Well, but I am staying here for old Frowde[1], who appointed to call this morning: I am ready dressed to go to church: I suppose he dare not stir out but on Sundays. The printer called early this morning, told me the second edition went off yesterday in five hours, and he must have a third ready to morrow, for they might have sold half another: his men are all at work with it though it be Sunday. This old fool will not come, and I shall miss church. Morrow sirrahs. At night. I was at court to day; the queen is well, and walked through part of the rooms. I dined with the sesretary, and dispatched some business. He tells me, the Dutch envoy designs to complain of that pamphlet. The noise it makes is extraordinary. It is fit it should answer the pains I have been at about it. I suppose it will be printed in Ireland. Some lay it to Prior, others to Mr. secretary St. John, but I am always the first they lay every thing to. I'll go sleep, &c.
3. I have ordered Patrick not to let any odd fellow come up to me; and a fellow would needs speak with me from sir George Prettyman. I had never heard of him, and would not see the messenger; but at last it proved that this sir George has sold his estate, and is a beggar. Smithers, the Farnham carrier, brought me this morning a letter from your mother, with three papers enclosed of lady Gifford's writing; one owning some exchequer business of 100l. to be Stella's; another for 100l. that she has of yours, which I made over to you for Mariston; and a third for 300l.; the last is on stamped paper. I think they had better lie in England in some good hand till lady Gifford
- ↑ Philip Frowde, esq., author of some poems and plays. He died Dec. 25, 1738.
