29.  Sir Andrew Fountaine has been very ill this week; and sent to me early this morning to have prayers, which you know is the last thing.  I found the doctors and all in despair about him.  I read prayers to him, found he had settled all things; and, when I came out, the nurse asked me whether I thought it possible he could live; for the doctors thought not.  I said, I believed he would live; for I found the seeds of life in him, which I observe seldom fail (and I found them in poor, dearest Stella, when she was ill many years ago); and to-night I was with him again, and he was mightily recovered, and I hope he will do well, and the doctor approved my reasons; but, if he should die, I should come off scurvily.  The Secretary of State (Mr. St. John) sent to me to dine with him; Mr. Harley and Lord Peterborow dined there too; and at night came Lord Rivers.  Lord Peterborow goes to Vienna in a day or two:  he has promised to make me write to him.  Mr. Harley went away at six; but we stayed till seven.  I took the Secretary aside, and complained to him of Mr. Harley, that he had got the Queen to grant the First-Fruits, promised to bring me to her, and get her letter to the bishops of Ireland; but the last part he had not done in six weeks, and I was in danger to lose reputation, etc.  He took the matter right, desired me to be with him on Sunday morning, and promises me to finish the affair in four days; so I shall know in a little time what I have to trust to.—­It is nine o’clock, and I must go study, you little rogues; and so good-night, etc.

30.  Morning.  The weather grows cold, you sauceboxes.  Sir Andrew Fountaine, they bring me word, is better.  I will go rise, for my hands are starving while I write in bed.  Night.  Now Sir Andrew Fountaine is recovering, he desires to be at ease; for I called in the morning to read prayers, but he had given orders not to be disturbed.  I have lost a legacy by his living; for he told me he had left me a picture and some books, etc.  I called to see my quondam neighbour Ford (do you know what quondam is, though?), and he engaged me to dine with him; for he always dines at home on Opera-days.  I came home at six, writ to the Archbishop, then studied till past eleven, and stole to bed, to write to MD these few lines, to let you know I am in good health at the present writing hereof, and hope in God MD is so too.  I wonder I never write politics to you:  I could make you the profoundest politician in all the lane.—­Well, but when shall we answer this letter, No. 8 of MD’s?  Not till next year, faith.  O Lord—­bo—­but that will be a Monday next.  Cod’s-so, is it? and so it is:  never saw the like.—­I made a pun t’other day to Ben Portlack[11] about a pair of drawers.  Poh, said he, that’s mine a—–­ all over.  Pray, pray, Dingley, let me go sleep; pray, pray, Stella, let me go slumber; and put out my wax-candle.

31.  Morning.  It is now seven, and I have got a fire, but am writing abed in my bed-chamber.  ’Tis not shaving-day, so I shall be ready early to go before church to Mr. St. John; and to-morrow I will answer our MD’s letter.