you no wen lady manners is absent, a certin person allways givs a good rowt:—and i had a card in coarse. i went verry ginteel, my cloke cost i wont say wot, and a hat and fethers to match. but it warnt to be. after takin off my things, i had barely set down, wen at the front dore there cums a dubble nock without any end to it, and a ring of the bell at the saim time, like a triangle keepin cumpany with a big drum. as soon as the door were opened a man with a pail face asked for the buckits, and that was the fust news we had of the fire. oh mary, never trust to the mail sects! they are all alick from the botcher and backer that flurts at the front dore, down to the deer dissevers you throw away yure arts upon. for all their fine purfessions, they are only filling your ears with picrust, they make trifles of yure afections, and destroy yure comfits for life. they think no moore of parjuring themselvs then i do of sweeping the earth. if yure wise you will sit yure face agin all menkind and luv nonsense, as i meen to in futer, or may be, wen you are dreeming of brid cake and wite fevers, you may find yureself left with nothink but breeches of prommis. john futman is a proof in pint. menny tims ive give him a hiding at number fore, and he all

[pg 74]

ways had the best of the lardur at our stolin meatings, and god nose ive offun alloud him to idelize me wen i ort to have bean at my wurks, besides larning to rite for his sack. twenty housis afire ort not to hav abaited his warmth, insted of witch to jump up at the fust allurm and run away, leaving me to make my hone shifts. a treu luver wood have staid to shear my fat. o mary, if ever there was a terryfickle spectikle that was won. flams before and flams behind, and flams overhead. sich axing and hollowing out, and mobbing and pumpin, and cussing and swaring, and the peple’s rushes into the hous purvented all gitting out. for my hone parts, i climed up the dresser, and skreeked, but nobbody was man enuff to purtect. men ant what they was. i am sick of the retches! it used to be femails fust, but now its furniter. i fully thort one gintleman was comin to cotch me up in arms, but he prefered the fish kettle. as for the sogers they marcht off to the wind seller and the pantry, ware they maid beleave to preserve the gusberry gam. how i was reskewd at last lord nose, for my hed was unsensible tell i found meself setten on the pickid pinted ralings of st. margret’s church, with my fethers all frizzild, and a shew off. but of all lossis, my ridicule was most serius, for it had my puss in it.

how and ware it broke out is a mistery. sum say both howses was under minded. sum say the common members got over heatid in there fluency. a grate deal of property was burned, in spit of lord allthorp, who ingaged every cotch, cab, and gobbing porter as conveyancers. westmunster may thenk his lordship it did not lose its all. they say the lords and communs was connectid with a grate menny historicle associashuns, wich of coarse will hav to make good all dammage.

fortnately, the speker’s mornin, noon, and evning services of plait was not at home, or it mite hav sufferd, for they say goold and silver as stud the fire verry well, melted down when it got

[pg 75]

furthur off. tauking of plait a gentilman, who giv his card, mr. william soames, were verry kind and partickler in his inquerries efter mr. speker’s vallybles. i hope he will hav a place givn him for his indevvers.

ware the poor burnt-out creturs will go noboddy nose. sum say exter hall, sum say the refudge for the destitut, and sum say the king will lend them his bensh to set upon! all i no is, i’ve had a frite that will go with me to my grave. i am allways snifing fire by day and dreeming on it by nite. ony last fryday i allarmd the hole naberhood by screaching out of winder for the warter to be plugged up. liting fires, or striking lite, or making tindur, throes me into fits.