People will pretend to grieve more than they really do, and that takes off from their true grief. I then went to the duchess of Hamilton, who never grieved[1], but raged, and stormed, and railed. She is pretty quiet now, but has a diabolical temper. Lord keeper and his son, and their two ladies, and I, dined to day with Mr. Cæsar, treasurer of the navy, at his house in the city, where he keeps his office. We happened to talk of Brutus, and I said something in his praise, when it struck me immediately, that I had made a blunder in doing so; and therefore I recollected myself, and said, Mr. Cæsar, I beg your pardon. So we laughed, &c. Night, my own dearest little rogues, MD.
15. I forgot to tell you, that last night I had a present sent me (I found it when I came home in my chamber) of the finest wild fowl I ever saw, with the vilest letter, and from the vilest poet in the world, who sent it me as a bribe to get him an employment. I knew not where the scoundrel lived, so I could not send them back; and therefore I gave them away as freely as I got them, and have ordered my man never to let up the poet when he comes. The rogue should have kept the wings at least for his muse. One of his fowls was a large capon pheasant, as fat as a pullet. I ate share of it to day with a friend. We have now a drawingroom every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday, at one o'clock. The queen does not come out; but all her ministers, foreigners, and persons of quality, are at it. I was there to day: and as lord treasurer came toward me, I avoided him,
- ↑ The dean expresses different sentiments of this lady, in a preceding letter, dated Nov. 15, 1712; but it is probable he had then very little acquaintance with her.
