To the Covent Garden, where I hear Suckermont's coffee house is become a lewd Temple of Venus, a Corrupter of our Youth. My report will make a fine page in Daker's Daily Whale. However, at Suckermont's, which is now renamed Face's, I saw no corruption; only My Lords Bruin and Dearlove in the corner, counting pennies.At the door, an ancient beggar, claiming to be an old member of the Rump Parliament, plying for Hire.

In Cheapside I was given a Handbill announcing a new debating Society, at which will be served free Coffee &c to all comers, provided they give the password LucreBruin. I made haste to the address indicated, expecting to find My Lord Camealong and his friends enjoying some sport at the Government's expense. To my surprise, the House was packed full of tawdry characters, drunks, entertainers and Bawds, and I was unable to make myself heard.

Up and to Mincing Lane there to seek out the parents of the child born with Two Heads, that I may secure a whole and true account of the Event. To my surprise, my way was barred by two burly gentlemen who assured me they were in the pay of Master Mobun, who is to publish the tale in his daily Sheet.

In the morning, I took a turn around the Garden and saw a Green Shoot where I planted a bulb last year. This gave me an idea for an important Essay, viz on Why the Notorious Global Cooling is a Myth, and I went to my desk and dashed off some 6,000 lines.

This I delivered by coach to Bridgerusher at the Social Sentinel. Bridgerusher said he would "Take a look", but he already has several articles on similar topics by Master McQiwan &c. 

My daughter Lucie asked me for a guinea to buy a new gown. I noted that she already owes me £14.7/3d, but she said it was not a loan but a Temporary Off Balance Sheet Transaction.

I think the girl is reading too many news papers.

My Good Wife has complained for Weeks that I never take her out anywhere, so today I hired Coach and went with my whole Family to the South Bank. There we drank a good Mulled Ale with pig's trotters and a Betty of wine, and saw a number of performances. My Wife enjoyed the spectacle, though I thought the dogs ill-trained, the Bear being despatched much too quick.

I heard that a woman in Mincing Lane has given birth to a child with Two Heads.

Lord's Day. Up and to Morning Service at St Kerry Without Wag, where Master Straw preached a gloomy sermon on Crime and Punishment. Thence to the Bear near Newgate, where a great crowd was gathering in the hope of seeing the murderer Vinnible taken to Tyburn in the morrow. However I think there will be little sport in the hanging, the wretch being but 10 years old. 

Up and to my desk all Morning, writing an Essay for Master Lawless on Why these Ranters should be hung drawn & quarter'd &c as Traitors to Her Majestie. Finding myself pressed for time, I took a Hackney to Lawless's Print Shop (item: 6sh) with my Script, where an insolent 'prentice Case-Hand told me that the title was now out of date, Master Toe, the celebrated Ranter of Hampstead, having died at great age yesterday. I set to box his ears, but Lawless called me away, to say he now required 6,000 words on Why these Ranters were a National Treasure and Shall Never See their Like Again.

Lord's day. Up and to morning service at St Sarah Undershaft where the Parson, one Stormer, made an alarming sermon on the possibility of putting an end to oneself without going to H___. I saw my Lord Camealong taking a careful note.

With my family to the Angel Inn, for a good dinner of jellied pigs' brain, oysters, a lobster ice and oxtail pie, though the lobster a little past its best. My daughter greatly vexed that Master Tompion is to close one of his music palaces, called Six, about which I have never heard.

Up and to the Coffee House, where a most strange thing happened. From the serving boy I ordered a bowl of coffee and paid a shilling for the Daily Dimplypendant to read. I was immediately joined at the table by a large crowd of gentlemen, who introduced themselves as the paper's various Scribes and Proof-correctors, headed by a rusty guts of fiersome Aspect and more fiersome Language, who introduced himself as the Editor and asked for orders. Before I could reply, an individual in a leather Apron introduced himself as the Printer, and presented me with a bill for £500.8sh.3d to cover ink, paper, flongs &c.

I chased them all off with my Sword stick, but I fear for the future of the Press in this city.

To Costyou's Coffee House in the Strand, where the Doorman asked if I wished to sit at the table discussing Mistress Cohl or that at which such discussion was forbid. I chose the second.

Up and to West Minister for my morning draught. I walked along the river and at the Frost Fair bought a fine Hellenic vase, of great Antiquity, for £1.1sh.4d.

At the Red Lion I found my Lords Dearlove, Bruin and Meddlesome consulting a calendar and various Astrological texts. I inquired about the whereabouts of Mistress Harpon, at which Bruin seized my vase, dashed it against the fireplace, and walked out.

I explained to Dearlove that the object was of great value, and he asked me to explain what is a Greek urn. Before I could reply, Meddlesome exclaimed "Why, sir, about eight times as much as he deserves!" which brought great Hilarity on the house.

Sometimes I do not understand the Political Class.

Up in prompt time, and took horse to Westminster, where the mob is abuzz with rumour that Parliament is to be hung. To my disappointment, I found that this is not to happen until the 6th May, or possibly sooner if my Lord Camealong continues to wither in the sight of men.

Lord's Day. With my family to St Tonipool-on-the-mat. Bruin preached a sermon on the Camel Passing through the Eye of a Needle, which did not please My Lord Camealong, in his Private Pew.

It being bitter cold and the housemaid having left us on account of wanting Wages, I lay long abed, discussing with my wife whose turn it was to light the Stove. In the end, I was forced to rise to answer a knock on the front door, which proved to be my Friend Prynne. He told me of the sensational news that Bridgerush, publisher of the Social Sentinel, has lost his reason.

The news concern'd me greatly, because Bridgerush owes me £1.10sh for some articles.

We made haste to the printing shop, where Bridgerush was on the roof, throwing copies of the paper in to the Street for all and sundry to take and read. I inquir'd about my money, but he called back that comment is 'free, free, free'.

I directed Prynne to the Bedlam hospital, requesting the Superintendent to attend in haste.

Christmas Day. Awoke in the small hours by a noise I took for Burglars, only it was my son Horace returned home from the University. Soon after my wife's mother arrived to advise on the cooking of the Goose.

It being too noisy to sleep, I made to the Old Cheshire Cheese, the Seven Starres and the Red Lion, where the company was reading Her Majesty's Christmas proclamation, with news of great Victories from the Wars.
Home for a fine feast of Goose and Spruits from the Low Countries, with a flaming pudding after. Later to the Theatre, where Master Tennant gave a long-drawn out deathbed scene, I think of Socrates, though in truth the story was hard to follow and I fell asleep several times. My daughter Lucie was enthralled, which vexes me.

I thank the Lord that the year's end finds us in good health and fortune, though my editors are dreadful late in paying. I resolve in the New Year to take less exercise and to finish the writing my Autobiographical romance Living Death in the Counting House, that my name might live in posterity.

The Thames ice is melted in the Thaw, with many drown'd.

It being biting cold, I lay long abed and when taking my morning p___ discovered the water in the privy was yet froze, so had words with the maid Eliza.

To Mistress Steerbuck's Coffee House to read the News, but the Papers were filled with naught but lists of the decade's best Pestilences, Hangings, &c. In truth I was a little jealous that I had not thought of the idea first.

Thence to the New Cheshire Cheese on the Fleet St, where a great many Gentlemen were bemoaning the decline of the Written Word in the face of competition from the Twatterers and Blaggers.

To the Frost Fair to look at Gifts for my wife, but the river not yet properly froze and several stallholders have drown'd. However I enjoyed a bowl of hot steaming Punch and from one of Master Bridgerush's Urchins bought a Tweeting Pipe for 3d, which I trust will keep Bridgerush out of the Debtors Prison for a day or two.

Woke before dawn by a Trumpeter in the street, which proved to be a Messenger from Bridgerush announcing that Master Broker has composed an Essay on the various matters that irk him. I emptied the Chamber Pot on his head. Later at Dinner, another Trumpeter blew a fanfare and shouted that Master Moonbyatt has concluded we are all Doomed. This one I dispatched with a discharge from my Fowling Piece.
 

Up betimes and to Costyou's Coffee House, where I read the News Papers and joined one Hister, the Banker, in a jug of coffee and a quart of Brandy. Hister was in a Melancholy mood on account of My Lord Dearlove, the Chancellor, pledging to rob all his monies. Feeling sorry for him, I paid the reckoning.

Hister then departed in a Coach and Four, leaving me to trudge through the mud on foot to Master Murdook's Printing Shop, to place an essay boosting the joint stock of the Sheikh of Araby Sand Castle Patent. There I found Murdook's men hard at work building a Wall to prevent theft, which will cost 6d to pass through, or £500 if your name is Shmidd. Murdook promised to  'Take a look' at my Essay.

Home to find an invitation to the funeral of Bellows, who is to be buried tomorrow night, by torch light. My daughter Lucie burst in to tears at the news. I tried to console her by reading from the Scripture about all Flesh being Grass &c, though when I took the Bible from the shelf it fell open at the page concerning the Sin of Onan. I blame my son Horatio.

In any case, it transpired that Lucie was upset not by Bellow's demise, but by having having only one Gown to wear for the occasion, it being cut after the fashion of My Lady Gargoyle, a songstress. I have never heard of the Lady, but I trust someone of her Rank to dress with Decency.

Lord's Day. I was kept awake in the night by great pains in my knees. Certain that I am doomed to the same fate at poor Bellows, who is dead of the Sore Legs, I kept my bed and gave my wife 10Sh- for the Passing Bell to be rung at Saint Brucie-in-the-Wigges.

In the afternoon, I felt better and took a Vomit guaranteed to make 20 stools, along with a quart of good Brandy. At 6 o'the clock, there was a knock on the door, it proving to be a messenger offering me the card of a coffin-maker; I sent him forth with the point of my old train-band Pike.

Up and to Master Bellows' house, to pay my respects to his Widow and to get returned my phiall of Mercury Cordial,  but it seems Bellows drank this shortly before he expir'd of the Sore Legs. I remarked to Mistress Bellows that her late husband had passed on in an economical fashion, as he will need a coffin and grave but 4ft long, but she would not be cheered.
To the Saracen's Cheek for a warming draught, where I was joined by Masters Scrivenaid and Prynne, the latter much vexed that his correspondence on the subject of the world's Great Cooling has been published, to the comfort of those who Deny that this cooling is taking place. 

Master Bellows is died, of the Sore Legs.

Up and to Master Barbour's printing house to publish my Pamphlet on the Great Sheikh of Araby Sand Castle Patent. Barbour was not at home, but some idle 'prentice told me he would print the pamphlet as an Insert in the News Paper if I paid him 10 guineas.
I kicked him up the a___ .
To the hospital at Saint Bartholemew to visit my friend Bellows who is sick of the Sore Legs, but the surgeons told me he has not yet recovered, despite having both legs amputated at the Knee. I left him a phial of mercury cordial to drink when he is able.
Home on foot, the Lord Mayor having curtailed the supply of public coaches.
In Steerbuck's coffee house I heard that My Lord Dearlove has declared a new War on the Frenchman, though the old War is not yet won.
 

I awoke to find the room pitchy dark and, convinced I had gone blind, bade my wife to send for the Undertaker and Priest, and to burn my hidden copy of Aristotle's Masterpiece, lest our daughter find it among my effects. She replied that such Lewd Literature was undoubtedly the cause of any deficiencies in my eyesight, and besides it was December and the sun not yet risen.

Relieved but somewhat Disconcerted, I lit a candle and set to work at my desk, writing a pamphlet setting out the Great Prospects that are in store for investors in the Sheikh of Araby Sand Castle Patent.

I was interrupted, however, by a knock on the door, it proving to be a messenger boy with the news that my friend Bellows has been taken to Saint Bartholemew's suffering from Sore Legs. This caused my wife some distress, but I assured her that the hospital is acclaimed Excellent in the standard of its blood letting.

Nonetheless I took the precaution of checking that Bellows owes me no money. A good dinner of mutton and plum pies and a Port Wine, and to bed. 

Memorial: to sell my shares in the Sand Castle Patent before too long.

With my Wife and Daughter to morning service at Saint Lloyd-of-the-Valleys where the priest, one Griffon, made a ranting Sermon, claiming that all talk of the late bad weather is the Fabrication of Foreigners, Papists, the Turk &c, before he was carried away by two men in White Coates.
To Costyou's coffee house in the Strand, where I complained at the absence of seasonal decorations, it being already the end of November. From Master Pitt I bough a good investment, viz 200 shares in the Sheikh of Araby Sandcastle Patent, which I intend to sell at a profit in the morrow.
 

To Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, where the crowd were placing wagers on whether one Antandec could eat a live Cat in less than five minutes. Thence to Mistress Moss's eating house for a dinner of a Leg of Mutton boiled, with some salt Fish, plumb puddings and a couple of boiled Rabbitts with a fine large Surloin of Beef rosted. Plenty of Wine, Punch and Strong Beer. Finding this skinny fare less than filling, I called at the Pie Shop in Cheapside on my way home. 

In the Coffee House today, all the talk is of the monster beast the Jedward, which expired in the Tower Menagerie this last night. My friend Prynne assured me that the Jedward's bad head ate the good one, but I think it more likely the beast drown'd.

Home to a good dinner of carp and roach, caught by net in the Neighbourhood Privy.

Woke by a commotion in the street, which proved to be gangs of French men and Irish men rioting over a game of foot ball.London is fast becoming a Foreign Land.

With my family to the Royal Society, but unable to find an oarsman to take us up river, owing to the great torrents flowing through London Bridge. No chairs were to be had, so we were forced to walk through streets themselves flowing with water.

At Arundel House, Prof. Newton demonstrated his experiment to replicate the moment of Creation, but there was nothing to be seen. My wife remarked that the philosophers would be more usefully employed on the Flood rather than the Creation, preferably in building an Ark. 

To Costyou's Coffee House, which is abuzz with the news that the celebrated Courtesan Bella Quotidien has revealed herself to be working as a Natural Philosopher, in secret. I can only give thanks that my own Daughter would never bring such shame upon her family.
In the matter of the inquiry into the unhappy foundering of the Royal Oak, a monster Injunction which I have served upon myself, on the advice of My Lord Strain, is preventing me from recording any further particulars.

As is my custom these past weeks, I rose early and made to West Minster to see if my presence was required at the inquiry into the tragic foundering of Her Majestie's Ship of the Line the Royal Oak. Today, however, there was a sensational development. While I was taking my morning draught with Scrivenaid, the lawer, a messenger arrived in the livery of Parliament to announce that My Lord Strain had declared the proceedings a Secret Inquiry because it concerned matters highly sensitive to the Defence of the Realm.

The news greatly pleased Master Baestems, who ordered a quart of fine Sack for all present. However Master Leak, a scribbler for Bridgerush's printing house, made strong words, saying he would ruin us all. Baestems assured me Bridgerush is himself on the edge of ruin, having dissipated his inheritence in the Colonies, and within days will be enjoying the comforts of the Fleet Prison. 

Lord's Day. To morning service at St Cheryl-on-the-box where the priest, one Cabool, made a fire and brimstone sermon on the evils of Liquidity. I noticed my Lord Dearlove leaving early. Thence with my wife and daughter to the Tower.  To my surprise, several gentlemen with empty barrows were waiting at the door of the Mint. Among them was Master Goldsocks, who told me he had come to do the Lord's work.
In the Menagerie we saw a new beast, the Jedward, with two heads and a most fearsome cry.

Again to West Minster, for the inquiry into the most Unfortunate foundering of Her Majesty's ship the Royal Oak, this month last. Answering questions from the Judge, Admiral Haddock explained that the fitting of a new top deck of heavy guns had been the subject of a most searching Safety Case, during which numerous experts, among them Master Baestems, had been asked their opinion. Master Baestems said that, as the Royal Oak had floated safely with three gun decks, there was no reason to expect that it would turn turtle with four. He proposed again that the accident was an Act of God.
These deliberations took up the whole day, and when I returned home I found the house still flooded and my Wife has moved to her Mother's, taking my Daughter Lucie with her. This is a relief as it will be easier to fix the roof with no women about.

