Again must the reader be contented with my pen, in order to supply the
interrupted course of Miss Cowley’s letters.
From the period already described the lovers were left to their own
discretion, and the direction of Counsellor Steadman; who, availing
himself of Mr. Sinclair’s information, decidedly supported them in
their attachment; and, in the words of the fond father, “became a
teacher of doctrines, which had silenced his authority, if they had not
convinced his conscience.” As this was said with an acquiescent smile,
it was understood. Besides this no other consequence resulted from Mr.
Sinclair’s letter, as Miss Cowley gave her lover to understand, that
she meant not to marry till Mr. Flamall’s power had ceased. She urged
this point with her usual disinterested spirit. “I will be mistress
of myself and my fortune,” said she, “and manifest to the world my
own judgment, in selecting a man worthy of both. I can be as proud as
Mr. Hardcastle, and I can have my scruples: my husband shall not lose
an ample inheritance, because a girl is impatient to bear his name.
We shall be happy; in the mean time, you my Horace are engaged in the
sacred duties of friendship: persevere, and rest assured of Rachel
Cowley’s faith and love.”
It is to be regretted, that, from motives of delicacy, Mr.
Hardcastle’s letters are not permitted to appear; and I cannot but
lament that so fair an opportunity escapes me of confuting an opinion,
so boldly and erroneously asserted, that “a man in love must write like
a fool.” Had no impediment been opposed to my wishes, I could have
produced incontestible proofs, that love and nonsense have no natural
affinity. Horace Hardcastle’s understanding was neither enslaved by
beauty, nor the dupe of a youthful inclination; nor was Miss Cowley the
child of vanity. Rhapsody and flattery were equally useless to their
rational views and virtuous attachment. The hopes of meriting each
other’s esteem imparted to their language the simplicity of truth and
the unstudied graces of nature. The tribute of Horace’s admiration was
directed to the cultivating the taste and forming the judgment of the
woman he loved; and Miss Cowley, with a well-grounded confidence in
his _principles_, as well as in his superior advantages in learning,
assiduously profited from the lessons of a guide too honest to betray,
and too quick-sighted to be betrayed.
Rational love-letters, in a novel, might, perhaps, with some sort
of readers, have been deemed an equivalent for the absence of the
marvellous; and sensible as I am and must be of the deficiency of
my work in this respect, I have urged my request with persevering
importunity, although without success. To my plea, that Mr.
Hardcastle’s letters would, at least, give _novelty_ to my _novel_,
I am told, that a lover with his eyes open would be the disgrace of
a circulating library, and the utter ruin of the writer’s fame as
a novelist; and in reply to the obvious defect of a work stripped
of its essential support, I am advised humbly to request my young
female readers, to supply this deficiency by reading their own
billet-doux, which, I am assured, will give all the interest to
the work so anxiously desired. “Be contented with the title of a
faithful historian, though perhaps to some, a dull story teller,”
added Mr. Hardcastle. “You have, in my opinion, said enough of your
heroine to convince your readers that she could not love a fool or a
coxcomb. Leave me to the enjoyment of this conviction. I am as little
qualified for the hero of a popular novel, as you are for writing a
fashionable one. With the materials before you, you may produce an
offering to common sense; but my letters would neither lull to sleep
a craving imagination, nor excite the sensibility of any ‘Miss Lydia
Languish.’ They were dictated by truth and sincerity, and addressed
to a reasonable being. My glory is confined to one conclusion; and
the conqueror of worlds is unenvied! Horace Hardcastle was beloved by
a virtuous woman; and that woman was Rachel Cowley! Surely this will
satisfy your readers! If it does not, I pity them; nor can your honest
heart reform them.” I gave up the contest; for his manly face glowed
with conscious worth, and contented ambition. Having again found the
thread of my narrative, I once more re-assume my pleasing task.