Almighty bless and protect dearest MD. Farewell, etc.

This letter's as long as a sermon, faith.



LETTER 9.

LONDON, Nov. 11, 1710.

I dined to-day, by invitation, with the Secretary of State, Mr. St. John. Mr.
Harley came in to us before dinner, and made me his excuses for not dining
with us, because he was to receive people who came to propose advancing money
to the Government: there dined with us only Mr. Lewis, and Dr. Freind[1]
(that writ "Lord Peterborow's Actions in Spain"). I stayed with them till
just now between ten and eleven, and was forced again to give my eighth to the
bellman, which I did with my own hands, rather than keep it till next post.
The Secretary used me with all the kindness in the world. Prior came in after
dinner; and, upon an occasion, he (the Secretary) said, "The best thing I ever
read is not yours, but Dr. Swift's on Vanbrugh"; which I do not reckon so very
good neither.[2] But Prior was damped, until I stuffed him with two or three
compliments. I am thinking what a veneration we used to have for Sir William
Temple, because he might have been Secretary of State at fifty; and here is a
young fellow, hardly thirty, in that employment.[3] His father is a man of
pleasure,[4] that walks the Mall, and frequents St. James's Coffee-house, and
the chocolate-houses; and the young son is principal Secretary of State. Is
there not something very odd in that? He told me, among other things, that
Mr. Harley complained he could keep nothing from me, I had the way so much of
getting into him. I knew that was a refinement; and so I told him, and it was
so: indeed, it is hard to see these great men use me like one who was their