My sleep was disturbed by frightful Nightmares, in which I dreamed I was trapp'd in a sinking ship. I awoke to discover that the room had flooded, owing to the Rains, and my hand was dangling in the waters, which caused me to p--- the bed. This did not please my Wife.

I dressed again in my best coat and breeches and, assuring my Wife that I would return soon to repair the roof and in the meantime on no account to send for the Builder, I made for West Minster.

There, on the steps of the Great Hall, I met Scrivenaid the lawyer, together with Admiral Haddock and Master Baestems, each accompanied by several Legal Gentlemen. All entreated me earnestly to keep my counsel during the proceedings. I saw also Bates the Bosun, in the company of several Officers, but the insolent fellow affected not to recognise me. 

At the gates, we were relieved by the Watch of our swords, pistols, blunderbusses and cudgels, which did not please me, and took our seats in the inquiry into the foundering of the Royal Oak, on the 4^th October last. Adm. Haddock's lawyer then stood, and made a brief speech declaring the accident to be clearly an Act of G--, requesting the inquiry be cancelled in favour of a short service of remembrance. However the Lord Chancellor, presiding, did not agree and commanded our presence in the Morrow to give evidence.

We then adjourned to the Red Lion to discuss what our evidence should be, and I returned home too late to fix the Roof. I assured my Wife that I would attend to the job in due course.

Lord's Day. Up and to St Stephen's-in-the-Fry where the priest, one Millobland, made a sermon on why My Lord Blurr should be ruler of all Christendom.
Thence to the Temple, where I met Scrivenaid the lawyer, who is helping me present my case at the Inquiry into the foundering of the Royal Oak, which turned turtle on the 4th October following an unforseeable mishap.
Scrivenaid warned me that the Court might inquire whether the mishap was caused by the addition of a top deck of extra cannons, following the review of the defence of the realm instigated by myself. I told him that if any Scoundrel made such an assertion, I would immediately run him through, but Scrivenaid said that would not help my position.
Returned home to find someone has painted Death to Pecuniarists on my front door. I judged it prudent to load my matchlock pistols as well as my fowling piece before retiring.

A day of worrying events. I was woke early by a discharge of Gunpowder in the street. Convinced the Papists had landed, I loosened a floorboard, conceal'd my money and journals thereunder, and, warning my Wife to take care where she trod, went downstairs to confront the invader.
To my no small bewilderment, however, the street was empty, save a keg of blazing tar set outside my own front door. I discharged my Fowling Piece in the likely direction of any assailants, but hit only the blind beggar at the cross roads. My wife then sent the Housemaid to summon the Watch, and after a long delay a pock-marked youth of about Fourteen years arrived, and proclaimed it but the mischief of urchins, tomorrow being the Feast of All Hallows.
Why we pay our Rates, I do not know.
Later to So Ho with my friend Peregrinne Prynne, taking a quart of sack each in the Porpentine, the Coach and Horses, the French House and the Duck & Dogge. We then made for Master Scott's music house, where we were refused entrance. Presuming the doorman to be a Foreigner, we kicked him down the Stair and relieved our bladders on his unconscious form.
Home, where I composed an essay for Daker's Daily Bile entitled "Why oh why are the youth of today running out out control?"
 

Up and to the Execution Dock to see a notorious Pirate, Capt. Eutoob, hang'd in chains. My Lord Meddlesome made a speech, warning the populace that any further Piracy would be punished by similar Suspensions. To Steerback's coffee shop in Threadneedle St, but a sign on the door read 'Too many tw-ts. Over Capacity. Please try again later' so I made instead for the King Lud for my morning draught.

To Costyou's Coffee House in Cheapside. All the talk is of next week's Grand Ball in celebration of the fortunes made by the Counting Houses in this last year. It seems my invitation has been lost in the Postal Office.

Found it impossible to complete any work owing to a violent disagreement over entertainments between my Wife and my Daughter Lucie. My wife wishes to attend Sir Strictly Periwigge's dancing pageant, while Lucie prefers a singing contest. 

Up, and in my best coat, to West Minster to attend the Court of Inquiry into the mysterious Foundering of the Royal Oak. At the Red Lion I took two quarts of Porter to break my fast and was met by Scrivenaid, my Lawyer, who entreated me to remain Silent during the proceedings.
Thence to the Great Hall, where we took our seats in the Vestibule and were required to wait for some hours, which caused me no little Discomfort.
At length, we were advised that the Proceedings had been Adjourned, the paper work not being ready, the judges still sober &c. We repaired to the Red Lion, calling first in the Pissing Alley, where I paid Scrivenaid his Refresher.
Resolved to encourage my son Horace to turn his studies to the Law.
Home, where my Wife told me that the maid is complaining at the lack of water for the washing. I said I would investigate on Saturday, which did not please her.

Lord's Day. Up and with my family to the service at St Cheryl Without. The priest, one Carterruck, made a stern sermon on the sin of Garrullosity, promising that all present would burn in H__ if we so much as made mention of his words.

I saw Master Baestems paying close attention.

Thence to the Old Cock, for a good dinner of boiled ox tongue, onions and oysters, though these a little past their best, washed down with a gallon of Sack. After, I took only three or four small brandies, as my head must be clear for the Court of Inquiry tomorrow.

Mistress Mire is to be whipped, as a scold and a witch.

Up and, in my best Coat, to West Minster, calling first at the Seven Starres to collect the lawyer Scrivenaid and a brace of flagons of Port. At the great hall we asked the whereabouts of the Court of Inquiry into the Royal Oak sinking, but the Serjeant told us that proceedings had been adjourned, the Judges still trying on their Robes and the members of Parliament busy occupied returning various monies paid in Error.
To the Red Lion where we called for tankards to drink our Port, but were thrown out.
Home, where my wife is in mourning for one Gateboy, a singer. I am certain my household has taken leave of its senses.

Lord's Day. Up and to morning service at St Dionne Without the Wine House, where the Priest, who spoke through a beard, made a sermon on the Wars. This was greatly Tedious, and I was looking at my Pocket Watch when he spoke of the foundering of the Royal Oak, and all eyes turned upon me.

Later with my Wife and Daughter to Master Waitrose's new food hall, but it was not possible to gain entrance because of the crowds.

I offered my daughter 1Sh to clean the Black Spot from the front door. She took the coin but said she was late for her Dancing class, and ran off.

I am convinced the girl is being ruined by drinking Coffee, like so many young people nowadays.

I sat awhile with my books and Opium pipe, and took a quart of brandy to ease my rest.

Woke by a knocking on the Front Door. It proved to be an Boy, on an errand from West Minster, the regular Post Messengers being nowhere to be found.  The Urchin inform'd me he was instructed to command my attendance at the Court of Inquiry into the foundering of the Royal Oak, on the 4th Inst, and requested a Shilling for the favour.
I asked him if he had any knowledge of the Black Spot painted on my door, and when he denied this, dispatched him with a kick up the a____ .
Thinking it advantageous to recruit some Legal Advice, I dressed in my second best coat and took coach to Lincoln's Inn, stopping first at the Mitre for a morning Draught.  At the Inn I entered the grandest Chambers I could see, belonging to one Cliff Main-Chance, where I was entertained comfortably with a fine Port, by several young Gentlemen in Periwigges.
After assuring me that I had an fine case for Pecuniary Damages, owing to the Inconvenience of the foundering and the defamation to my Character of being Summoned to attend the court, they inquir'd as to how I intended to settle my account with them.
I assured the gentlemen that, as a servant of Her Majestie, my costs would be met by the Lord Chancellor and his Funds.
At this, the gentlemen whispered for a moment in Latin, then told me that my case would be handled more Advantageously by their partner chamber, that of Scrivenaid and Associates located in the pissing alley behind.
Scrivenaid proved to be a Threadbare gentleman, who readily accepted my offer of a quart of Mistress Bowjolly's best ale, so we repaired to the Seven Starres where he was importuned by several individuals seeking representation. However he agreed to take my case and seems a bright fellow, which is as well for I have little choice.
Walked home late O'the Clock. I noticed I was followed by a gentleman in a Naval coat, with a wooden leg.


 

Post-haste to London, in Mistress Harmer's Post-Chaise. Unhappily, we were delayed by a collision in the South of London and, having no money for a horse and the Sedan Chair Men refusing to venture South of the River, I completed my journey late O'the Clock in the rain. My household had already gone to bed, but by shouting and discharging my Pistol in the street I awoke my Wife, who told me someone has painted a Black Spot on the front door.

Up and to morning service at St Heidi-in-the-Club, to give thanks for my Deliverance from the Wreck of the Royal Oak, which Foundered yesterday owing to the Gale and too heavy a Hamper upon her Top Gun Deck.
By the Grace of God, the officers have all survived, also being ashore at the time of the mishap, watching Master Cowell's singing contest. Several seamen were drown'd, and Master Bates the Bosun nearly, but I have received word that he is safe and seeking appointment with me.
I have judged it best to take coach to London, there to advise the Court of Inquiry into this disaster.
To my great fortune, Mistress Harman offered me the use of her carriage, it being the speediest on the roads.

 
 

I am yet in Bright Town, being fitted for a fine new Cocked Hat in the Admiralty style, with tarpaulin covers. The tradesmen of this town are already addressing me as Sailor, which pleases me greatly. In the afternoon I took a generous dinner of Lobsters, Roast Beef, Dripping and Port Wine with Master Baestems the Cannon-founder, who assures me he can furnish the Royal Oak with an extra 30 great guns, to be accommodated on a new higher deck.

When the reckoning came, Baestems paid it directly, and gave me his purse, which was full with coin, to cover any Necessities, viz Brandy, Sack &c. He then departed in haste for the North Country. In this age when Cynicism is a national sport, it is pleasing to witness such Generosity.

Up at Six Bells O'Clock and by a slow coach to the village of Bright Town, where there is a nautical tailor who can furnish me with the Round Jacket and Trowsers With Port and Starboard Bottoms, which Bates the Bosun tells me I shall require for life at Sea. Thence to The Cricketers Inn for my noontime draft, where I bought a pamphlet from Master Murdlock, a Blasphemer from the Colonies. He is greatly Exercised by Lord Brooin's scheme to furnish Fallen Women with free Gin, tho' much of the Companie appeared more Exercised by the engraving of Mistress Gwynne on page 3.

Despite my weariness from the journey, I slept fitfully, expecting every moment to be wakened by a Coachman crying “Burgess Hill is your next coaching inn stop. Will passengers ensure they have all their Portmanteaux and Pistols with them when they leave the coach.” At five of the clock I finally dozed, only to be woke by a sinister growling from the beach-front. I opened my Casement and beheld a ghastly one-eyed Spectre treading the Pebbles with an angry stride.

At Breakfast, one Maargh, a Scribbler, told me it was surely Lord Brooin on his way to visit the Apothecary. However My Lord Meddlesome told him quickly not to speak of such matters.

In the afternoon I took a boat to Newhaven, there to board the Royal Oak, but it was still in Dock being fitted out with a new deck to carry the extra Cannon. Upon hearing I was employ'd by the Admiralty, Bates the Bosun sent me ashore on an errand to procure Chandlery, viz two dozen left-handed Marlinspikes and a gallon of green oil for the starb'd Lamp.

I am safely arrived at the Sea Shore of Sussex after an arduous journey in Master Firstcapital's Coach, during which we were delayed several days in the village of Croydon when the wheels fell off, and similarly in Crawley, when the driver fell off. We made directly to the New Bell Inn, where to my surprise I saw My Lord Meddlesome standing in the tap room with his back to the fire, it seems having enjoyed a more Comfortable journey than my own.

Meddlesome whispered to be wary of the many Assassins about, and I observed he was wearing a small sword and a brace of pistols at his belt.

We were joined by some Naval gentlemen, among them Adm. Haddock, who ordered a new drink called Rhum. We discussed at length my scheme to cut the annual costs of the Navy by loading the entire arsenal of Great Guns on just three ships, each to be towed out to sea in turn, to Deterr the French, the Turk, &C. Haddock was not at first in agreement, but after several Quarts of Rhum, which were added to my reckoning, proclaimed the plan as Shipshape as any that came from White Hall and ordered the Royal Oak to be thus armed as a test, with myself to be present on board.

Considering the shipboard life safer than the company of Assassins, I agreed.

Lord's day. Up and to St Tessa-upon-the-Stiletto, where a new priest, whose face I could not see, gave a lengthy sermon on the duty of Forgiving our fellows sins. My wife said his voice reminded her much of My Lord Meddlesome.

Later to the Golden Cross, where we enjoyed a good dish of sheep's tongue and Lobsters and a pint of brandy.

It being autumn, up late and to the Cittie of York for my Morning Draught. There Master Clogg, a notorious Liberal, sold me a Pamphlet explaining his scheme to extort 1d in the £1 of every householder's worth. I sent word to the Superintendent of the New Bedlam, but by the time he came Clogg had departed for the South Coast. The Tardiness of our Emergency Services is a national disgrace.

In the afternoon, with my Wife and Daughter Lucie to the playhouse to see Sir Strictly Periwigge's Dancing Pageant, which was a good Spectacle though several of the Ladies had neglected to robe. I hired a small Telescope to view the performing more closely, the better to report any indecency to the Lord Chamberlain, but my Wife was not pleased.

To the Old Cock for good dinner of Spotted Dick and Cheesey Willies, and home late, to find a great commotion in the neighbourhood, the cause of which was My Lady Edinburgh dismissing her maidservant from the Cannibal Isles, and throwing her things out in the Street, while several Gentlemen of the Publick Press took note.

Up betimes and by Coach to Tyburn, to see four notorious Highwaymen Hang'd Drawn & Quartered for absconding with the Queen's carriage-maker. A great crowd had assembled at the Hanging Tree but I secured a private terrace for my family where we enjoyed a flagon of fine brandy and bought from Master Bridgerush a quarto edition of the miscreants' Last Words.

To my great displeasure, at turning-off time, instead of the cart a great Carriage and Six arrived, and Lord Meddlesome descended, announcing that the sentence had been commuted to a slap on the wrist from a Silken Glove. This was duly administered, to the jeers of the crowd; also half a dozen Paupers were hang'd for thieving a loaf of bread.

I resolved to write to Master Daker's Daily Wail how these feeble Community Sentences are making a Mockery of the law.

Woken before first light by a hammering on the Front Door and a cry of 'Open in the Name of Her Majestie'. I made haste down the stairs, first calling to my wife to conceal the Firkin of Flanders ale (Onan XXXXXX – Le Boisson des Celebataires) I had brought home from my travels, and tumbled head over heel, both my feet being in the same leg of my breeches.

To my surprise and no small relief, the callers were not Duty Men but two Dragoon Guards, come to convey me by horse to White Hall to present my report from Flanders. We rode through the streets in fine Style, and I was escorted not to the grand chamber but a cellar deep beneath the Palace, where My Lord Broon was seated at a table, surrounded by Officers, who were indicating deployments upon a Coloured Map.

One Ainsworth, I think a Lieutenant in the Brown-Coats, proposed that the situation was Deteriorating. Lord Broon indicated that all would be in order when news arrived of Col. Stamp's attack. The cellar then fell silent, and the eyes of all present turned to me.

'My Lord,' I ventured, 'Col. Stamp did not make his attack. His men were all away foraging for food & musket balls. It was not Stamp's fault.'

Lord Broon clenched his jaw, producing the most Extraordinary expression, and removed his eye-glasses with a hand that was shaking, and said in a growl 'Ainsworth, McNeill and Grubbe stay in the room.'

I hoped that this would be prelude to an invitation to join him at Breakfast, but this was not to be.

Home late of the clock, this time on foot.

