Here is now a stlange ting; a rettle flom MD unanswered:  never was before.  I am slower, and MD is faster:  but the last was owing to DD’s certificate.  Why could it not be sent before, pay now?  Is it so hard for DD to prove she is alive?  I protest solemnly I am not able to write to MD for other business, but I will resume my journal method next time.  I find it is easier, though it contains nothing but where I dine, and the occurrences of the day.  I will write now but once in three weeks till this business is off my hands, which must be in six, I think, at farthest.  O Ppt, I remember your reprimanding me for meddling in other people’s affairs:  I have enough of it now, with a wanion.[2] Two women have been here six times apiece; I never saw them yet.  The first I have despatched with a letter; the other I must see, and tell her I can do nothing for her:  she is wife of one Connor,[3] an old college acquaintance, and comes on a foolish errand, for some old pretensions, that will succeed when I am Lord Treasurer.  I am got [up] two pair of stairs, in a private lodging, and have ordered all my friends not to discover where I am; yet every morning two or three sots are plaguing me, and my present servant has not yet his lesson perfect of denying me.  I have written a hundred and thirty pages in folio, to be printed, and must write thirty more, which will make a large book of four shillings.[4] I wish I knew an opportunity of sending you some snuff.  I will watch who goes to Ireland, and do it if possible.  I had a letter from Parvisol, and find he has set my livings very low.  Colonel Hamilton, who was second to the Duke of Hamilton, is tried to-day.  I suppose he is come off, but have not heard.[5] I dined with Lord Treasurer, but left him by nine, and visited some people.  Lady Betty,[6] his[7] daughter, will be married on Monday next (as I suppose) to the Marquis of Caermarthen.  I did not know your country place had been Portraine, till you told me so in your last.  Has Swanton taken it of Wallis?  That Wallis was a grave, wise coxcomb.  God be thanked that Ppt im better of her disoddles.[8] Pray God keep her so.  The pamphlet of Political Lying is written by Dr. Arbuthnot, the author of John Bull; ’tis very pretty, but not so obvious to be understood.  Higgins,[9] first chaplain to the Duke of Hamilton?  Why, the Duke of Hamilton never dreamt of a chaplain, nor I believe ever heard of Higgins.  You are glorious newsmongers in Ireland—­Dean Francis,[10] Sir R. Levinge,[11] stuff stuff:  and Pratt, more stuff.  We have lost our fine frost here; and Abel Roper tells as you have had floods in Dublin; ho, brave[12] you!  Oh ho!  Swanton seized Portraine, now I understand oo.  Ay, ay, now I see Portraune at the top of your letter.  I never minded it before.  Now to your second, N.36.  So, you read one of the Grub Streets about the bandbox.[13] The Whig papers have abused me about the bandbox.  God help me,