, might not Falstaff mean the Bow Street officer? I dare say Malone's posthumous edition will have it so) for life.
Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I journeyed by night—no incident, or accident, but an alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I believe, flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a glow-worm in the second figure of number XIX—mistaking it for a footpad and dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to a pair of new pistols wherewith I had armed him; and he thought it necessary to display his vigilance by calling out to me whenever we passed any thing—no matter whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a fearfully long letter. This
must be blank, and is merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabellarians
of the post from peeping. You once complained of my
not
writing;—I will "heap coals of fire upon your head" by
not
complaining of your