But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking--when the waters are ebbing, and the horizon a mystery? This state of things has been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a favourite with you. So when you and Marianne club your letter to me put in a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he left a Pheasant or Partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of game for next season--tell him to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the Lord--of the Manor. Tell him to shoot fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in a furrow--when they are flying, he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser. Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and that, had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with her house and furniture--drawn a great harrow over her garden--poisoned Boxer--eaten her clothes-pegs--fried her cabbages--fricaseed (how is it spelt?) her radishes--ragout'd her Onions--belaboured her _beat_-root--outstripped her scarlet-runners--parlez-vous'd with her french-beans--devoured her mignon or mignionette--metamorphosed her bell-handles--splintered her looking-glasses--bullocked at her cups and saucers--agonised her decanters--put old Phillips to pickle in the brine-tub--dis_organ_ised her piano--dislocated her candlesticks--emptied her wine-bins in a fit of despair--turned out her maid to grass--and astonished Brown; whose letter to her on these events I would rather see than the original Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you see Mr. W. D.[25] remember me to him, and to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr. Snook. Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased that I am writing to you. To your brother John (whom henceforth I shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights me in the selfish and (please God) the disinterested part of my disposition. If the old Poets have any pleasure in looking down at the enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and pray that if, after my death, any of my labours should be worth saving, they may have so "honest a chronicler" as Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind--worthy a more healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to come--"he shall not die by God."