Why is "Peveril" lingering on my dusty shelves in town, while my fair
cousin and your fair bride remains in blissful ignorance of his merits?
There he is, I grieve to say, but there he shall not be long, for I
shall be visiting my other home on Saturday morning, and will bring him
bodily down and forward him the moment he arrives.
Not having many of my books here, I don't find any among them which I
think more suitable to your purpose than a carpet-bagful sent herewith,
containing the Italian and German novelists (convenient as being easily
taken up and laid down again; and I suppose you won't read long at a
sitting), Leigh Hunt's "Indicator" and "Companion" (which have the same
merit), "Hood's Own" (complete), "A Legend of Montrose," and
"Kenilworth," which I have just been reading with greater delight than
ever, and so I suppose everybody else must be equally interested in. I
have Goldsmith, Swift, Fielding, Smollett, and the British Essayists
"handy;" and I need not say that you have them on hand too, if you like.
You know all I would say from my heart and soul on the auspicious event
of yesterday; but you don't know what I could say about the delightful
recollections I have of your "good lady's" charming looks and bearing,
upon which I discoursed most eloquently here last evening, and at
considerable length. As I am crippled in this respect, however, by the
suspicion that possibly she may be looking over your shoulder while you
read this note (I would lay a moderate wager that you have looked round
twice or thrice already), I shall content myself with saying that I am
ever heartily, my dear Cattermole,
Hers and yours.
P.S.--My man (who with his charge is your man while you stay here) waits
to know if you have any orders for him.
[Sidenote: Mr. J. P. Harley.]
ELM COTTAGE, PETERSHAM, NEAR RICHMOND,
_June 28th, 1839._