Here's a letter of courtship, my dear!—and let me subjoin to it, that if now, or hereafter, I should treat this hideous lover, who is so free with me to my mother, with asperity, and you should be disgusted at it, I shall think you don't give me that preference in your love which you have in mine.
And now, which shall I first give you; the answer of my good mamma; or the dialogue that passed between the widow mother, and the pert daughter, upon her letting the latter know that she had a love-letter?
I think you shall have the dialogue. But let me promise one thing; that if you think me too free, you must not let it run in your head that I am writing of your uncle, or of my mother; but of a couple of old lovers, no matter whom. Reverence is too apt to be forgotten by children, where the reverends forget first what belongs to their own characters. A grave remark, and therefore at your service, my dear.
Well then, suppose my mamma, (after twice coming into my closet to me, and as often going out, with very meaning features, and lips ready to burst open, but still closed, as if by compulsion, a speech going off in a slight cough, that never went near the lungs,) grown more resolute the third time of entrance, and sitting down by me, thus begin:
Mother. I have a very serious matter to talk with you upon, Nancy, when you are disposed to attend to matters within ourselves, and not let matters without ourselves wholly engross you.
A good selve-ish speech!—But I thought that friendship, gratitude, and humanity, were matters that ought to be deemed of the most intimate concern to us. But not to dwell upon words.
Daughter. I am now disposed to attend to every thing my momma is disposed to say to me.
M. Why then, child—why then, my dear—[and the good lady's face looked so plump, so smooth, and so shining!]—I see you are all attention, Nancy!—But don't be surprised!—don't be uneasy!—But I have—I have— Where is it?—[and yet it lay next her heart, never another near it—so no difficulty to have found it]—I have a letter, my dear!—[And out from her bosom it came: but she still held it in her hand]—I have a letter, child.—It is—it is—it is from—from a gentleman, I assure you!— [lifting up her head, and smiling.]
There is no delight to a daughter, thought I, in such surprises as seem to be collecting. I will deprive my mother of the satisfaction of making a gradual discovery.
D. From Mr. Antony Harlowe, I suppose, Madam?