Item: to replacing a Quill Pen broken by Lord Broon, 14/-

Lord's Day. Up and with my wife and daughter to Saint Budden-in-the-Botocks to give thanks for my safe return from The Low Countries. The priest, one Tobin, gave a sermon on the sin of Avarice and Socially Useless Activity, at which I noticed several Gentlemen walked out. Later, to MacDundold's, an eating house where we enjoyed fried meat and potatoes in the fashion of the Colonies. In the corner I saw My Lords Broon and Dearlove arguing furiously over a pile of Pennies.

This night, after weeks of Arduous Travel, we have reached our destination, viz the Head Quarters of Her Majestie's Expeditionary Forces. We approached the camp at night, being mindful of the presence of Enemy Soldiers, and gave the word “Long live Lord Broon”, but this attracted a volley of Musketry, so was obviously out of date.

The confusion resolved, we were surrounded by a crowd of beggars in ragged red coats. I made to disperse them with the Coachman's Blunderbuss, but Mendelsoon recognised the leader of the beggars as one Col. Stamp of the Foot Guards.

Stamp inquir'd if we had brought with us the supplies of comestibles, artillery and ammunition urgently requested from the War Office. When told that we were a party of political observers and scribes he was mightily impressed and, in awe of our importance, proved unable to speak for some minutes.

Over a lean dinner of gruel leavened with hard bacon, I endeavoured to put Col Stamp at ease by remarking how Fortunate Her Majestie's officers were to enjoy meat with their rations. 'Tis not bacon,' he told me, 'this is a Frenchman's boot.'

After dinner, I enlisted help to erect my Campaign Tent, but discovering that the soldiers had burnt the poles as firewood, spend a tolerable night instead wrapped in the canvas as a Shroud.

For the last two weeks I have been travelling on Her Majestie's business and My Lord Mendelsoon has forbade me to keep a journal, but I find the habit hard to break. Of our present whereabouts and the destination of our coach, I can say nothing. To my surprise, neither can the Coachman, one Adonis, though he promises we are on a better road now than before.

At supper time we stopped at an Inn where they served a dish containing the legs of Frogs.

Up in fair time and with my family to the Theatre Royal, where we watched an old play, viz the The Tempest by W Shakespeare. I thought the event a poor bargain, for the roof leaked, the seating made my b____m sore and the language of the play was greatly old fashioned. Surely no one speaks such dialogue in the modern world? The insubstantial pageant faded, and actors melted into thin air, we made for a Papish eating house for an expensive round bread, cheese and tomato, of which my Daughter left not a wrack behind.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little day was rounded with a sleep.

My Lord Broon is escap'd to France, where he has been stabbed in The Arras.

Up and to Costyou's coffee house, which was all abuzz with talk of Lord Pigge's new moat, which has been dug at Great Expense to the Exchequer. I was waiting in a long line to be served when a Gentleman burst in, urging all to make haste to West Minster, where the Witch Hitherbrooke, a notorious Harridan from the Colonies, was to be burn't at the stake for laying Parliament bare.

Abandoning hope of coffee, I made to College Green, where the Speaker, one Housemarten, was trying to set the faggots afire. Unhappily he fumbled the tinder box and called on the mob for help, but the mob, mishearing his Scottish voice, decided instead to fire to the Palace of Westminster, a process we undertook with Spirit before the Guard arrived with Musket and Pike to chase us off.

Mistress Hitherbrooke was set free, but to judge from the conversation later in the Red Lion, she is likely to meet an accident quite soon.

Up, and with my Son Horace to Steerbuck's for Coffee, where we were joined by my Friend Peregrinne Prynne. On to the Royal Society, for a debate on the subject of Gravity and its effect on a falling body, viz a dead cat. One Soros, a gentleman from the Colonies, predicted that the cat would bounce; My Lord George, under master of the Mint, was less certain.

To conduct the necessary Experiment, Master Hooke produced a cat, though it being yet alive would not cooperate. As no volunteer could be found to strangle the animal, I offered to look in the Fleet Ditch for a dead specimen. However Prynne proposed a substitute, that we lock the cat in a box. Hook then threw the box from the roof, and it landed with great impact but little bounce.

Prynne then set to take wagers on whether the cat was alive or dead. Horace, who I am convinced inherits my mother in law's intelligence, pronounced it both at the same time.  After a few minutes the cat settled the argument by breaking free of the box and running away, first delivering a vicious Scratch to my leg.

With Horace to the Lamb & Flag, where we took a quart of Sack. The landlord showed us a comely portrait of Mistress Gwynne, painted in the French style sans culottes. He told me that the picture had been damaged by a candle dripping, but that he cleans the stains and wax off every time he looks at it. For some reason, Horace found the idea very funny.

Lord's day. Up and with my family to St-Susan's-Irn-the-Bru, where we heard a Sermon on the topick of Rendering unto Caesar, especially in the matter of second homes, seats for the Privy &c. Several honorable Gentlemen walked out of the Congregation, saying they were only following The Rules. 

Lord's Day. My family refusing to attend Church, I went alone to the service at St Amy-in-the-Rehab, where the priest made a silly Sermon on the Day of Judgement, though as he was speaking through a bunch of Lavender, I could hardly hear a word. No collection was taken, though we were invited to throw coin into a bucket of vinegar.

At Old Street, the Lord Mayor's men have dug a great pit to receive the bodies of the dead, though I saw only one ghastly pallid Corpse therein, and it gave me a great fright by sitting up and asking 'Where the D-- am I, man?' and I recognised him as My Lord Keef, the Lute player.

Up and dressed, and discovered that someone has painted a red cross and the words Lord Have Mercy on the bedroom door. I told my son Horace that this was not funny, though he protested innocence.

To Nerrow's Coffee House, which was quite deserted owing to reports of Pestilience in the City. The counter boy took my coin in a bowl at the end of a stick, and would not hand me the coffee but slid it along the table, causing most of it to spill in the process. I decided it prudent not to touch the News Sheets.

In the afternoon, I visited the Pest House at Saint Bartholemew and from an apothecary dressed in a Mask, bought a jug of strong vinegar which I carried home, but my family refused to bathe in it, except for my son Horace, who took a draught and pronounced it Amusing in its Presumptuousness. What the boy learns at University, I do not know.

I hear word that My Lord Broon has caught the Pox, only in the head.

My wife has forbade anyone from entering my room, and me from leaving, and passes provisions to me on a stick. I protested that I am feeling perfectly recovered, but in truth do not mind the solitude so much. I spent the time writing an Essay on my condition, to be published under the title This Pestilence will be the End of Us All. 

In bed, sorely ill. The Apothecary will not come, instead advising my wife to shout my symptoms Direct over the wall of the Pest House. In the afternoon, I took some Treacle and Mercury, and later a little Brandy. Received a visit from Peregrinne Prynne, who wrote copious notes on my Condition, and inquir'd of my recent diet, especially if I had consumed bacon, pigs' trotters &C. recently.

In the night I could not sleep, owing to sweats, farts and pains in my belly. At dawn I called on my wife to send for the Apothecary and the Under Sexton, and gave her detailed instructions on how to conduct my funeral and the preservation of my Private Papers for posterity.

In the afternoon, not being dead, I rose and took a turn around the bedroom and enjoyed a fruitfull vomit from the front window, to the distress of the Under Sexton below. He would not enter the house, and told me demand for graves was very high at present, there being an expectation of great mortality, but that place in the Common Pit is yet available, if I reserve my space promptly.

Up and with my family to morning Service, though my son Horace complained of a sore head. At St Denise-in-the-Outen the preacher gave a most alarming sermon on the Seven Plagues of Egypt, though remarked that at least the Egyptians had been spared the plague of Dearlove.

Thence to the White Swan, for a poor dinner of pork belly, a little past its best, and a cask of good Sack. We were joined by my brother in law Bulstrode, who, fresh from his ledgers, announced an intention to emigrate to the Colonies or the Swiss lands.

Woke to the sound of the Rev Cabool preaching loudly from an open Pulpit that we are all Doomed &C. I discharged my Fowling Piece in his direction, but it fased him not.

It being a mild day I dressed in my spring coat and made to West Minster, carrying a large satchell therein to carry my share of the Coinage which my Lord Dearlove has promised to dispense to Ease the National Situation.

Unhappily, my way to Parliament was blocked by hundreds of masked men in black, striking all comers with their rods. I called for the Watch, only to be told they were the Watch.

Made to the Red Lion in search of Dearlove, where I heard that Dearlove has lost millions in a Sinking Fund. Later, I was joined by Bulstrode my brother in law, who said he had been Robbed of 10 shillings in the pound.

Home, to find Cabool still preaching.

Up and to West Minster, passing Master Drooper in the Pillory at Seven Dials.

At the Golden Cross I took a morning draught with My Lord Mendlesoon, who showed me the Prospectus for a new enterprise, viz The Royal Undertaking to Furnish new Sedan Chairs for Old Coaches, thereby creating employment for Chair Men. As I do not possess an old Coach I am not able to subscribe, but I promised to show the offer to Bullstrode, my wife's brother.

Mendlesoon assured me that My Lord Dearlove, the Chancellor, will next week promise great riches for all, to be forthcoming after a brief period of Parsimony.

In the evening, to the Theatre Royal to see a new play, In the Noose, a fantastic unlikely tale of Calumny and Foreign War at some time in the distant past.

I am returned home to find my family in good Health, though my son Horace makes great play of examining my Head at periodic intervals. I have sold Master Stains' newsheet some tittle tattle about the superintendent of Bedlam and the Torydailygraph an essay entitled Why oh Why these political Libels should be banned.
My wife observed that the garden Fence is yet not mended. 

Great events are resounding in the world of Politicks. This morning I received several hand-delivered notes, injuncting me, on pain of Death, not to divulge the conversations I enjoyed with Drooper, least of all to Master Forks.

The signatures, I was not able to read.

In the after noon, I was entertained by one Johnstoon, the Chief Physician, who inquir'd of me if I was disposed to hear voices. I replied that as I could hear none but his own, I was untroubled. He then asked if the whole world was conspired against me, to which I said Why no, Sir, it is my impression that the whole world is entirely on my side.

Johnstoon then spent some moments consulting a fat Ledger, then asked “Sir, have you considered the likelihood that you exist naught but in the mind of an evil Demon, who likewise conjurs an exterior world to entertain and to vex you?”

To that meditation, I could only appeal to The Cart, to save me from the baseless fabric of this vision and the unholy vortex of scepticism.

Johnstoon returned to his ledger, and after some minutes sucking through teeth, pronounced me free to go. The doorman begged off me 15sh for beer. I gave him a note of promise, to be reclaimed from Drooper in the morrow, if someone has not first Run him Through.

On the way out of the Bedlam, I passed an enclosed carriage bearing in a new Lunatick. From his shouts of distress, I judged the inmate to be a Scots Man.

I am weary waiting to interview the Bedlam physicians, but I was diverted this morning by a visit from one Drooper, who is looking for contributions for a new scandal sheet called Whigslist, thereby to damage the Queen's Enemies. Together, we enjoyed a cask of Brandy in the warden's pantry, which Drooper paid for, and had some sport writing great Libels on some Tories, viz Cameroon, Mistress Dorrells, and Cameroon with Mistress Dorrells.

Drooper then departed, promising to advance me £10 for more drink, which would suit me well, for the Superintendent's gruel tastes more like burnt India Rubber every day.

Woke betimes by the Bedlam Superintendent, who told me I had a Visitor come.

To my great delight it proved to by my Wife, returned from Cambridge in company with my Son Horace and Daughter Lucie. When my Wife inquired how I came to be Incarcerated, I explained that it was all an Error, caused by my going out in search of brave utensils, viz a Hammer and Nails. To my surprise and no little annoyance, she suggested that I wait here a few more days while the physicians check the balance of my Humours, and in the meantime she will send some clean Underwear.

Woke by the rantings of one Whoon, who seized me by the weasand and complained he is forced to life in the Bedlam because, of his five Real homes, he knows not which one he should inhabit.

With the other residents, to Chapel, where the Preacher, Humphris, made a sermon on death's merciful release. After, to a poor dinner of Gruel, which melted my rubber spoon, and, to judge by the taste, mine was not the first.

Yet in the Bedlam hospital. I was awoken by the sound of Trumpets and the tramp of Soldiers heralding the arrival of My Lord Broon, along with the Emperor of China and the Sultan of Araby, come to meet my friend the King of France.

Several other Foreign gentlemen arrived also, including one O'Barmy from the Colonies, and a short but talkative Papist, who showed a familiar manner to any Ladies within reach. By and by, and after some argument about the position of their seats, they settled at the Dining Table and each spoke in turn of the state of the world's affairs, though I noticed Broon spoke the most.

I made a short note of all that was said by these Lunaticks, for their ravings will be of great interest to the study of medicine and philosophy.

Wrote also to my Wife and to Peregrinne Prynne asking that they secure my discharge as soon as convenient, for the Babble in this place is nearly as bad as in Parliament itself.

I hear that Mistress Goodley is to be interr'd at Westminster Abbey, though that must surely be another Lunatick Fantasy.

Owing to an Error, I am yet locked in the Bedlam hospital. I have however been freed of my chains, and this morning interviewed the Superintendent, whom I informed of my position as an acclaimed Author and Man of Affairs, and personal friend of Lord Broon.

The Superintendent made various notes, assured that he would make Inquiries, and presented me with a Spoon made from Indian Rubber, for with to eat my Gruel during my stay here.

Unhappily I have no bowl, so must eat from the common Pot.

In the afternoon I took a stroll round the yard and made the acquaintance of several Individuals who share my confinement. My room-fellow is a most interesting Gentleman, who  assures me he is the King of France.

I awoke to find myself chained to the floor in a dark and small cell. By and by a gentleman in the dress of the Watch informed me that I was imprison'd in the Palace of Westminster on account of being part of a Disturbance behind the Speaker's Chair, in which several Gentlemen were Run Through.

He then kicked me in the private parts, which I think a little too extreme for an April jest. When I next see my friend Peregrinne Prynne I shall surely pay him back.

After some hours with no Breakfast, I was escorted to a large Chamber where a Gentleman in the guise of a Beak made a great Show of pretending to quiz me on my name, address, and station. Although I was growing impatient, I played the fool by laughing at every question, and attempted to pull off his Periwigg to see who was beneath it.

At that, I was hit again by a man in the guise of a Sergeant at Arms, and confined in a closed carriage which conveyed me to New Bedlam in the company of several Lunatics.

I am starting to fear that this may not be an April jest.

A gentleman with a familiar face was already browsing the shelf, but when I asked his name he cried: “Smith! Yes, Smith! No, not that Smith!” and fled for the Door in the direction of New Bedlam, from whence I deduce he is escap'd.

To the Old Shippe, where I met one Thoms, a publisher, and together we took Oars to the Palace of West Minster on the promise of free drinks. To my surprise, this proved to be true, and we enjoyed good company with My Lord Chutneys and several Tory gentlemen in high spirits.

Lord's Day. To St Wayney's-in-the-Wag in my second best Coat, where the preacher gave a dull Sermon on the sin of looking at Lewd Books.

Unhappily when I reached in my pocket for a button for the collecting plate, I pulled out by mistake a copy of Aristotle's Masterpiece, which I had borrowed from Dismon's Bookstore on Lower Thames St against a deposit of 15 Sh. Mistress Smith, standing next to me in the Pew, looked on me with disapproval, though I assured her I was simply conveying the volume to the Lord Chamberlain, to have it bann'd.

Outside the Church there was a great Commotion, as Sgt Straw of the Watch issued every Gentleman with a Pike, in precaution against the French, who are expected to land this week.

A Clerical Gentleman in a Beard tried to make a speech on the theme Love Thy Neighbour but was flung in the Fleet Ditch for Papist sympathies.

Convinced that the World was ending, the consequence of Global Cooling, I kept my bed all day.

Sgt Straw of the Watch is calling for all Gentlemen to wear plain clothes next week, if there is a next week.

