“To whom I charge you be dutiful, obedient, and careful in the smallest punctilio. The cheerfulness of the amusements (if Epsom be the same as when I once visited it, when tutor to a young gentleman of quality) should communicate to her spirits something of the joy with which I could now wish her to regard the world. As for yourself, my child, I am under no apprehension but that music, gay companions, and your time of life will together make you as mirthful as is possible for human being. Remember, however, that happiness is but for a season: that mirth must never pass beyond the bound of good manners: and that when a woman is no longer young, the reputation she has earned as a girl remains with her, even to the grave. Wherefore, Kitty, be circumspect. The town news is but little: the (so-styled) young Pretender is said to be moving again, but little importance is now attached to his doings, and for the moment the Protestant dynasty seems firm. But Heaven knows——”
Here followed a quantity of news about the ministers, the Houses of Parliament, the foreign news, and so forth, which I omit.
“I have seen a sermon, published this year by one Laurence Sterne, on ‘Conscience,’ which I would commend to Mrs. Pimpernel. I also commend to you Dr. Samuel Johnson’s ‘Vanity of Human Wishes,’ and the first number of the ‘Rambler,’ of which I hear great things. Mr. Henry Fielding hath produced a novel called ‘Tom Jones,’ of which the town is talking. I mention it here in order that you may be cautioned against a book whose sole merit is the faithful delineation of scenes and characters shocking to the female moralist. For the same reason I would have thee beware of Mr. Smollett’s ‘Peregrine Pickle,’ in which, as a man who knows—alas! the wickedness of the world, I find a great deal to commend.
“The weather has been strangely hot even for July, and fever is rife in this neighbourhood. I hear that the Bishop of London threatens me with pains and penalties. I have sent word to his lordship, that if he will not allow me to marry, I will bury, and that at such prices as will leave his clergy nothing but the fees of the paupers, beggars, and malefactors.
“I think that I have no more news to send. I would that I were able to send thee such tidings as might be looked for in a London letter; but I know not what actor is carrying away all hearts, nor what lady is the reigning toast, nor what is the latest fashion in cardinal, sack, patch, or tie-wig, nor anything at all that is dear to the hearts of an assembly on the Terrace of Epsom. Therefore, with my duty to Mrs. Pimpernel,—I remain, my dear niece, your loving uncle,
“Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity.
“Post Scriptum.—I enclose herewith a short letter of admonition, which thou mayest read by thyself, as such things are not interesting to Mistress Pimpernel.”
“Now,” cried Mrs. Esther, “was there ever such a man? Living in such a place, he preserves his virtue: among such dregs and offscourings of mankind he stands still erect, proclaiming and preaching Christian virtue. O Kitty! why was not that man made a bishop? Sure, there is no other position in the world fit for him. With what eloquence would he defend Christian faith? With what righteous indignation would he not expel evil-doers?”
I did not dare to ask, which of course occurred to me, what indignation he would show against such as violated the law by marrying in the Fleet.
“Now,” I said, “with your permission, madam, I will retire, in order to read my uncle’s private letter of admonition.”