So, now I have sent my seventh to your fourth, young women; and now I will tell you what I would not in my last, that this morning, sitting in my bed, I had a fit of giddiness:  the room turned round for about a minute, and then it went off, leaving me sickish, but not very:  and so I passed the day as I told you; but I would not end a letter with telling you this, because it might vex you:  and I hope in God I shall have no more of it.  I saw Dr. Cockburn[1] to-day, and he promises to send me the pills that did me good last year; and likewise has promised me an oil for my ear, that he has been making for that ailment for somebody else.

Nov. 1.  I wish MD a merry new year.  You know this is the first day of it with us.[2] I had no giddiness to-day; but I drank brandy, and have bought a pint for two shillings.  I sat up the night before my giddiness pretty late, and writ very much; so I will impute it to that.  But I never eat fruit, nor drink ale; but drink better wine than you do, as I did to-day with Mr. Addison at Lord Mountjoy’s:  then went at five to see Mr. Harley, who could not see me for much company; but sent me his excuse, and desired I would dine with him on Friday; and then I expect some answer to this business, which must either be soon done, or begun again; and then the Duke of Ormond and his people will interfere for their honour, and do nothing.  I came home at six, and spent my time in my chamber, without going to the Coffee-house, which I grow weary of; and I studied at leisure, writ not above forty lines, some inventions of my own, and some hints, and read not at all, and this because I would take care of Presto, for fear little MD should be angry.

2.  I took my four pills last night, and they lay an hour in my throat, and so they will do to-night.  I suppose I could swallow four affronts as easily.  I dined with Dr. Cockburn to-day, and came home at seven; but Mr. Ford has been with me till just now, and it is near eleven.  I have had no giddiness to-day.  Mr. Dopping[3] I have seen; and he tells me coldly, my “Shower” is liked well enough; there’s your Irish judgment!  I writ this post to the Bishop of Clogher.  It is now just a fortnight since I heard from you.  I must have you write once a fortnight, and then I will allow for wind and weather.  How goes ombre?  Does Mrs. Walls[4] win constantly, as she used to do?  And Mrs. Stoyte;[5] I have not thought of her this long time:  how does she?  I find we have a cargo of Irish coming for London:  I am sorry for it; but I never go near them.  And Tighe is landed; but Mrs. Wesley,[6] they say, is going home to her husband, like a fool.  Well, little monkeys mine, I must go write; and so goodnight.