New Year's Day. I awoke in my chair in the downstairs Parlour, with a monster Thirst, despite my consuming a great deal of Port last night in the Fountains in the Strand. I called for drinks, then remembered that the maid has the day off and my Wife and Daughter are away visiting my Son.

Resolving to make a holiday today, I attended a service at Saint Margaret of the Mines, there hearing an exceedingly long Sermon on how the Lord will allow Humankind to freeze to death, it serving us  right for our Sins.

To Steerback's Coffee House, where I was approached by one Melvyn, who asked for a small Loan, having heard that I had profited from the Great Walloon Undertaking. I proposed he try the Bank of England instead, which did not please him.

To the Green Man for a good sheep's-brain and pilchard Pie, which settled my stomach somewhat, though the pilchards a little past their best, and home to bed.

Woke again by a Messenger bearing letter from My Wife, saying she hopes to arrive in Cambridge by New Years day, though her Coachman, a Bearded gentleman, warns of some delay.

To Steerback's to read the News and inquire about working engagements, my Order Book being thin.

One Freshmeet, a Legal gentleman, tells me there is much work to be had in winding businesses up in expectation of Doomsday. I advised him in this event to secure his fees in advance. He told me that is the first rule of his Profession.

My Lady Goodley to be interr'd in Westminster Abbey, amid Eulogies from Her Majesty, My Lord Broon, &C.

Up and to the Cat & Fiddle for a morning draught and to read the news, but the news sheets are given over entirely to accounts of the demise of Mistress Goodley, to whom all Lords and Ladies of society are now Best Friends.

On to the Red Lion in White Hall, where I met my friend Peregrinne Prynne, who has received a commission from Lord Broon to construct a Ledger of Intelligence listing every citizen in the land. This will Transform the business of government and help keep the Turk and the Papist at bay. Prynne demonstrated the concept with a prototype, viz a small leather notebook, and said he is confident that with modern technique, it can be Rolled Out to include the whole population in one month.

Lord's Day. Up and to St Barack's in Lower Thames Street, where the priest made a Sermon on the Brevity of this Mortal Coil, Mistress Goodley having expir'd in the night. My neighbour remarked that the preacher greatly resembled Cliffherd, though with a Beard.

Woke by a Messenger bearing a letter from my Wife, announcing that she has taken my Daughter to visit my Son Horace at the University and that should I have a free moment, the Back Fence needs attention.

I took a turn around the garden and this proved to be true, so dressed and made to Cheapside to buy some Nails, etc.

Along the way I saw a great crowd around Smith Field, where one Master Gogol, a gentleman from the Colonies, was exhibiting his Exact Panoramic View of London. I took a look but observed that it is not an exact view, for it yet shows Chancery Lane, which burnt down yesterday.

To the Hope & Anchor where I heard that Mistress Heewitt is organising a Public Subscription to send My Lord Broon on an excursion to the Swiss Lands, with no return journey. 

Up betimes, in consequence of spending the night in the Dog kennel. At sunrise I walked to the Strand, to meet Pouvoir. He appeared anxious to conclude our transaction hastily, a matter explained when, after he departed the coffee house with my £100, I read in the Even Standadski  that the price of a share in the Great Walloon Undertaking has fallen to one Farthing.

When I next see Piston, I shall run him through.

In the afternoon, I expected some difficulty making the share sales at the prices agreed yesterday but Lord Dearlove's man paid up, he not having read the news sheets yet. However several other gentlemen called me a scoundrel and a rogue, and challenged me to duels rather than buy. In the circumstances, I thought it better to keep the shares in the hope of a rise.

In the evening to the Blue Anchor in Chancery Lane with my friend Peregrinne Prynne, who with the aid of phosphor, rock-oil, an empty glass and some wood shavings showed me an experiment proving the presence of Phlogiston in the atmosphere.

As the experiment also set the Inn afire, we departed early. Home at a prompt hour, but of my Wife and Daughter there was no sign. Of the rats, neither. 

Woke by a loud thumping on the Front Door, which proved to be an attendant of My Lord Dearlove, making inquiry in to movements in the price of shares in the Great Walloon Undertaking. I gave him a copy of my Pamphlet, and he agreed to buy 50 shares on Friday afternoon, for £500. Realising that such trading is considerably more profitable than providing Essays to the news sheets, but that the opportunity is not likely to last long, I dressed in a hurry and made haste to Steerback's and Costapacket's, where I made several further Deals for the morrow.

I then set off for Master Nerrow's but was blocked by a great Crowd in Lud Gate, which proved to be listening to Master Piston declaiming from an open Pulpit that the Great Walloon Undertaking is naught but a worthless sham. I sent for a Magistrate to have him arrested for Grand Slander, but the Magistrate affected not to be able to understand a word Piston was saying. On reflection, this may have been true.

Thence to the St Peter tavern, where I fell in with several Gentlemen making bets on the life of Mistress Goodley, who is dreadful sick. One by the name of Cliff-herd predicted she would expire at 6 o'the clock on Saturday, which would be Convenient for the Sunday and Monday news-sheets.

Home late, and I was scarce in the door when my Wife asked about the Rats in her Closet. She showed little interest in my reply, however.

Up and to Costapacket's new coffee house in the Chancery Lane. There, I met Master Pouvoir, who promised to sell me 100 shares in the Great Walloon Undertaking on Friday morning, for £100. This price is greatly to my advantage, for everyone else is paying £5 for just one share.

Thence to the Porpentine for a pint of sack with my friend Peregrinne Prynne, who accompanied me to the Royal Society where we heard a dull Lecture on the Immutability of Species.

In the questions afterwards, Prynne observed that Blacksmiths who acquire bulging muscles in the course of their lives generally sire sons with similar muscles, suggesting that over many generations animals might naturally acquire new characteristics, viz the Giraffe's long neck or the Serpent's sting. When the company dismissed such speculation as Blasphemy, I proposed conducting an Experiment with a pair of long-tailed rats and a carving knife.

Later, to a Frenchman's House in Dean St, a Spanish House in Hanway St and an Irish one in Smith Field, taking a quart of sack in each. At Saint Bartholemew a man sold me two live rats for 5sh, vouchsafing that one was a He rat the other a She. I carried them home in two sacks, resolving to begin the Experiment by cutting off their tails in the morn. For safe keeping, I locked them in my Wife's closet.

After, I practiced a little on my Lute, until the neighbour told me it was past Midnight. And so to bed.

A fine spring day. Up and with my Wife and Daughter to Tyburn to see the hangings, stopping along the way to take refreshment at the Mitre, the White Harte, the Green Man and the Half Moon. At each, I took the chance to drop on the corner a few copies of my pamphlet entitled “I am Making a Great Fortune on the Great Walloon Undertaking and Wish you to Share It”.

(Memorial: to buy some Shares myself before the price rises too much.)

At Tyburn the crowd was disappointed to see naught but a few petty pickpockets strung up, the result it appears of a Clerical error at Newgate, the list of condemn'd being drafted in a format that could not be read by the Public Executioner.

My Lord Lee, keeper of the Publick Accounts, is demanding an Inquiry into the costs of housing and feeding the Condemned who were thus granted an unwarranted extra week of life on Earth.

Lord's Day. Up and to St Jade's, in Great Maudelin Without, where the Priest made an absurd Sermon on the Origin of diverse species, maintaining that God in his Wisdom hath set natural philosophy so that creatures best fitted to their environment would survive to breed with others likewise; and that their offspring, in the main resembling their parents, would over the course of many generations, assume characteristics of flight, colour and intellectual capacity to distinguish them entirely from their ancestors.

I shall report this nonsense to the Royal Society. It is High Time that science asserted Reason against Superstition.

To the Golden Cross for a good Ox-bladder pie cooked by one Heston, which my daughter Lucie refused. I am still convinced the child is taking Coffee, but bit my tongue.

In the afternoon, took a turn around the garden. Last year's Tulip has not yet sprouted, though I saw the shoots of some fine Nettles.

Up and to my desk, to complete my Essay “50 good things about Doomsday”, but could think of no more than two. Instead, I wrote a short article entitled Why this Tweeting Thing is no Ephemeral Fashion, but will be the Language of the New Generation.

To the Angel, the Mitre, the Anchor and Hope and the Cittie of York, taking a draught in each and distributing copies of my brief Pamphlet on the Great Walloon Tulip Undertaking. In the White Harte, I picked up a copy of Bridgerush's Social Sentinel, the back page of which was given over to an article titled My Own Father is a Tight Fisted Skinflint, signed H- G-.

In truth, I am growing a little Weary of all this family journalism.

To make my peace with my Wife and Daughter, I promised to take them to Tyburn on Monday, to see the embezzler Madhoof hang'd 150 times, though I do not approve of these lenient Community Sentences, which only encourage malfactors to Scoff at the Law.

Up and to the Coffee House, where there is much talk about an Essay in the Social Sentinel. It is seemingly writ by a girl named L- G-, under the title My Own Father Hath Exploited the Family by Putting our Stories in the Newsheets and Made Our Life H-- .I declined to join the Speculation on who the authoress, or the Father, might be.

Thence to the White Harte, the Banker's Bowel and the Tartar's Head, there to distribute my brief pamphlet On Earning a Fortune by Investing in Great Undertakings, the Details of Which to be Revealed in Due Course. However I was interrupted when a Gentleman arrived saying that My Lord Dearlove, the Chancellor, has lost his Reason, and is throwing Gold Coin to all from the Battlements of the Mint. The House promptly emptied as the Company ran to grab their share.

I intend to write to Sgt Straw, calling for the spreading of such Irresponsible Rumour, to be banned as Sedition.

Up and to the Royal Standard for my morning draught, thence to Mistress Steerback's in the Strand, to read the news. There, to my great surprise, the gentleman whom I met last week, one Pouvoir, offered me 15sh back for the share in the Great Walloon Tulip Undertaking, on condition that I spread word of the bargain.

Home to find my Daughter Lucie in tears, which my Wife says is because she has seen my article My Own Daughter is a Coffee Drinker and It Hath Ruined Our Lives in Daker's Daily Flail. I said I could not see, why she is upset, for I disguised her name by using her initial only. My Wife then walked out, causing plaster to fall from around the Door.

I do not quite understand Women.

Up and to Mistress Steerback's Coffee House, where I bought for 10sh a share in a Walloon tulip house, from a gentleman I do not know, being assured that its value is certain to soar when news of Great Undertakings becomes known.  I entered the cheapness of shares in my diary as one good thing about Doomsday. Now I have to find forty nine more. I looked in the other news sheets for inspiration, but they are given over wholly to accounts of Twittering, after the new fashion. Mostly written in the same Style.

My Lord Broon is sail'd to the Colonies, on an expedition to Save the World.

Woke by a knock on the door, which proved to be a messenger in a Dutch coat, bearing a letter from my Son Horace, who is away at the University. I was not pleased to see that the letter was naught but a request for some Quantitative Easing of his financial position. I was able to reply that, having paid the messenger £0.5sh.0d for the letter, I was not in a position to Assist.

To my desk compose an Essay on Why We are Surely Doomed Unless My Lord Broon Recants, then to the Black Friar, the New Cheshire Cheese and the Seven Stars to find an Editor who might buy it, but all pleaded Poverty. However Master Daker asked me instead to find Fifty Good Things about Doomsday, especially if they involved Comely Actresses discarding their clothes.

The Mob is out in search of Goodwynde and his gang. On Old St I was stopped by several men carrying a Noose, who forced me on pain of death to recite my Nine Times Table. This I was able to do and the gang, satisfied that I was not Goodwynde, moved on.  

Returned home to find my Wife has sent Horace £5.0sh.0d. I scolded her, saying the boy must learn that money is not printed on paper.

Up and, it being Lord's Day, dressed and to Church with my wife and daughter Lucie, the latter wearing a new beauty spot as big as her face. At Saint Sepulchre the Priest made a dull Sermon on the passage of the seasons, until he came to the piece about the Green Shoots of spring, which made the congregation fall off their pews with Mirth.

On the notice board is posted a proclamation from My Lord Broon, proposing to strip the Banker Goodwynde of his Pension and Privileges, if he can find him.

After, we walked along Cheapside, which presented a Most Melancholy spectacle, with Master Woolworth's shop and its neighbours all boarded up. We were assailed by several Innkeepers, offering three meals for the price of one, and settled for Master Oliver's offering of a fine roast Pig with onions, though from the kitchen I heard some blaspheming.

On the way home I was stopped by Sgt Straw of the Watch, who held a Lanthorn to my face and demanded to know if I was Goodwynde, however on seeing the threadbare state of my clothes he allowed me to pass.

 Up before dawn, and took coach to Bloomsbury where many Gentlemen had gathered to debate the matter of Liberty and the Free Born Englishman. The company is much agitated by the scheming of Sergeant Straw of the Watch, who would enter the names of every Subject in a great Ledger, and require us to carry copies of the Ledger at all times, less we be mistook for a Papist or a Moor.

Unhappily I had forgot my letter of invitation, and had to argue much with the Doorman to let me in.

Up and to the Coffee House to read the news, but was unable to concentrate on my reading owing to My Lord Mendelsoon spitting Loud Profanities at the owner, one Sawbucke. Thence to The Bell Yard, where I was occupied editing material for the weekly Scriveners' Journal, this a pleasant task consisting of placing the most important fact at the bottom of each Essay, and ensuring that every name featured therein is spelt wrong.

In the afternoon, I called at the Bank to inspect my savings, which are there deposited, but was refused admittance to the office, the Principal, Master Mervyn, being too busy occupied minting new coin from old.

Thence to the Olde Cocke, the Golden Lion and the New Chesshire Cheese, but refus'd credit in them all, so made to the Seven Starres to take a gallon of fine wine in company with several Literary and Legal gentlemen. I wrote down several good ideas for future Stories. Home late o'the clock, in truth uncertain of how I arrived there.

Lord's Day. To Saint Botolph's Without, where the Priest made a long sermon on the Sin of Avarice, and how the Bankers will surely roast in H--- and that it will do the rest of us a Power of Good to live without employment or luxury, for a while. However I notic'd he still passed around the Collecting Plate, and the Warden looked surly when he spotted my Dutch Farthing.

Then to the Lamb & Flag, where I did meet my good friend Peregrinne Prynne, who, having been lately released from employment by the North Sea Company, quizzed me at great length on the fortunes to be made in the field of Free Lance writing, and when I told him the pickings were but lean, made that my Business Model was all wrong. I wagered him £1 that I would earn more money than he in the week ahead from our respective pens, but the speed with which he accepted my bet causes me some anxiety.

I hear the Thames ice has melted, with many drown'd, but my coachman told me they were mainly Papists and Moors, who had they lived would have took many an Englishman's job from him.

Yesterday took my Wife and Daughter Lucie to Tyburn to see four Bankers hung drawen and Quarter'de, but they were only flogged, to the anger of the crowd. My wife is greatly anxious that Lucie is taking to Equinecy, a new craze which is corrupting our Youth, the news papers say. When I quizzed my daughter on the matter, she told me to Get Offe My Back and ran to her room. However I notice she drank all her Opium Cordial so I think there is no cause for worry.

A Vicious Mob in the street, bearing effigies of My Lord Goodwynde and sundry Bankers, for Burning, though they may not be effigies.

Woken in the night by a raging thirst in my throat, but the water in the pitcher was froze. In substitute I slaked my dryness with a flask of Brandy which I had rescued from the Custom House after my Voyage, and set to work on a new chapter of my Life Story, now titl'd Living Death in the Counting House and Several Adventures Thereafter, but managed little work before my Daughter Lucie found me with my head on the Desk in the Morning. She informed me that I resembled a relic from the Seven Plagues of Egypt and reminded me that I had promised to take her and my Wife to the Ice Dancing contest on the Thames.

Thus inspired I roused myself and after a lengthy Wait while the females decided what to wear, and a Wait still Lengthier for a Coach, we made for the festival at Fleet mouth, where a great many stalls and tents had been constructed on the Ice. In Lucie's words, it was an Awesome sight.

