CHAP. X.
LETTER XXX.
From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
Why, my dear Lucy, after such a dearth of intelligence from our dear Horace, did you scruple to open the budget he sent me? You could not imagine, that he could, or would fill nearly a ream of paper with his vows of unalterable love and fidelity. He well knows, that were he to conjugate the verb aimer with all its moods and tenses, I should look only to the present and future. Je vous aime, et je vous aimerai, contents me. You will find in fact that Horace understood this when he sat down to write me a love letter; and that he wisely considered I should be better pleased with the contents of the packet which swelled his dispatches, than by the most elegant display of his talents for a tender epistle.
In the mean time he has been contending with the winds of heaven; but as I know your father has received a bulletin of his health and spirits, I shall only add, that I am happy.
I send you enough to compensate for the brevity of this letter; but I must caution you not to take a fancy to Mr. Oliver Flint; for, although he is in the main a good sort of Flint, compared with some, yet he is a rough pebble by the side of our captain: and I will not permit him to share with his brother the esteem which he merits. Tell my dear Mary not to be distressed about writing to me. Her letters to the good folks at the Abbey are a common banquet, except now and then, when Alice is penurious, and only treats us with scraps. Be it so; she has rights which no one wishes to invade. Mrs. Wilson, who furnished our last treat, poured forth her blessings on Lucy Hardcastle; and with her honest face glowing with rapture, said, "Aye! never tell me that wickedness abounds in the world and if it did, one family as righteous as Mr. Hardcastle's would again save it from destruction."—Farewell.
R. Cowley.