Finding nothing important to my history during the course of several
weeks’ correspondence, so punctually maintained by Miss Cowley, I have
suppressed a few letters, to avoid the censure of prolixity.
Amongst the causes assigned in her letters at this time for her
dejection of mind, she mentions the absence of her friends from the
Abbey, who, it appears, were on an excursion to Hartley-Pool, a
bathing-place not very remote from them. She dwells, however, with much
more inquietude on the condition of Miss Howard. She observes, that her
uncle’s absence has still more lessened these observances of civility
which Miss Flint had practised. Her indignation daily augments, by
perceiving Lady Maclairn’s increasing reserve on the subject of Miss
Howard’s unworthy treatment.—“To what purpose serve her downcast eyes
and varying colour,” writes Miss Cowley, “when at table she hears Miss
Flint tell the servant, that _Mary’s_ plate needs no change? The very
footman blushes. Why does she not insist on every one’s equality at her
table? Surely, Lucy, the Gospel does not recommend with the spirit of
peace, an insensibility to oppression! It is, however, too much for me
to witness; and I am determined to have some conversation with Captain
Flint when he returns. Something shall be done to mitigate this poor
girl’s sufferings. I suspect she dares not complain to her uncle. I will
do it for her, and trust to the event. I disdain that humanity which
shrinks from active service, and can quiet its feelings by exhalting its
sighs in _useless pity_ and _fretful censures_.”—“But,” adds she,
renewing her wonted spirit, “I am called to order. My dear Mrs. Allen is
sounding in my ears her direful predictions in regard to girls who love
scribbling better than sleep, and sentiment better than roast beef. As
pale faces bring up the rear of the evils she has mustered to frighten
me, I will be docile, though to tell you the truth, her brow of tender
solicitude has subdued me. How often have I drawn on her treasures of
health! how often has she relinquished repose in order to watch over my
infant wailings, and sickly frowardness! Never shall a care reach that
bosom on which my head has rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to
bed. What an age it is since you have had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy,
you must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is discontented with herself,
though always your