I contented myself watching the Skaters, observing that some of the Ladies seemed to have forgot their dresses. My wife observed that the Spectacle did not appear to vex me unduly.

To the New King Lud for a good dinner of boiled Oxhead and Pilchards, in a Stilton Cheese sauce, and a good Port Wine, which Lucie said was Awesome. The Coaches being all full, we walked home though the streets yet treacherous with Ice. Awesome, said Lucie. And so to Bed.

Master Clarkson, a braggart and likely Highwayman, is in the Stocks for scandalising My Lord Broon

Up and to the Saracen's Cheek for my Morning Draught. I asked for the News Sheets and saw that every single one has Copied my article on Why oh Why do the Boatmen Grind to a Halt Just Because the Thames is Froze, which pleased me, though I think it will be hard to get payment from them all.

To the King's Cross, to call at Bridge Rush's new Printing Shop. I did notice that all his Writers and Printers engage in a constant conversation of short sentences, shouted very loud. This is a language called Tweeting, which is greatly in fashion.

Up and to break my fast but unable to open the front door, owing to the great weight of snow piled up outside. I told my Good Wife and Daughter to wait in the house while I sought help, and left by the Window to borrow a Shovel from the landlord of the Coach & Horses. There, fell to talking with several Watermen who told me the Thames is froze from bank to bank, so set off on foot to observe the scene from the Fleet Bridge.

To my surprise, the Watermen proved to be speaking the truth, but I was unable to walk on the river owing to a portion being roped off for the purpose of a Dancing Contest on the ice.

Thence to the Black Friar, where I wrote a short essay on the Weather, under the title Why Oh Why Doth the River Boat Service Grind to a Halt Merely Because the River is Froze - If This Had Happened in the Year 1588 the Spaniard Would Have Walked all Over Us, thence to the Printing House of the Even Standid, whose new owner, Master Pulzyowtherwon, said he would put it in Print that very day and paid me £1.0sh.

Then to the Seven Starres to share my fortune with several literary Gentlemen who were bemoaning the Downturn, and home by foot, the Coaches as yet still not running. I entered the House by way of the Window, explaining to my Good Wife that no Shovels could be found for love nor money, but she was asleep.

The Mob is out, in search of Foreigners to string up from Temple Bar.

Up and to the King's Head for my morning draught and to read the news, the Fiducial Times now too costly to buy my own copy. Much comment on Lord Mendelsoon, and his Act of Charity for the Coachmakers, though most say they do not deserve it and he should be more generous anyway.

These past days I have been greatly occupied writing on Bridgerush's Comment Wall in the York Way, and Editing a journal for the Scrivengers of Chancery Lane, the last involving much vexed conversation with Legal Gentlemen who do not like their affairs to appear in Print.

By coach to West Minster, that I may pursue several publishers who owe me money, but the roads were blocked by carts delivering chests of Gold Sovereigns to the Noble Lords.

Home and to my desk, but unable to work owing to the Maid cleaning around me. Lacking coin to pay her Wages, I proposed that we come to the same arrangement as applies to Free Lance Hacking Writers, viz that she sends me an Invoice, and I pay several months later, if I feel so inclined. She fell to the floor which I thought at first was an attack of the Palsy, but she was only laughing.

My spots are much better, my coughing worse.

My spots are receeded, and turned in to a hacking cough.

Up and to my desk, to write an account of my voyage Abroad to sell to the news sheets. To the Lamb and Flag for a morning draught, thence to Master Bridgerush's new printing house in the York Way. Bridgerush was not there, but his Foreman told me that there is not much space for news of Foreign Parts. I think this is not true, for the greater part of the broadsheet is given over to accounts of the sayings of one O'Barmey, I think an Irishman, or a Moor, who is risen to great office in the Loyal Colonies. I learn however that there is great need for article to be published not in the paper but posted on a Free Comment wall. 

My Lord Blackburne to be tried for Treason, though nobody but Master Murdoch knows if he is Guilty.

My Lord Goodwynde to be hang'd for melting down the Coin of the Realm.

Up betimes and to my desk, to prepare some compositions to show to my Editors. Interrupted by a great hammering on the door. Presuming it to be Master Piston, with his Tidings of Doom and Armaggeddon, I emptied a bucket from the Window. It transpired however that the caller was a King's Messenger come to convey me to White Hall on the bidding of Lord Mendelsoon. I accompanied him forthwith to the Offices of Trade where Mendelsoon, a lean man with a steely gaze, asked only what had become of my Intelligence Report on the Loyal Colonies, which he had expected yesterday. I assured him that I had conveyed it personally into the hands of Lord Kenneth.

That seemed to please Mendelsoon, for he closed his eyes and drummed lightly on the table in the manner of one playing the Spinnet, before dismissing me from his company. I forgot to ask about my fee.

To the Lamb & Flag, where I met Master Prynne and several other Gentlemen hotly discussing the News from the Bank. We resolved that in these Uncertain Times, the only sure investment is strong drink.

Woke again by Master Piston’s declaiming in the street that the Day of Judgement is Nigh, the Moneylenders Will Er Be Er Cast From The….. Temple As It Were, and much more on this general theme.

In truth I did not mind Piston’s drone because it drowned out the noise of my Wife and Daughter Lucie discussing Lucie’s Birthday Ball, which she wants to hold at great expense in a Stretched coach.

Busy all morning composing my final report of my Secret Voyage to the Colonies, for hand delivery to My Lord Mendelsoon, President of Her Majestie’s Board of Trade. In the afternoon, took Coach to Whitehall as per instructions, carrying my Report in a sealed case. At the Board of Trade I was met by a very Affable gentleman, who introduced himself as Lord Kenneth, saying I need not trouble to enter the Office, leading me instead to the Red Lion where he bought me a cask of fine Sack and told me an amusing tale about a Trumpeteer and an Actress, though I have forgot the joke line.

On to the White Harte and a good supper of Sheep’s head, then home to bed. 

Emptied the Chamber Pot on Piston’s head, but failed to silence him. 

Item: to buying one edition of the Society Sentinel 9 pence. These rising prices will ruin me.

Disturbed before dawn by a strange groaning and creaking noise. Convinced the roof was about to fall in, I ran into the yard with my Manuscripts, then calling for my Wife and Daughter to follow. From there, however, the noise became yet louder and I traced the source to be Master Piston, declaiming from a pulpit in the street about the Plight of the Bankers and the Extraordinary Measures Taken to Protect the Exchequer.

I discharged my Fowling Piece in his direction but he did not appear to notice.

To the Old Cocke for my Morning Draught and then to Farringdon, to show my new work to Master Bridgerush, editor of the Society Sentinel. To my distress Bridgerush's Printing House was all locked up with a big sign “Gone Away” on the door. I inquir'd at the Eagle as to his whereabouts, but no one could help.

Thence to the Custom House to reclaim my sea-chest. Most of the Treasures from my travels are safe, but the Parrot has died. I shall give it to Bridgerush, if I can find him.

This day I disembarked from the sloop Cheryl after a perilous voyage of many months on Her Majestie's Service. Landing at Wapping Steps, I made to the Prospect of Whitby to hear the news and take a morning draught, and to send word of my safe arrival.

Later to the White Swan, the Fowl Anchor and the Old Starre, in company with some Sailormen, all fine fellows anxious that no one rob me of my purse, and several Ladies displaying a familiar manner about my person.

In the afternoon, I walked home, observing the ground unsteady under my feet, the result of being yet accustomed to the stormy sea. My street presented a most melancholy aspect, with many shoppes boarded up and “Lord have mercy upon us” writ on Master Woolworth's door, but my own House is still standing and my Wife and Daughter both in good health. I promis'd them Presents when my sea chest is discharg'd from the Custom House, and so to bed.

This last week I have been engaged on Her Majestie's service on an assignation, the nature of which I am forbode to disclose, on pain of Death. It will suffice to say that my duties included filling the popular prints with scurrilous attacks on my Lord Broon, in the hope that these would be to the discredit of his enemies.

The election result in the Rotten Borough of Henley shows that the first part of the scheme has succeeded.

I have also been releas'd from the Tower, which pleases me as the daily diet, viz  Roast Beef, was causing me pain on the stools, and pleases my Good Wife, the more because I was able to hand her my first installment of salary for my new duties. This she gave straight to the Bohemian building men, who have demolished most of our house, and half that of the neighbour, to make more spacefor their work.

My daugher Lucie is departed for the West country, in company with many friends clad in India rubber boots. My wife expressed fears for her Chastity, but I assured her she would be in the company of many Editors from the Social Sentinel.

That is exactly why I am afraid, quoth my Wife.

 I am yet in the Tower, under the command of one Klopp, a red-faced Corporal who is training me in the conduct of Musketry, writing in Invisible Ink &C, all of which is necessary to my career in the Service. The drill is exhausting and I am allowed no visitors, but the dinners are Excellent, being Roast Beef three times a day with as much Port wine as I can drink. 

This day in the forenoon I was due to receive a Dossier informing me of the activities of Traitors, Papist Intelligencers &C at large in the Kingdom, but Corporal Klopp forgot it in the coach. Instead, he advised me simply to keep a good eye out for people who look Foreign, and if in doubt as to their Foreignness, to shoot.



 

Although I am yet in the Tower, I am pleased to say that my fortunes continue to turn up. In the small hours of the night, I was usher'd from my room to a Turret chamber lit by a single candle and the light of the half moon, there to be interviewed by a gentleman whose face was hid by the gloom and a high-backed chair. "My name is Immaterial," he said. His voice was muffled, but I took him for a Scotsman.

Master Immaterial questioned me on the fortunes to be made as a Free Lance Writer, and we agreed that the business is at times Precarious. He then subjected me to an Inquisition on my love for Her Majestie, and sentiments towards the Papists, and the Turk. Bearing in mind that we were within farting distance of the Traitor's Gate, I thought best to vouchsafe my entire and total loyalty.

At length, Master Immaterial inquir'd as to whether I should be prepared to undertake certain Patriotic Duties, in return for a prudent but not ungenerous remunerative fiduciary amelioration.

Not being clear to his meaning, I asked what the alternative might be. "Why sir, I can hold you in this place two and forty days. And then another two and forty, then another, and so on until your flesh drops from your very bones."

He explained, somewhat ponderously, that this was just his little joke, and I joined him in laughing.

I told Immaterial I should be glad to take him on his offer, and at his invitation signed a lengthy scroll of paper, the words on which apparently there was no necessity for me to read. As a soldier led me away for a breakfast, which consisted of yet another side of roast beef, I heard Immaterial chuckling in his chair: "Forty two days! Forty two days!"

My fortunes have changed, I hope for the better. This morning I was woke early by the warden of the Fleet Prison, who told me that an Anonymous Benefactor had cleared my debt to McGinty, and hence I was discharg'd.

At the gates of the Prison, I was summoned to a closed coach, with no person inside. The coachman locked the door and we set off. For a moment, I feared that I was being tricked to Tyburn and the Gallows, but from the smells of Smith Field I discerned that the coach was headed East. By and by we stopped, the coachman cried "Open in the name of Her Majestie", and I heard the sound of a Portcullis being hauled up.

Recognising that we were in the Tower, I once again said my Prayers, but was interrupted by a soldier telling me to fear not. He led me to a room with a bed, table and chair, and presently brought me a side of Roast Beef and a cask of Wine. I made a good dinner and was better content, though noticed that the door is locked and the window, barr'd.

On the wall, someone has carved 'Guido Fawkes 1605', which does not lesson my Anxiety.

'Tis Day 13 in the Fleet Prison House, and I, Tobias Grubbe, free lancing hacking writer, am in the Diary Room, recording my Impressions. 

The Debtors' Prison is yet extremely crowded, though fortunately the rain having stopped, we are no longer obliged to sit on the Roof. Daily life herein is regulated by an Old Triangle. At the start of morning, we hear the warder calling, telling us to get out of bed and slop out our cells. Or, for those who can afford the 2 Sh. fee, the warder will do it for us, and bring our breakfast Beer too.

In the forenoon there is a choice of healthy occupations, viz breaking rocks in the hot sun, or morning devotions with Canon Iva, the prison chaplain who is I think unfrock'd. My preference is breaking rocks, the chaplain's voice being exceedingly painful, also I have run out of Buttons to place on his collecting plate.

At noon, the triangle rings for dinner, which we are at liberty to purchase from Master Ramsay, the Blasphemer. It being Friday, there was today a good river Perch stuffed with cockles, mussels &c, though a little passed its best. I hear word that the felons in Cell Block Number Nine are to be hang'd, or transported to the Colonies, though it is also said that My Lord Broon is building Titanic prisons to house an army of debtors.

For the rest of the day the Inmates make their own entertainments, viz a riot in Cell Block Number Nine, or sit at the front gate entreating passers by to relieve our debts. I saw My Lord Darling walk past, but he only quickened his step.

Today I also received a visit from Master Bullrush, editor of the Social Sentinel, who is much exercised by tales of prison life. In truth, I am earning more from my writing inside Prison than I ever did outside. Bullrush brought me a flask of Brandy which I shared with the mad man De Foe, who is convinced that the government will give him employ as a secret intelligencer. He spends the entire day before the looking glass, saying: "The name's Defoe. Dan Defoe" and asked that the Brandy be shaken, not stirred.

After sunset, we make music and take bitter wine before retiring to bed, some with the Whores from the Women's Prison. Being unable to find a partner for the Dance, I used a Wooden Chair. And the old triangle goes jingle jangle, all along the banks of the Fleet canal.

The flood waters have subsided somewhat, so I am able to resume my Journal, though the water in the Fleet Prison yet covers our ankles. Canon Iva the prison Chaplain is busily engaged in the construction of an Ark, and is selling tickets to inmates of feeble mind.

This day I received visits from my friend Peregrinne Prynne, the savant, and also my wife. Prynne presented me with a bar of Soap, in order that I would not be obliged to bend over in the wash house, and also a map and compass to guide me in digging an escape tunnel. I told him that only an Hippopotomime Reptile would attempt tunnelling in the current inundation. Prynne brought word that My Lord Broon is still determin'd that all prisoners are held for two and forty days, though Parliament is vexed.

My Wife told me she has engaged new Building tradesmen to replace the useless McGinty, these are apparently Bohemians from the far steppes.

She is greatly excited by the prospect of a visit to the Theatre with some lady friends, there to see a play from the Colonies about Fornication in the Neighbourhood. Every day I am more glad to be inside the prison than without. However with the crowding and the flooding I am minded to discharge my debt and move out. The more so since my latest room-fellow borrowed 10 Shillings on the promise of prompt repayment, for drink and to settle his own obligations. When I asked his name, he told me "Bingley".

 





 

I  am unable to keep my  Journal owing to the necessity of spending the whole day sitting on the roof, the Fleet Prison being uninhabitable owing to Floods .

Another great influx of Debtors to the Fleet Prison, where the Inmates now nearly out-number the Rats. As a result, the price of rat meat in the dining room continues to soar.

In the forenoon, I befriended a distressed gentleman wandering in the Yard and bought him a morning Draught of stout ale. He told me his name was Bradford, and that he was in prison only because of a terrible error in reckoning the sums at his bank, and that his partner, one Bingley, would soon arrive to pay his Bond.

At dinner time I was visited by my wife, accompanied by my daughter Lucie, who I see is taken to dressing entire in black. My wife brought paper, quills and a fine offal pastie, which when I bit in to it proved to have a filing tool hidden inside.

I gave my wife several short essays for delivery to Dacre's Daily Wail, the Social Sentinel &c on the dismal conditions to be found in Her Majestie's Prisons. In truth, I am not in any great urge to escape, as the Prison company is congenial, save for the madman De Foe, and I have the leisure to get much Writing done.

Lent Bradford 4d for Gin, on the promise of a credit note from Master Bingley.

