And to whom does he talk so confidentially, and tell all the story of those days? Why, to Hester Johnson. It is all down in Stella’s journal—written for her eye only; and we have it by purest accident. It was begun in 1710—he then in his forty-third year, and she in her thirtieth.
She has kept her home over in Ireland with Mrs. Dingley—seeing him on every visit there, and on every day, almost, of such visits; and, as her sweetest pasturage, feeding on letters he writes other times, and lastly on this Stella journal, “for her dear eyes,” at the rate of a page, or even two pages a day, for some three years.
All his London day’s life comes into it. Let us listen:
“Dined at the chop-house with Will Pate, the learned woollen draper, then we sauntered at china-shops and book-sellers; went to the tavern; drank 2 pints of white wine; never parted till ten. Have a care of those eyes—pray—pray, pretty Stella!
“So you have a fire now, and are at cards at home; I think of dining in my lodgings to-day on a chop and a pot of ale.
“Shall I? Well, then, I will try to please M. D. [‘M. D.’ is ‘my dear;’ or ‘my dears,’ when it includes, as it often does, Mrs. Dingley]. I was to-night at Lord Masham’s; Lord Dupplin took out my little pamphlet, the Secretary read a good deal of it to Lord Treasurer; they all commended it to the skies; so did I.
“I’ll answer your letter to-morrow; good night, M. D. Sleep well.”
Again:
“I have no gilt paper left, so you must be content with plain. I dined with Lord Treasurer.
“A poem is out to-day inscribed to me: a Whiggish poem and good for nothing. They teased me with it.”