7.  No, I won’t send this letter to-day, nor till Saturday, faith; and I am so afraid of one from MD between this and that; if it comes, I will just say I received a letter, and that is all.  I dined to-day with Mr. Secretary St. John, where were Lord Anglesea,[28] Sir Thomas Hanmer, Prior, Freind, etc., and then made a debauch after nine at Prior’s house, and have eaten cold pie, and I hate the thoughts of it, and I am full, and I don’t like it, and I will go to bed, and it is late, and so good-night.

8.  To-day I dined with Mr. Harley and Prior; but Mr. St. John did not come, though he promised:  he chid me for not seeing him oftener.  Here is a damned, libellous pamphlet come out against Lord Wharton, giving the character first, and then telling some of his actions:  the character is very well, but the facts indifferent.[29] It has been sent by dozens to several gentlemen’s lodgings, and I had one or two of them; but nobody knows the author or printer.  We are terribly afraid of the plague; they say it is at Newcastle.[30] I begged Mr. Harley for the love of God to take some care about it, or we are all ruined.  There have been orders for all ships from the Baltic to pass their quarantine before they land; but they neglect it.  You remember I have been afraid these two years.

9.  O, faith, you are a saucy rogue.  I have had your sixth letter just now, before this is gone; but I will not answer a word of it, only that I never was giddy since my first fit; but I have had a cold just a fortnight, and cough with it still morning and evening; but it will go off.  It is, however, such abominable weather that no creature can walk.  They say here three of your Commissioners will be turned out, Ogle, South, and St. Quintin;[31] and that Dick Stewart[32] and Ludlow will be two of the new ones.  I am a little soliciting for another:  it is poor Lord Abercorn,[33] but that is a secret; I mean, that I befriend him is a secret; but I believe it is too late, by his own fault and ill fortune.  I dined with him to-day.  I am heartily sorry you do not go to Clogher, faith, I am; and so God Almighty protect poor, dear, dear, dear, dearest MD.  Farewell till to-night.  I’ll begin my eleventh to-night; so I am always writing to little MD.

LETTER 11.

London, Dec. 9, 1710.

So, young women, I have just sent my tenth to the post-office, and, as I told you, have received your seventh (faith, I am afraid I mistook, and said your sixth, and then we shall be all in confusion this month.) Well, I told you I dined with Lord Abercorn to-day; and that is enough till by and bye; for I must go write idle things, and twittle twattle.[1] What’s here to do with your little MD’s? and so I put this by for a while.  ’Tis now late, and I can only say MD is a dear, saucy rogue, and what then?  Presto loves them the better.