ery
master owes to a good servant.

He has not done cursing him yet; for stalking about the court-yard with
his boots on, (the poor fellow dressing his horse, and unable to get from
him,) he is at him without mercy; and I will heighten his impatience,
(since being just under the window where I am writing, he will not let me
attend to my pen,) by telling you how he fills my ears as well as the
fellow's, with his--Hay, Sir! And G--d d--n ye, Sir! And were ye my
servant, ye dog ye! And must I stay here till the mid-day sun scorches
me to a parchment, for such a mangy dog's drunken neglect?--Ye lie,
Sirrah!--Ye lie, I tell you--[I hear the fellow's voice in an humble
excusatory tone, though not articulately] Ye lie, ye dog!--I'd a good
mind to thrust my whip down your drunken throat: d--n me, if I would not
flay the skin from the back of such a rascal, if thou wert mine, and have
dog's-skin gloves made of it, for thy brother scoundrels to wear in
remembrance of thy abuses of such a master.

The poor horse suffers for this, I doubt not; for, What now! and, Stand
still, and be d--d to ye, cries the fellow, with a kick, I suppose, which
he better deserves himself; for these varlets, where they can, are
Mowbrays and Lovelaces to man or beast; and not daring to answer him, is
flaying the poor horse.

I hear the fellow is just escaped, the horse, (better curried than
ordinary, I suppose, in half the usual time,) by his clanking shoes, and
Mowbray's silence, letting me know, that I may now write on: and so, I
will tell thee that, in the first place, (little as I, as well as you,
regard dreams,) I would have thee lay thine to heart; for I could give
thee such an interpretation of it, as would shock thee, perhaps; and if
thou askest me for it, I will.

Mowbray calls to me from the court-yard, that 'tis a cursed hot day, and
he shall be fried by riding in the noon of it: and that poor Belton longs
to see me. So I will only add my earnest desire, that you will give over
all thoughts of seeing the lady, if, when this comes to your hand, you
have not seen her: and, that it would be kind, if you'd come, and, for
the last time you will ever see your poor friend, share my concern for
him; and, in him, see what, in a little time, will be your fate and mine,
and that of Mowbray, Tourville, and the rest of us--For what are ten,
fifteen, twenty, or thirty years, to look back to; in the longest of
which periods forward we shall all perh