ious,
was, on the contrary, conspicuously loyal. But they always had the
impression that it was only by special licence that they escaped
the criticism that every one else was subjected to. Lady Dorothy
Nevill was a stringent observer, and no respecter of persons. She
carried a bow, and shot at folly as it flew. But I particularly
wish to insist on the fact that her arrows, though they were
feathered, were not poisoned.

Light was thrown on the nature of Lady Dorothy's wit by her
correspondence. She could in no accepted sense be called a good
letter-writer, although every now and then brilliantly amusing
phrases occurred in her letters. I doubt whether she ever wrote one
complete epistle; her correspondence consisted of tumultuous,
reckless, sometimes extremely confused and incorrect notes, which,
however, repeated--for those who knew how to interpret her
language--the characteristics of her talk. She took no pains with
her letters, and was under no illusion about their epistolary
value. In fact, she was far too conscious of their lack of form,
and would sign them, "Your incompetent old friend"; there was
generally some apology for "this ill-written nonsense," or "what
stuff this is, not worth your reading!" She once wrote to me: "I
should like to tell you all about it, but alas! old Horace
Walpole's talent has not descended on me." Unfortunately, that was
true; so far as literary expression and the construction of
sentences went, it had not. Her correspondence could never be given
to the world, because it would need to be so much revised and
expanded and smoothed out that it would no longer be hers at all.

Nevertheless, her reckless notes were always delightful to receive,
because they gave the person to whom they were addressed a
reflection of the writer's mood at the moment. They were ardent and
personal, in their torrent of broken sentences, initials, mis-spelt
names and nouns that had dropped their verbs. They were not so good
as her talk, but they were like enough to it to be highly
stimulating and entertaining; and in the course of them phrases
would be struck out, like sparks from flint, which were nearly as
good, and of the very same quality, as the things she used to say.
She wrote her letters on a fantastic variety of strangely co