against myself, not by name, but against something I writ:[7] it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and I think I will take no notice of it; ’tis against something written very lately; and indeed I know not what to say, nor do I care.  And so you are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at Stoyte’s; to let that bungler beat you, fie, Stella, an’t you ashamed?  Well, I forgive you this once, never do so again; no, noooo.  Kiss and be friends, sirrah.—­Come, let me go sleep, I go earlier to bed than formerly; and have not been out so late these two months; but the Secretary was in a drinking humour.  So good-night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues.

19.  Then you read that long word in the last line; no,[8] faith, han’t you.  Well, when will this letter come from our MD? to-morrow or next day without fail; yes, faith, and so it is coming.  This was an insipid snowy day, no walking day, and I dined gravely with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and came home, and am now got to bed a little after ten; I remember old Culpepper’s maxim: 

     “Would you have a settled head,
      You must early go to bed: 
      I tell you, and I tell’t again,
      You must be in bed at ten.”

2O.  And so I went to-day with my new wig, o hoao, to visit Lady Worsley,[9] whom I had not seen before, although she was near a month in town.  Then I walked in the Park to find Mr. Ford, whom I had promised to meet; and coming down the Mall, who should come towards me but Patrick, and gives me five letters out of his pocket.  I read the superscription of the first, “Pshoh,” said I; of the second, “Pshoh” again; of the third, “Pshah, pshah, pshah”; of the fourth, “A gad, a gad, a gad, I’m in a rage”; of the fifth and last, “O hoooa; ay marry this is something, this is our MD”; so truly we opened it, I think immediately, and it began the most impudently in the world, thus:  “Dear Presto, We are even thus far.”  “Now we are even,” quoth Stephen, when he gave his wife six blows for one.  I received your ninth four days after I had sent my thirteenth.  But I’ll reckon with you anon about that, young women.  Why did not you recant at the end of your letter, when you got my eleventh, tell me that, huzzies base? were we even then, were we, sirrah?  But I won’t answer your letter now, I’ll keep it for another time.  We had a great deal of snow to-day, and ’tis terrible cold.  I dined with Ford, because it was his Opera-day and snowed, so I did not care to stir farther.  I will send tomorrow to Smyth.

21.  Morning.  It has snowed terribly all night, and is vengeance cold.  I am not yet up, but cannot write long; my hands will freeze.  “Is there a good fire, Patrick?” “Yes, sir.”  “Then I will rise; come, take away the candle.”  You must know I write on the dark side of my bed-chamber, and am forced to have a candle till I rise, for the bed stands between me and the window, and I keep the curtains shut this cold weather.  So pray let me rise; and Patrick, here, take away the candle.—­At night.  We are now here in high frost and snow, the largest fire can hardly keep us warm.  It is very ugly walking; a baker’s boy broke his thigh yesterday.  I walk slow, make short steps, and never tread on my heel.  ’Tis a good proverb the Devonshire people have: