_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.