ure, the greatest
part on't is not sense, and yet on my conscience I shall go on with it.
'Tis like people that talk in their sleep, nothing interrupts them but
talking to them again, and that you are not like to do at this distance;
besides that, at this instant you are, I believe, more asleep than I,
and do not so much as dream that I am writing to you. My fellow-watchers
have been asleep too, till just now they begin to stretch and yawn; they
are going to try if eating and drinking can keep them awake, and I am
kindly invited to be of their company; and my father's man has got one
of the maids to talk nonsense to to-night, and they have got between
them a bottle of ale. I shall lose my share if I do not take them at
their first offer. Your patience till I have drunk, and then I'll for
you again.

And now on the strength of this ale, I believe I shall be able to fill
up this paper that's left with something or other; and first let me ask
you if you have seen a book of poems newly come out, made by my Lady
Newcastle? For God's sake if you meet with it send it to me; they say
'tis ten times more extravagant than her dress. Sure, the poor woman is
a little distracted, she could never be so ridiculous else as to venture
at writing books, and in verse too. If I should not sleep this fortnight
I should not come to that. My eyes grow a little dim though, for all the
ale, and I believe if I could see it this is most strangely scribbled.
Sure, I shall not find fault with your writing in haste, for anything
but the shortness of your letter; and 'twould be very unjust in me to
tie you to a ceremony that I do not observe myself. No, for God's sake
let there be no such thing between us; a real kindness is so far beyond
all compliment, that it never appears more than when there is least of
t'other mingled with it. If, then, you would have me believe yours to be
perfect, confirm it to me by a kind freedom. Tell me if there be
anything that I can serve you in, employ me as you would do that sister
that you say you love so well. Chide me when I do anything that is not
well, but then make haste to tell me that you have forgiven me, and that
you are what I shall ever be, a faithful friend.

_Letter 18._--I cannot pass by this letter without saying that the first
part of it is, to my thinking, the most dainty and pleasing piece of
writing that Dorothy has left us. The account of her life, one day and
every day, is like a gust of fresh