ner; do, you rogues. Do you like "Sid Hamet's
Rod"? Do you understand it all? Well, now at last I have done with your
letter, and so I will lay me down to sleep, and about, fair maids; and I
hope merry maids all.

Dec. 1. Morning. I wish Smyth were hanged. I was dreaming the most
melancholy things in the world of poor Stella, and was grieving and
crying all night.--Pshah, it is foolish: I will rise and divert myself;
so good-morrow; and God of His infinite mercy keep and protect you!
The Bishop of Clogher's letter is dated Nov. 21. He says you thought of
going with him to Clogher. I am heartily glad of it, and wish you would
ride there, and Dingley go in a coach. I have had no fit since my first,
although sometimes my head is not quite in good order.--At night. I was
this morning to visit Mr. Pratt, who is come over with poor, sick Lord
Shelburne: they made me dine with them; and there I stayed, like a
booby, till eight, looking over them at ombre, and then came home. Lord
Shelburne's giddiness is turned into a colic, and he looks miserably.

2. Steele, the rogue, has done the imprudentest thing in the world:
he said something in a Tatler,(20) that we ought to use the word Great
Britain, and not England, in common conversation, as, "The finest lady
in Great Britain," etc. Upon this, Rowe, Prior, and I sent him a letter,
turning this into ridicule. He has to-day printed the letter,(21) and
signed it J.S., M.P., and N.R., the first letters of all our names.
Congreve told me to-day, he smoked it immediately. Congreve and I, and
Sir Charles Wager, dined to-day at Delaval's, the Portugal Envoy; and I
stayed there till eight, and came home, and am now writing to you before
I do business, because that dog Patrick is not at home, and the fire
is not made, and I am not in my gear. Pox take him!--I was looking
by chance at the top of this side, and find I make plaguy mistakes
in words; so that you must fence against that as well as bad writing.
Faith, I can't nor won't read what I have written. (Pox of this puppy!)
Well, I'll leave you till I am got to bed, and then I will say a word or
two.--Well, 'tis now almost twelve, and I have been busy ever since,
by a fire too (I have my coals by half a bushel at a time, I'll assure
you), and now I am got to bed. Well, and what have you to say to Presto
now he is abed? Come now, let us hear your speeches. No, 'tis a lie; I
an't sleepy yet. Let us sit up a little longer, and talk. Well, wh