when I have done; the best on’t is ’twill be no great loss to you if you do not, for, sure, 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 country air clearing away the mist of time and enabling one to see Dorothy at Chicksands quite clearly.  It is fashionable to deny Macaulay everything but memory; but he had the good taste and discernment to admire this letter, and quote from it in his Essay on Sir William Temple,—­a quotation for which I shall always remain very grateful to him.