Lord's Day. I am still confin'd in the Fleet Prison, where I was awoke by the arrival of several new Cartloads of Debtors and several revellers arrested by the Watch for defying the Lord's Mayor's new prohibition on drinking Coffee under the ground.

Why anyone would wish to drink Coffee under the ground mystifies me.

Being unable to venture out for Church, I attended a mean service in the prison conducted by one Canon Iva, who preached on the Wickedness of Indebtedness and after distributed handbills offering to consolidate our debts in to one easy monthly loan.

On my wife's credit, I obtained a cask of Sack at ruinous cost from Mistress Smith the warden's wife. I offered some to my neighbour De Foe, but he was deep in conversation with a woman called Moll whom I took for a whore.

The Prince Peter is wed, some say to a Papist.

This past week I have been unable to keep my Journal, owing to the lack of Writing Materials in the Fleet Prison, where I am confin'd at the Petition of the cow herdsman McGinty. This day, however, my Wife came with Quills, Paper, and jugs of broth and Porter, this last being a welcome change from the Small Beer which I have been obliged to buy from Mistress Smith, the Warden's Wife, at Ruinous rates of credit.

This apart, the Prison is not an unpleasant place, being filled with fewer Rogues than the Coffee Houses outside. Among our number are several Free Lancing Writers, indebtedness being a necessary part of our Condition.

My cell Neighbour, one De Foe, is however naught but a Fantasiser, claiming to spend his days composing a Romance on a sailor cast away in the South Seas. When he asked my opinion of his work, I commended him, to keep his Spirits up, though I fear he is destined for obscurity.

My Wife asked why Writers cannot act as Trades Men, and hold their own creditors to account. I told her it is not as simple as that. In stead I entreated her to find a loan from her brother Bulstrode. How long I will remain behind bars I do not know, but Mistress Smith is set on holding all prisoners at least 42 days. Her husband is occupied building a great many more Cells, the better to accommodate the multitude of poor souls left in debt by the soaring cost of bread, hay &c. I have resolved to start a prison newsletter, perhaps it shall make my fortune.

Up betimes, and to my Accounts, on which I now divide each page in to Income and Expenditure, drawing a line at the foot. This week I have clearly Spended more than my receipts, an observation which spurs me to double my efforts.

Noting my Book of Orders to be empty, I made to Turnmills in Farringdon, there to present the Editors of the Social Sentinel with my latest ideas, but find it to be shutter'd, pending rebuild. Thence to the Coach & Horses, where several Gentlemen, untidy dressed, claimed to be Editors, but when I asked after Master Lancelot, it proved he was installed on the roof, open to conversation only in bird song.

I procured a ladder and joined him thereabouts, though in truth I find such Twittering near impossible to comprehend.

To the Eagle, the Mitre, the Anchor & Hope and then home, where I was set upon by two wastrels who, claiming  to be friends of McGinty, professed to know where I lived. I saw them off with my Hangar, by way of teaching them the lesson of the short, sharp, shock.

In the night slept poorly, owing to the groaning of timbers in my house, a surfeit of gas in my belly and worries about money, viz the growing imbalance between my earnings and my spending. My wife being yet absent, I was at liberty to relieve the gas with several generous fartes, but this did not relieve my anxieties, indeed the vibrations thus produced caused me to fear even more for the fabric of the house. I resolved to engage some new builders forthwith, to fix the damage caused by the rogue McGinty. 

To Master Buck's coffee house, where I confided my financial inconveniences to one Andersen, a gentleman in the coat of an Accountant, who gave me much valuable counsel on the necessity to write a daily balance sheet of incomings and outgoings, and to spend only the Profit left thereby. This is exactly the type of chore from which I fled my position at the Counting House to become a free writer, but I see no other possible course.

Andersen then sought the loan of my pocket watch, told me the hour, and made haste for the docks to take shippe for the Colonies, though not before presenting me with a bill for two guineas for his counsel.

I went thence to the Castle, the Cheshire Cheese and the Two Horseshoes, in search of an afternoon draught and a quiet space for my Writing, but all were filled with noisesome mobs in great debate about the Foot Ball.

Home, to find another demand from McGinty, which shared the same fate as the first. And so to bed.
 

Woke by the Post Messenger bearing two letters. One was a demand from McGinty to pay him £4.11s.3d for grouting, daubing, frotting & making good, the other a personal letter of Endearment, entreating me in the most friendly terms to give a Plug to some enterprise or other in the august journal 'Grubbe, Tobias'. I burned them both.

Riot in the street. I sent for the Constables of the Watch, but the rioters proved themselves to be Constables of the Watch, demanding higher payments. I look forward to the day when freelance Hacking Writers can do the same.

Woke early by strange scratching noises at the front of the house. Fearful of intruders, I took up my Train-Band pike and ventured out, though no one to be seen. Someone has removed most of McGinty's rubble, however.

Deciding to take advantage of the early rise, I sat to my desk and composed letters to the editor of every news broadsheet and periodical in my collection, offering to write for a suitable sum, and proposing suggestions for Essays to each, though some were the same. The labour took me the whole Forenoon but I am confident that my investment will pay.

After, to the Jerusalem Tavern for my Morning Draught, and thence to Cheapside where I met my Wife and Daughter returning many of the Purchases they had made yesterday. This took an enormous amount of time.

Thence to the Theatre in Drury Lane, to see a spectacle advertised as New, but it proved to be but an old Miracle Play on the quest for the Crystal Grail, with the lead Actor, Master Forde, now of great age. My Wife and Daughter seemed mightily impressed, though.

Parliament is greatly divided on the question of breeding Monsters.

Lord's Day. Up betimes and met my Wife and Daughter at St Magnus-the-Martyr where the priest, one Leigh, preached a Sermon on the sin of breeding Monsters. After, we walked awhile in Cheapside, my Wife spending a great time in the Clothes Shoppes, then home when she did inspect the building works but pronounced the House still unfit for habitation.

To the George for a good dinner, where I met Peregrinne Prynne and several other gentlemen. I asked him of his experiment concerning the Flux and Reflux of the Tides, but Prynne said there is no need for further observation, Reason and Deduction being sufficient to prove the truth.

Home, where I wrote several Bills & reminders to those owing me fees for my writing, and sharpened Quills and laid out paper in preparation for the morrow's work. 

Dacre's Daily Wail  reports  that  My  Lord Broon, the  Queen's Minister, will soon have to  divert  the national Chest  to the building of  Debtors'  Prisons.
 

Up and to the Stationer's Register to assert my copyright in my  essay about the Wife With No Nose, which is being reproduced in many public prints without payment, but discover that the story has been registered previous.

To the St Paul's Tavern for my morning draught, my foul temper made worse by the unseasonal weather. Home, to discover McGinty's 'prentices playing kick-bladder around the pile of sand & rubble. This craze for Idle Sport will be the ruin of us all, and surely lead only to drunkenness and violence on the streets.

I shooed them off with a blast from my Fowling Piece, calling after them that McGinty and all his company were Dismissed. The house being cold & damp, I made to the Anchor & Hope, but the Landlord refused my credit.

Woke in great pain, to discover that I had passed the night on the stairs, and suffering an intolerably sore head.

The neighbour Tompion called, to ask me for the return of the 4sh he paid the Chair Men for me, the other night. I had not the coins, but shared a jug of Punch, which cured my head somewhat. Tompion inspect’d the building work, and pronounced that Hibernians were notorious dull-witted bog-dwellers, and that I should test McGinty on his knowledge of modern household Wherewithalls.

Later, to my desk, the Dead Line pressing from the Social Sentinel. However I was interrupted by McGinty arriving with his ‘prentices to knock down more Walls. 

Taking Tompion’s advice, I asked McGinty if he knew the difference between a hob and a lock. He thought for a moment, and said “To be sure, was not Hobbes’ theory that, without the firm government of Princes, we exist in a state of nature, the life of man being, solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short; whereas the late Master Locke developed a view more enlightened, in that while Princes live in a state of nature with regard to each other, the relations between Ruler and Ruled have the character of a Social Contract?”

Clearly, the man is an idiot. I resolved to discharge him as soon as it is safe to do so.

Early to bed, resolving also to abstain in future from drinking Coffee, for it gives me a sore head.  

I woke not 'til late, there being no noise from the Building men, and my family still away. In the Forenoon, to a Coffee House in Long Acre to write several new Essays, thence to Bow Street to see Master Stains the diarist condemn'd for galloping his Coach and Four through Westminster with reckless intent. To my great disappointment, the Beak spared him the gallows, instead consigning him to three years in the Pillory. The next case was that of Master Docherty the lutist, but he too was set free.

In the Publick Gallery I started to write an essay on Why oh Why are our Modern Liberal Judges such a Joke, but the Usher told me off for Contempt.

To the Castle Tavern in Furnival St to meet several Publishers, but none would take my essays. Thence to Mistress Murray's Biskit Clubbe in Covent Garden, where met Master Hamboyo, Mistress Bolover and many other journal-writers, to drink wine and decry the condition  of today's Publishing World.

Home late of the clock, after talking a great deal.

Woke by a bright Light in my eyes, which at first I thought was the Second Coming of Christ and all His Angels, but it proved instead to be caused by McGinty the builder taking down the front wall of the House in the early hours. Being unable to work in such conditions, I made to the Jerusalem Tavern, where I was joined by McGinty who broke his fast with a small plate of sausages, eggs, bacon, black pudding &c washed down with Master Heinz's beans and a quart  of sugared gin. I inquir'd of what victuals his 'Prentices received, and he assured me that they are content with black bread and water, the better to lay a straight brick. It is the first intelligent thing he has said.

Securing a further Guinea from my purse for the procurement of wattle, daub &C, McGinty departed, leaving me also to pay his Reckoning.

Home, to find a note from my Wife, in which she says she has left for her Mother's, taking my Daughter Lucie along, and charging me to keep close watch on the building men. There also was an coachman in the service of one Master Gatesby, a gentleman from the Colonies, bearing an invitation to dine. The coach carried me in fine style to the Golden Cross near Whitehall, where several Gentlemen spoke of the great advantages to be had from the purchase of Master Gatesby's Windows, and urged on me several handbills for reproduction in the publick prints. We had a good Dinner of Lobster, Quail, Oxe Tongue and a Hare Pie, with a fine Sack, though the Gentlemen from the Colonies drank only water, which I thought strange.

Thence to Master Scott's musick tavern in So Ho, a tawdry establishment which is certain to close by the year's end. A wench selling Oranges invited me to walk with her in the Pissing Alley, but I was afeared of the Pox. She nonetheless relieved me of my Purse, which I did not discover until it time to pay the Chair Men who bore me home, obliging me to rouse Tompion my Neighbour, who was little pleased.

Dacre's Daily Wail informs that the price of bread is rose to 1d , the cost of homes is fell to 4d, and Lord Broon the Queen's Minister has gone insane, and is determin'd to cut our very throats as we sleep.

Woken by several Messengers, bearing handbills from various Manufacturers of Stationery and other Equipments, and one with an unsign'd letter threatening my Murder.

Took coach to West Minister, to observe the Parliament in session. On College Green, a great Crowd had gathered around a Madman throwing Guineas for all to catch, but this proved to be My Lord Darling, the Chancellor. At the Palace door, I quarrelled with the Serjeant at Arms who tried to relieve me of my pistol, cudgel, dagger &C, so I decided to observe the Debate from St Stephen's tavern. There found several notable Correspondents, among them Master Piston declaiming on the Public Finances. Tiring of his loud and high voice, I made to the Red Lion instead.

Home late of the clock. No sign of McGinty today.

Woke by a great Cacophany of hammering and sawing, and saw that McGinty has finally begun work on the house. Wishing me the top of the morning, he told me that the whole front would have to come down, the frame needing a scaffold to support it, at a cost of  14sh.3d. I told him the only scaffold I would buy was the one he would be hang'd from, and told him to make best with what he has to hand.

I was interrupted by a message from Bullrush, Editor of the Social Sentinel, commanding me to meet him  at the sign of the White Harte. I put on my best periwigg and hat, and made haste, hoping he has recognised my Talents and will engage me to Write news of the Royals and all the Gentry, or at least to publish my thesis on the cause of the Tides, but instead the job is only that of producing many pages of puff about furniture and stationery items, in the hope that Manufacturers will buy Advertisements. I agree to this dull work because I will need every penny to pay McGinty.

Thence to Chancery Lane, to engage a Lawyer to act for me in the Theft of my copy right, but they were all at Luncheon.

The news sheets are filled with more great tales of Calamity in Cathay, as well as slanderous writings by Mistress Cherry, relict of the Queen's late Minister.  

To the Anchor and Hope, where I composed a trenchant Opinion on publick servants who betray their Loyalty in their Memoirs in the pursuit of Lucre, and to Smith Field where I bought a Cockerel for dinner, but it escap'd on the way home.

Lord's Day. These last three days I have laid abed of Fever, despite the Mountebank's Treatments having so forceful effect as to raise complaints from the collectors of Night Soil.

Up and, it being a hot day, put on my thickest coat. With my Wife to Church, noticing that a heap of planks of wood has appeared next to McGinty's pile of sand. At St Bartholemew the Great, the Priest preached a long sermon promising Fire and Brimstone on the editors who give over space to Atheists and Pagans. From the balcony, Master Dawkins threw orange peel.

Thence to the Red Cow for a good dinner of gin, Oysters, roasted faggots and a Cask of sack. After, I picked up a copy of Dacre's Daily Wail and saw to my horror that it has published, down to the very word, my essay on the Landlord's wife with no Nose. I am much displeased by this theft. The sweat of a man's brows, and the exudations of a man's brains, are as much a man's own property as the breeches upon his backside.

I resolve to seek redress with the full might of the Law.

Again woke by the sound of 'Prentices kicking bladders about. When I inquired of them if they planned to start work, they replied they were awaiting the Master Craftsman, themselves being here only on a Scheme.

In my Garret it was too hot to work, so I took a turns round the garden, inspecting the Bluebells which have now turned white and grey and trimming some leaves, thorns etc with my Train-band Pike.  

I took more Treatment, but though my Stomach is sore, no stools yet.

My Lord Broon is reported muttering to unseen spirits.






 

I waked early, with a taste in my mouth like a Papist's arm-pit. Not feeling inspired to write, I spent the forenoon compiling my Accounts, sending out reminders for payment &C.

Later to the Coach and Horses in Farringdon, where I took a cup of gin for my Draught, to the great benefit of my Constitution. There met Master Bullrush, editor of the Social Sentinel, who is much exercised by the calamities in Cathay, Hindustan &c, which means there is less space in the paper for stories about uncloth'd wenches. I offered an Essay on New Discoveries as to the Cause of the Tides, but he agreed only that he would "Take a look".

I am cert that the change in the Weather is causing me to come down with Distemper. In Cowcross Street I bought a sixpenny parcel of Treatments from a Horse-Mountebank, guaranteed to make 20 stools, and also good against green wounds, old fistulas and ulcers.

Home, where I noticed the pile of sand is somewhat dented, but no work has been done on the House. I took the Treatments after supper but no stools came.

Woke by loud thumps on the door, which proved to be caused by two youths kicking a bladder around McGinty's pile of sand. I fetched my Fowling Piece to disperse them, but they told me  they were McGinty's 'prentices sent to guard the site, so I held my fire.

Saw more bluebells in the back garden. To test if they are good to eat, I fed some to the Dog, but he was sick.

For my morning Draught I went to a Coffee House in Fetter Lane, one of several opened lately by Master Bucks. The Coffee cost 6d, which is Robbery, and proved undrinkable until I had fortified it with gin. I hear word that My Lord Broon, the Queen's Minister, has taken to hiding in a darken'd room, counting beans.

To the Coal Hole in the Strand, where met Peregrinne Prynne and several other Savants from the Royal Society and we fell to discussing the mysterious Flux and Reflux of the Tides, and the possible mechanics by which the rise and fall of a river could change the shape of the Moon. I ventured that the hand of God is surely responsible for both Phenomena, but Prynne thinks the connection the result of chance, both the Tides and the Phases of the Moon being set in motion in ancient times, and continuing to function like two great clocks showing an hour that becomes more different every year.

We resolved to test Prynne's Theory by measuring the exact moment that the tide turned, to see if it kept exact pace with the change in the Moon. The company proposed that I should venture in to the Thames and signal the very moment of Low Water by waving my hat while they took the time from the Pendulum clock. This I did, the better to write about the Experience,  and spent three hours amid the mud and dead dogs, to the cheers of the Savants watching from the balcony of the Inn.

Home late of the clock and in some disarray, which did not please my Wife. The heap of Sand is still there, but no sign of the 'Prentices.


 

Up betimes to await the arrival of McGinty, but he did not come. The back garden is now abloom with bluebells, which I picked as a present for my wife.

At mid-day, my son Horatio appeared and said he was bound back to the University, to sit his Examinations. I spoke with him for a while on the temptations of sodomy, coffee drinking, etc, and from the way he closed his eyes I could tell he was reflecting deeply on my advice. I also lent him 1 guinea for expenses, and gave him a stick of opium for his health. Later, I discovered that my Wife had also given him 1 guinea.

To my Desk where, at about 3 of the clock I was disturbed by a loud rumbling sound in the street. I looked out to see that someone has deposited a large heap of sand outside the front of the house. I suspect it is something to do with McGinty.

Horatio having eaten every scrap in the house, we dined on faggots and oysters at the New Cheshire Cheese. My daughter Lucie asked when she might go to the University, so I sent her early to her bed.

Lord's Day. With my Family to St Clement's where the Priest gave thanks for the new Lord Mayor, and we all prayed for his long life. I noticed Boristone in the front Pew, accompanied by several Ladies.

Home to a fine Ox Liver Pie for dinner, which I ate in haste, being anxious to get to my desk to compose an Essay about travels in Bohemia for Master Hamboyo. As I have not been to Bohemia for many years, this proved difficult, but I supplemented my memory by copying sentences in turn from two Books borrowed from my wife's brother Bulstrode.

Late to bed, where I dreamed I had discovered a Library containing every Book it was ever possible to write, but instead of being the source of all wisdom, nearly every volume contained only a jumble of mad letters, like a page of Free is Comment. My Wife complained of my Fartes and grunting keeping her awake. 

Up at daybreak and, rousing Horatio and Lucie with some difficulty, by river to the palace at Hampton Court for a day out. Her Majestie being absent, we inspected the building works and took a turn in the Maze. Horatio assured me the secret was always to turn to the Left, but this proved impossible. In the end, I was obliged to cut a new passage with my Sword, which did not please the Attendant.

Home by the afternoon tide, enjoying the views and smells of London  Town with my wife. It is thanks to my new life as a Free Lance Writer that we are able to enjoy days like this, though in truth it is easy to spend money more quickly than I earn it.  

Horatio silent on the return trip, which he spent lying on the deck staring at the sky. I am convinced that the youth is taking Coffee.

Up and to my desk to write an essay on Why oh Why this man Boristone will be a disaster for London, and so will Livingstone,  if he wins.

At my Wife's bidding, I sent for a Building Tradesman to fix the front door, frame, wattle, daub, chimney stack &C. He proved to be a Hibernian or West Briton named McGinty, and spent the great part of the morning jabbing the wall with his stick, pronouncing it to be the work of Herdsmen, while sucking through his teeth. However he said his Men would fix it on Monday, and I gave him £1.10sh.0d against expenses.

To the Black Friar, the Trip to Jerusalem and the St Paul to gather news, then to Guild Hall, where Livingstone's mob was all gone, leaving Boristone to don the Mayor's chain to great acclaim. In his address to the Crowd, he promised to rid the city of bending Sedan Chairs, and to post the names of cutpurses and Highwaymen on every wall.

I think it prudent to change the title of my Essay to Why oh Why London is Rejoicing in this New Start.

Woke by a great Commotion in the street, where the Mob, whipped up by one Gilligan, was burning the Lord Mayor in effigy.

It being May Day, I took my regular bath, noticing that the water does not rise as high on my Stomach as last year, which is pleasing.  After, I dressed in new clothes, which looked quite fine, and one of Bulstrode's rejected Periwigges.

To then Cheshire Cheese, the Mitre, the Hope & Anchor and the Black Friar to take a morning draught in each and collect the News, thence to the Guildhall with many other Freemen of the city to watch the contest for Lord Mayor. There are now but two contenders, each with rival mobs of supporters. I joined Livingstone, that he may be thrice Lord Mayor of London, but Boristone's crowd is bigger and noisier and includes the most Comely ladies. In it I noticed Bulstrode, who does not oft bet on losing horses.

Keeping a tally of preferences was Scrimspume. I pretended not to recognise him.

Home late o'the clock, the result being undecided. And so to bed.

It being cold & wet, I kept my Bed this day and wrote several compositions for the Daily Broadsheets. At noon, I bid the maid bring me a quart of Ale and the smell, mingled with that of bedclothes, old stockings &C, brought back great reverie of my childhood. I devoted the afternoon to writing a new chapter for my Book, entitled My Early Years, though I reached only the age of Six Months, when, by my mother's account, the Nurse dropped me on my head.

At dusk, rose to take a supper of Broth and dark bread and observe the weather. My wife and daughter in a sulk mood, my son nowhere to be seen.

A Gentleman knocked on the Door saying his name was Boris and that he aspired to become Lord Mayor, but I ignored him. At length he departed with a great shout of "Cripes!" which I hope was occasion'd by tripping over the rubble.

The price of Hay is risen to more than £0.1s.0d a cwt, angering the carters.

Up at Cock's Crow to finish my Composition for Master Lancelot at the Social Sentinel. Thence by hired horse to Farringdon, where I handed it to the night watchman, Master Stew, who appears to hail from the Colonies. With good fortune, Lancelot will not notice it late.

Thence to the Mitre for my morning draught, and to write Living Death in the Counting House, it being a more peaceful place than my Home. Instead, found myself in conversation with several Gentlemen about the Contest for Mayor. 'Tis rumoured that in the Guildhall many secret papers are being cast to the Fire. I hope Scrimspume's report on my house is counted among them.

Home, and a supper of cold pig's Stomach. After, I tried knocking in more nails to hold up the house but the wall was too soft with the rain. As I worked, several more bricks fell from the Stack. I called Horatio to help, but he had vanished as surely as  a compositor's mate when there is Correcting work to be done. To bed, where my Wife again raised the topick of employing a building craftsman and I was too weary to argue.

Possibly it will give me something to write about.


 

 
 

At breakfast my daughter Lucie wore a new Beauty Spot and clothes after the fashion of Mistress Winecask, the songstress. When I sent her back upstairs to cover herself, she slammed the door, telling me to "Get off my case".

Up to my Garret, but unable to begin work owing to the noise of an argument twixt my Wife and the Maid Eliza, who had arrived to collect her things. To induce her to stay, my wife offered to double her wages, and find her somewhere warmer to sleep than the Dog House, which did not please me.

Presently, a Messenger arrived from the Social Sentinel, with a note from Master Lancelot, editor of the Thursday Utensil page, inquir'ing as to the whereabouts of the essay I promised him about the Government's Great Profligacy with ledgers, pens, &C. In truth I had forgot the Commission, but sent back note saying I would Deliver the words presently, in person.

At that moment a gentleman called, introduced himself as Scrimspume, an Inspector from the Guildhall, and said that a Complaint had been received concerning the Dangerous State of my house.  I shouted for my Wife, but she had departed with Lucie for the shops. However the noise did rouse my son Horatio, who alone in the household seems able to sleep sound of the morning. I showed Scrimspume the work I had carried out on the House Fabric, and was saying such craftsmanship is not possible to buy nowadays, when a Brick departed the chimney stack and missed Scrimspume's head by a weasel breath.

Horatio remarked he thought it interesting that the Brick, on breaking free, should be propelled downwards and not upwards. God forgive me, but I may have spoken sharply to him.

I presented Scrimtooth with a bottle of Brandy as apology, but fear the matter may not end there.

Mem: to find a more peaceable place to conduct my Writing.

Lord's day. Up at a good hour and, venturing down for my breakfast beer, I trip'd over my Son Horatio asleep on the stair. He excused himself from Church, saying he had been to Prayers at St Paul's already at break of day. God forgive me, but I can  not  believe him with all my heart. 

With my Wife and Daughter to St Botolph's, where the Priest gave a sermon of Fire & Brimstone, vouchsafing the Rich would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. I noticed behind the Pulpit an edition of the List of Several Dozen Wealthy Personages, put out today by the Lord's Day Tombs, which we all did read avidly on the pews.

After Church, to a fine dinner at the Anchor & Hope, there meeting my Wife's brother Bulstrode and his family, my friend Peregrinne Prynne the Philosopher, and, at length, Horatio, who showed a good appetite for Fried Meats. Prynne and Horatio held forth on the nature of the Universe; assuring us that the actions of Men are but tiny Cogs set in motion by Vortices of which we understand nothing as yet. 

Bulstrode became angry, and asked what of the Free Will which the Good Lord had granted Mankind. "Why, Sir, at this very moment I could defy your Vortices by standing on one leg, balancing a bottle on my head, and singing Lilli Burlero. What say you to that, Sir?"

"Why, Sir," my Son replied, "that would merely show you are Determin'd to play the Fool." He and Prynne did laugh mightily, but Bulstrode was not amused. I think he is in secret vexed at not figuring on the Wealthy Personages List.

Home, where I noticed that the rain has caused more Wattle & Daub to fall from the house, making a heap in the street. In the evening set to compiling my Accounts in the month since I became a Free Lance Hacking Writer. I see but little danger of being turned away from the Kingdom of Heaven.

The Weather being Fair, I set to work early repairing the Front Door, but decided first to remove all the old Daub, Wattle &C from the surrounding wall, with my new Hammer and Chisel. This was pleasing toil, though  I several times grazed my knuckles. At ten of the clock my Wife arrived with my daughter Lucie, to inspect the work. My Wife remarked on the quantity of Dust produced.

During the forenoon, some young Gentlemen called also, to ask the whereabouts of my Son, Horatio. I told them, for all I knew, he had enlisted in the Barbary Pirates. My daughter Lucie said this is not funny. However at about 3 of the clock, a tall and very thin bearded Youth, clad all over in black and  bearing a sack of Laundry, greeted me with the words: "How now, Father, art thou now apprenticed to a demolition tradesman?" and at length I recognised my son.

Horatio's homecoming was the occasion for much joy and, my mouth being dry, I put away my tools and sent for a cask of best Sack. For dinner, my wife dug up the pickled Pig's Head we had been saving in the back yard and cooked it with some fine nutmeg, cabbage and roots.

I inquired Horatio of his studies, fearful that he had been thrown out of the University, but he said he was engaged in an academic quest far above my head, viz that of comprehending the metaphysical mechanism that drives the motion of the Planets, Stars, &c. I fear Prof Newton is filling his head with blasphemous nonsense, but held my tongue. After supper, Lucie played a while at the Spinnet, but in the manner of Master Handel, a new prodigy from the Continent. Like all so-called Roque Musick, this is but one note played over and over at great speed and Loudness. I produced my Flute, that we might enjoy some real songs, viz ones with tunes we can all sing, but Lucie ran from the room with her hands over her ears.

At near Midnight and the drink being finished, I made for Bed, but Horatio said he had to meet an appointment at some Clubbe and asked to borrow 10 shillings. Before I could stop her, my Wife gave him the money. Horatio exited by the Window, bidding us not to wait up for his return.

 
 

Up betimes, and finished writing my Essay on the Complete Break Down in Law & Order in Our Great City, which will serve as a call to wake up the new Lord Mayor, whoever he be.  I delivered it by hand to Dasmon's printing works at the sign of the Rose & Crown and, on my way home called at Master Beeyankew's shop where I bought several planks of wood, saws, hammers & nails &c to build the new front door & frame. My Wife and Daughter having left for my Mother in Law, and the maid Eliza nowhere to be seen, I was alone in the House.

My Lord Humphrey, the Trumpet Player and Wit, is expir'd this evening. We shall not see his like again.

In the forenoon, set to writing my Essay on Why Oh Why is it Not Safe to Walk the Streets, but the words did not come easy. Instead, occupied myself fixing the front door. Removed the planks, the door and the frame, it proving rotten. My Wife entreated me to engage a Builder, but I believe they are all Rogues and Scoundrels.

At dusk, I stopped work and nailed a board across the gap to prevent Burglary &c. It being the Eve of St Mark's, I went with Peregrinne Prynne to the Churchyard to try to observe among the tombstones apparitions of those doomed to die in the year ahead. There was one ghastly skeletel figure, wreath'd in white mist and groaning most foully, but it proved to be only Lord Keef, the Royal lute-player, and he is predicted to die every year.

Woke by a smell of burning, to discover that someone has set the front door to fire. I beat out the blaze with a Coat belonging to my Wife, it being damp with rain, and sent word to the Constable of the Watch. He told me it appeared but an Accident, but if I do notice anything suspicious, to go to the Horse Guards.
 
I fixed the front door with some boards and nails, and told my family to make their exit through the window.

To the Three Horseshoes, where I met Dasmon in good humour because it is the Feast of Saint George and he sold three copies more of his Weekly Crusader than is usual. To my small surprise, he readily paid for my Essay, and asked if I had any more to offer. I promised to write him one on the wave of crime in our city, which pleased him mightily.

Thence to the Prospect of Whitby, to give the Landlord his share of the fee for My Wife Has No Nose. He was at first displeased to see me, but we shared a bottle of Brandy and parted close friends. Of the attacks on my House, he says he knows nothing, but expects them to cease.

To the Hospital at Bedlam to inspect likely individuals to become the new Lord Mayor, but they are too occupied with gibbering about repealing the Act of Union and ridding the City of Foreigners, Moors and Sodomites, despite several themselves being Foreigners, Moors and Sodomites.

Home to a lean dinner of turnip leftovers, the maid Eliza being unable to go to the Shops. I told my Wife to thrash her, but she says it not the Maid's fault, and then my Daughter Lucie joined in blaming me.

Sometimes I do not understand Women.

In the night someone slipped a letter, unsigned, through the front door, threatening my Murder. In consequence, I took care to arm myself with cudgel and sword before leaving the house, though my Wife made me leave behind the Fowling Piece and Pike.

To the Black Friar, the New Cheshire Cheese, the Mitre, the Eagle and the Seven Starres, to place my work with Editors and drink several bottles, in precaution against attack. 

In the after noon to the Royal Society where Peregrinne Prynne was declaiming to the Natural Philosophers the futility of reaching understanding through pure Reason, the only route to Truth being through experience and the measure of reality.

"Why sir," I said, "by that logic you would subject the existence of the very Deity to experimental test."

"Certainly, sir," he answered, describing an Experiment lately conducted in the Colonies, in which two Simpletons, exact Twins, were induced to live opposite lives, one to spend each Lord's Day praying in Church, the other to profane and fornicate from dawn to dusk, to observe which twin prospered. 

I asked the result of the Experiment, but unhappily it was cancelled  after the godly Twin was struck by Lightning on his way to the Church.

No money yet from Dasmon.

Woke by a knock on the Door. When I opened it, nobody was there, but someone had left a Dog Turd wrapped in a page from the Greatest Weekly Crusader. I can not imagine who would do this thing.

I remained in the House all day, in case Dasmon delivered my Payment, but none came. In my Garret I composed several essays on the Sorry State of the Publick Finances, on Why Master Johnson who wants to be Mayor Should be Confined to Bedlam, and on the Youth of Today living gilded lives.

I shall place them in the Morrow.

Buried the Dog Turd in the Tulip patch.

