On my conscience, I shall follow your counsel if e’er he comes again, but I am persuaded he will not.  I writ my brother that story for want of something else, and he says I did very well, there was no other way to be rid on him; and he makes a remark upon’t that I can be severe enough when I please, and wishes I would practise it somewhere else as well as there.  Can you tell where that is?  I never understand anybody that does not speak plain English, and he never uses that to me of late, but tells me the finest stories (I may apply them how I please) of people that have married when they thought there was great kindness, and how miserably they have found themselves deceived; how despicable they have made themselves by it, and how sadly they have repented on’t.  He reckons more inconveniency than you do that follows good nature, says it makes one credulous, apt to be abused, betrays one to the cunning of people that make advantage on’t, and a thousand such things which I hear half asleep and half awake, and take little notice of, unless it be sometimes to say that with all these faults I would not be without it.  No, in earnest, nor I could not love any person that I thought had it not to a good degree.  ’Twas the first thing I liked in you, and without it I should never have liked anything.  I know ’tis counted simple, but I cannot imagine why.  ’Tis true some people have it that have not wit, but there are at least as many foolish people I have ever observed to be fullest of tricks, little ugly plots and designs, unnecessary disguises, and mean cunnings, which are the basest qualities in the world, and makes one the most contemptible, I think; when I once discover them they lose their credit with me for ever.  Some will say they are cunning only in their own defence, and that there is no living in this world without it; but I cannot understand how anything more is necessary to one’s own safety besides a prudent caution; that I now think is, though I can remember when nobody could have persuaded me that anybody meant ill when it did not appear by their words and actions.  I remember my mother (who, if it may be allowed me to say it) was counted as wise a woman as most in England,—­when she seemed to distrust anybody, and saw I took notice on’t, would ask if I did not think her too jealous and a little ill-natured.  “Come, I know you do,” says she, “if you would confess it, and I cannot blame you.  When I was young as you are, I thought my father-in-law (who was a wise man) the most unreasonably suspicious man that ever was, and disliked him for it hugely; but I have lived to see it is almost impossible to think people worse than they are, and so will you.”  I did not believe her, and less, that I should have more to say to you than this paper would hold.  It shall never be said I began another at this time of night, though I have spent this idly, that should have told you with a little more circumstance how perfectly

I am yours.