a week; plaguy deep, but I spend nothing for eating, never go to a tavern, and very seldom in a coach; yet after all it will be expensive.  Why do you trouble yourself, Mistress Stella, about my instrument?  I have the same the Archbishop gave me; and it is as good now the bishops are away.  The Dean friendly! the Dean be poxed:  a great piece of friendship indeed, what you heard him tell the Bishop of Clogher; I wonder he had the face to talk so:  but he lent me money, and that’s enough.  Faith, I would not send this these four days, only for writing to Joe and Parvisol.  Tell the Dean that when the bishops send me any packets, they must not write to me at Mr. Steele’s; but direct for Mr. Steele, at his office at the Cockpit, and let the enclosed be directed for me:  that mistake cost me eighteenpence the other day.

30.  I dined with Stratford to-day, but am not to see Mr. Harley till Wednesday:  it is late, and I send this before there is occasion for the bell; because I would have Joe have his letter, and Parvisol too; which you must so contrive as not to cost them double postage.  I can say no more, but that I am, etc.

LETTER 5.

London, Sept. 30, 1710.

Han’t I brought myself into a fine praemunire,[1] to begin writing letters in whole sheets? and now I dare not leave it off.  I cannot tell whether you like these journal letters:  I believe they would be dull to me to read them over; but, perhaps, little MD is pleased to know how Presto passes his time in her absence.  I always begin my last the same day I ended my former.  I told you where I dined to-day at a tavern with Stratford:  Lewis,[2] who is a great favourite of Harley’s, was to have been with us; but he was hurried to Hampton Court, and sent his excuse; and that next Wednesday he would introduce me to Harley.  ’Tis good to see what a lamentable confession the Whigs all make me of my ill usage:  but I mind them not.  I am already represented to Harley as a discontented person, that was used ill for not being Whig enough; and I hope for good usage from him.  The Tories drily tell me, I may make my fortune, if I please; but I do not understand them—­or rather, I do understand them.