Lord's Day.

To St Bride's, where the Priest gave a dull sermon on the evils of Coffee. Then to the New Cheshire Cheese where, to my great pleasure, I saw an edition of the Greatest Weekly Crusader of Truth. Usually this publication is given over to Lecherous tittle about the Executions of Ann Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scotts & other Royal Ladies, but today the front page says in large type "Exclufive revelation: My Wife Hath No Nose. For a Wholly True and Exhaustive Account, pray turn to pages 3, 4, 5 & 6."

I paid the Pot Boy 1 shilling for my own copy, and took it with Haste to the Prospect of Whitby, that I might show the Landlord and his Wife.

While I was waiting for them, two Young Gentlemen walked in and said in loud voices.
"How now, Sir, my Wife has no nose."
"If that be the case, Sir, then how does she smell?"
"Why Sir, at this time in the month, perfect foul."

Judging it best to absent myself, I took coach to the St Paul's tavern, then home for a good dinner of donkey shank & boiled turnips.

Item: to purchase of Grt Wkly Crusader, 1sh.

Woke by my Wife, inquiring about the Corpse in the front room. I sent for the Barber Surgeons, but when they made to carry off Hamboyo he groaned, and they would not take him. By and by he recovered sufficiently to leave on his own feet.

Received a letter from my Son Horatio, who tells me he has changed disciplines at the University, in order to study Mathematiks and Physik under Prof Newton. I am much displeased. These modern so-called subjects are a complete waste of time. To flourish in the knowledge economy of the 18th century a young man needs a firm grounding in the Media Studies, viz Rhetoric & Greek. Horatio also asked me for 5 guineas, which I shall refuse.
 
Scolded the maid Eliza for allowing the Bluebell to wilt. She says the neighbour's cat pissed upon it, but I think it might have been Hamboyo.

I am cert the Tulip is a Bluebell, but it looks quite fine.

Up and to Humphry's Coffee House in  Mary le Bone, to hear Master Piston declaim on the Ruin facing the Bankers, who have lent all their gold to Spendthrifts & Rakes, but Piston's voice made my head ache. Thence to Southwark where I did visit Dasmon's printing Works to check the Proofs of my essay My Wife Has No Nose. The Works was deserted save for an idle 'prentice, who told me his name was Michael Fokkinmouse. When I left to go, I found my best coat stained black with ink.
 
To my Lady Charlotte's house for a fine dinner of spiced Chicken & Custard Pudding, in the company of several Gentlemen, among them Master Hamboyo, a great Wit with whom I took several bottles of strong Sack. It being late o'the Clock, and our lady tiring of our Company, we made to a Popish wine shop in So Ho, where Hamboyo fell down in the street. Thinking him dead, I engaged a Sedan to carry him to my house, though the Chair Men complained mightily, and laid him out in the front room.

And so to bed.
 

Her Majesty's First Minister is sail'd for the Colonies.

Woke before dawn with a sore head because of the bad Eels, and in the Privy made several loud Fartes, then spent some time at my desk writing the first chapter of  Living Death in the Counting House, which I have neglected of late.

To the Eagle in Farringdon to propose more essays to the Social Sentinel, but Bullrush and Mistress McCash were busy with their bankers, counting money to send to the Cannibal Isles.

Thence to the Coach & Horses, where a gentleman was soliciting contributions for a new sheet to contain intelligence of the newest entertainments & fashions &c, to be posted on all the city's walls. He said he is unable to pay now, though hopes to in the future. I spat in his Ale, while his back was turned.

Home, where my daughter Lucie asked who was playing the Trumpet this morning. I do not know where she learns these bad manners.

The Tulip is flowering, though looks much like a Bluebell.

Up betimes and inspected the new tulip, which has a blue bud, not red as I ordered. Told the maid Eliza to keep a good watch on it, in case it is a rare specimen.

To the Royal Society in order to begin work undisturbed on Bulstrode's Handbill, but distracted by several gentlemen, among them Peregrine Prynne, arguing loudly about global cooling, a phenomenon occasioned by excessive exhalations of woodsmoke &c into the ether.

Thence to the Porpentine, the Lamb & Flag, the Coal Hole and the Coach and Horses and Farringdon, where I offered to write Master Sattupon an essay on Why oh Why this Man Johnson Will be a Disaster if Appointed Mayor. It seems Sattupon already has contributions on this theme.

Home at dusk, whereupon opening the door I heard Bulstrode's voice from the Parlour.  Remembering I had not yet composed his Handbill, I ran up to my Garret, put Quill to Paper and Scribed several short Paragraphs on the Excellence of his Periwigges. Bulstrode pronounced himself much pleased. I assured him that is the benefit of employing a Professional.

Bulstrode is much exercised by the threat to Publick Safety from Hugenots and other Foreigners, however as they work 20 hours a day for 6d a week he is not displeased to employ them in the making of Periwigges.

For dinner, a fine Eel and Cheese pie, though the Eels a little past their best.

Up, and to my desk to begin writing the Handbill for my brother in law Bulstrode, but instead spent the morning sharpening pens and then writing to my son Horatio, from whom I have heard nothing since he departed for the University in January.

When I left the house to deliver it to the Post, I noticed that the Tulip I planted this inst. is sprouted, though no Flower yet.

Later to Buck's coffee house in the Strand, where I heard word of a great fire in the Smith Field, apparently starting at the Saracen's Head which is razed to the ground. Sent note to Prynne suggesting in future we meet at the Hope & Anchor.

Master Alstopp, a notorious Blasphemer, is appointed editor of the Indulgence, a dismal anabaptist sheet much given to accounts of the impending Apocalypse. Alstopp lately fought a Duel with Bullrush, editor of the Social Sentinel, though both Pistols, being charged with damp squibs, hung fire.

Home to a fine dish of rabbit brains, which my daughter Lucie did refuse. I am cert the girl is taking coffee. My wife told me Bulstrode dines with us in the morrow, and will expect to see his Handbill complete. I told her the task was poised 'twixt inspiration and perspiration.

My Lord Digby to be beheaded for Treason.
 

Up betimes, and made to Southwark where I did hand my composition to Master Dasmon. Thought best not to mention the Drinks Reckonying from our last meeting lest he thinks me Cheape. The real-life story "My Wife Has No Nose" will appear on Sunday.

To the Wing & Pen, the Seven Starres and the New Cheshire Cheese to take a morning draught in each, and advise the landlords to buy extra copies of Dasmon's Greatest Weekly Crusader of Truth.

At the Saracen's Head I met Perergine Prynne, lately returned from the Colonies. He is engaged in the study of Natural Philosophy and, after several bottles of Sack, set to show me with the help of Phosphorous, Sulphur and flammable Spirit an experimental proof for the existence of Phlogiston. Unfortunately the table took fire, so we departed in a hurry.

Home late O'the Clock.

The Parliament is debating consigning Papists to the Tower for 42 years. The world is gone mad. Why oh why can we not burn them, as in the days of Good Queen Bess? I shall write on this topick tomorrow.

Up betimes and  to my  Garret,  where I  told my wife to confine me 'til  I finish  writing my composition for Dasmon's Greatest Weekly Crusader. At about eleven O' the clock, feeling sore in the wrist and buttocks and in need of a morning draught, I ventured down the stairs, but my Wife told me back again, with the help of my old army Pike.

At noon she did pass some bread & water by the door, saying that is what we shall be accustomed to eating lest I produce some work.

By and by I did finish the Essay, which I think quite fine. I shall deliver it to Dasmon in the Morrow. For supper a fine Oyster Pie cooked in the Publick Oven, and a Rice Pudding. I found a bottle of dark Wine left over from the Christmas Feast which we shared and were much content.

Lucie has begun dance lessons, at a school she says is called "So Random". I do not think that is the real name. 

At breakfast my wife asked when I am to begin my work as a Writer, Liza the Maid being cold in the Dog House.  I was able to tell her I had my first high-pay Commission this day, and took coach to the Prospect of Whitby where, after some trouble, I persuaded the landlord's Wife to come forth. She told me at some length how her nose came to drop off, and I wrote it all down in a short hand note. Gave her 10sh in advance of the fee.

To the Black Friar to call on Sattupon, but unable to gain entrance owing to the mob baying for Mistress Fowlmouth to be burnt at the Stake.

Home, to find a note from my Brother in Law Bulstrode, asking me to compose some handbills for his shops. I shall do it to please my wife, but first I set to writing the Landlady's story. It will be called "My Wife Has No Nose," and I am cert will jerk many tears.

To the George in Southwark where I met one Dick Dasmon, publisher of the Greatest Weekly Crusader of Truth as well as Maids of Araby, Aristotle's Master Piece, &c. Dasmon  vouchsafed he would pay £5.0s.0d for the sole and exclusive story of the Landlord's wife who has lost her nose, then departed  in haste accompanied by some Lawyers, leaving me to settle the Reckoning.

Thence to the Corney & Barrow where many ladies and gentlemen were rushing to buy copies of a Folio bearing details of the Great Undertaking. I handed over my shilling, but it proved to be an invitation to a meeting at St Paul's Tavern in Brewery St in the morrow.

Later, to the Guild Hall, where I met my wife and her brother Bulstrode, who owns a Periwig shop in Cheapside and another in Palace Yard. A fiery Debate between My Lords Livingstone and Johnson about who is best suited to be Mayor, also a gentleman called Paddock, in pink hose.

Bulstrode favours Johnson. As he was paying for dinner, I kept my counsel.

Item: to ales & Port wine with Dick Dasmon, 17 shillings




 

It being Monday, by coach to Tyburn with my wife and daughter to watch the hangings. A great crowd in attendance hoping to witness the despatch of Mistress Hither, the one-legged witch of Kintyre, but she is not yet condemn'd, so only a few thieves, Moors &c  were turned off the cart.

I picked up a handbill inviting me to subscribe to shares in a  Patent of Great Value, though no one to know what it is. More information will be forthcoming tomorrow at the sign of the Corney & Barrow by London Bridge.

To the White Harte for a dinner of goat trotters and a gallon of Sack, which Lucie did refuse. I am much afraid she is taking to coffee drinking. My wife does not believe me, saying she is but fourteen years old, but I read in Dacre's Daily Wail of children as young as nine or ten taking up the habit.

Home, and to my new life as a Free Lancing Hacking Writer. No immediate commission being to hand, I began work on Living Death in the Counting House, which I am determin'd to publish as a Book, but the candle light gave me a headache so I made early to bed.



 

Woke by shrieks in the pantry. Certain that a Papist mob had come for us, I armed myself with my old army pike, dagger and fowling piece and ventured down stairs to find Eliza the maid screaming that some supernatural beast had entered in the night, left tracks all round the walls and evaporated without trace.

I took fright at first but on inspection with my pike the tracks proved to be the paste I spread on the cracks yester evening.

To church in the snow storm for a dull sermon, the Vicar preaching on avarice and putting our faith in houses built on sand, for what goeth up will surely come down. My Lord Chancellor should be told of this scare mongering talk.

Home and a fine dish of pigeons for supper, afterward I sat at my new desk and arranged my papers &c to begin my new life of writing in the morn.

Felix Dunce has confessed to murder, but no one can say who is killed.

Up and by coach to the Norse Svensson's warehouse on the River Lea where I bought a fine desk, a pane of glass and some paste for fixing. Also a good dish of Elk balls for dinner. What they do with the rest of the animal I did not ask.
 
The desk was packed flat in a crate but even so was not easy to fit in the coach, though my wife professed to be much expert on the subject. By and by we took off the coach doors, fixed all with string and got safe home, whereupon I fell to setting up the desk in my writing garret, lately the maid Eliza's room (she now to sleep in the dog house).

The instructions being hard to understand, this job was not easy. By and by I found I had built the desk inside out, but it will suffice.

Indeed I write these very words at it now.

After supper of more Elk balls I fixed the new glass in the counter pane, making a neat job even though it was now quite dark. There being much paste to spare, I used it up filling the mouse holes, plaster cracks &c in the pantry.
Sat for a while at my new desk sharpening quills &c, and then to bed.

Up, and to Boot the Apothecary for brimstone and quicksalver to cure my sore head. To the office, where Sweetmeat said many  things about my industry and ability, though it was hard  to speak with  him because he mixed me with Tom Fyrde, the scrivener's deputy, and could say naught  but "You're Fyrde!" I stopped him by saying I was leaving his employ to seek fortune as a hacking writer whereupon he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and blew at the ceiling. The Lord preserve him from the shock, and his Counting House from the loss of its sole hard-working servant.

Thence to the Prospect of Whitby, where I learned the Landlord's wife has lost her nose to the scrofula. This will make a good topick for the Weekly Courier of Truth, so I swear him to secrecy on promise of a half share in the payment.

Home, where my wife was distant, busying herself in the scullery with Liza the maid. For supper, only a salt cod. Though I am sure I have done no wrong, for a treat I promised to take my family on Monday to the Tyburn hangings.  My daughter Lucie is mighty excited but says she needs a new face spot for the occasion.

Mem: To replace counter pane, also buy desk and pens & c for writing. 

Obadiah Snapp's body has been stolen, probably by the barber surgeons.

Up betimes and to the Black Friar's to collect my money from Free is Comment. The Inn yard is full of men in masks throwing eggs  at a lady I learn to be one Mistress Toybeam. Sattupon told  me my essay caused there to be a riot yesterday, with many windows broken, and gave me £1. Asked him if he would print an essay on Why oh why this man Johnson is a scoundrel and poltroon and he said he would take a look at it.

To the Cheshire Cheese, the Seven Stars, the Porcupine, the French Man and the Coach & Horses. Home late o'the clock, to find my wife already gone to bed.

Seeing the tulip not yet flowered, I tried to dig up the bulb but could not find it.

Woke by sound of breaking glass and found someone had thrown a stone through my 3 shilling counterpane. A masked man was running up the street, so I discharged my Fowling Piece at him but only hit the neighbour's chimney.
To the office, where Sweetmeat is training his new apprentices by chaining them to a bench after breakfast and shouting at them while giving a good flogging. These modern methods are soft ; in my day it was all before breakfast.

Tulip not flowered yet.

Item: to repairing neighbour's chimney pot, 1/6d

Tulip not yet flowered.

Up and to the office, where Sweetmeat was discharging  the 'prentice for being a waste of space. 

There being little counting to be done, I spent the  morning composing an essay  entitl'd Living  Death in the Counting House, which my ambition is to Publish.

At  dinner time  went to  the  Eagle in  Farringdon where to  my  great pleasure saw that  my  essay on  the  Lord Mayor  is in print,  though  under a title about  Sodomites and  Moors. I shall tell  Sattupon of  the mistake, but only  after he pays me.

I bought a copy of the broadsheet to show to my wife, and daughter Lucie. At supper, I announced that henceforth I shall quit the Counting House to earn my living by my Pen and my Wits. My wife asked me if my decision had anything to do with the legacy we have lately received from her late Uncle Horace. My daughter asked if Writers mix with celebrated actors and singers. I sent her to bed.

Obadiah Snapp to be interr'd in the bone hill, as a dissenter.

 

Obadiah Snapp is dead of the Great Pox, he owing me 4d.

A day of significance. I took my morning draught in the  Black Friar's by the Fleet River, where I did meet several gentlemen, among them, one Sattupon, who is editor of Free is Comment, a news handbill much talked about. I showed my essay Why oh Why this man Livingstone is JNo Longer fit to be Lord Mayor, which I happened to have in my coat pocket, and straight away he agreed to set it in print.

Thence to the Saracen's Head, the Mitre and the Anchor and Hope, in the end arriving at Master Sweetmeat's Counting House, where I am presently engaged as a clerk, too late for any work of the day.

On my  way home, called at Snapp's to pay condolence to his widow and ask about my 4d. Bought a Tulip bulb for my Wife, which I planted in the yard, there to make a garden in the Dutch fashion.

A good ox-bladder for supper. And so to bed.