Vanely, before breakfast.
I desire to be informed why you have not written to
me, madam? Has that odious domestic tyrant, Mr. Willie,
forbidden you to correspond with your friends? You may
inform him, with my compliments, that I regard him in the
light of a monster, an ogre, an eastern despot, else he would
not keep the dearest girl in the world down at that horrid
old house in Glo'ster—if it is so fine—when her friends are
dying to see her.
I hear that he runs at your call, and obeys your orders,
and passes all his leisure moments in composing sonnets to
your eyebrows; but I do n't believe it, that is, I would not
if it was not you, dear. He was very humble once when he
was on probation, and I'll never forget his lordship's look
of agony and despair when you gave the jessamine bud to
Tom Alston that day at the ball; but heigho! (that's the
way the romance writers spell a sigh, is n't it?) I do n't
believe any thing of that sort survives the honeymoon—
does it? Before we're married—we're married!—the beaus
are all maccaronies in their dress and manners; and they
rhyme love and dove, sighs and eyes, kiss and bliss, 'till one's
really wearied with them. Then when the odious hypocrites
have worked upon our feelings and entrapped our poor little
hearts, they forget how to rhyme, and behave
abominably.
It is my intention to be an
old maid, which that outrageous
Willie of yours predicts. But I won't!—that's flat!—I'll
get married just to
spite him!
“What a flood of nonsense I've written! but I'm in excellent
spirits this morning, and I never feel ill at my ease
with you, my own precious, darling Kate. It is very good
in you to let a mere child like me take so many liberties
with you. But you know you've raised me; always at
Effingham Hall you made me your companion, young as I
was; and, if I had my arms around your neck now, I'd
squeeze you to death! I would! Please write soon. I
long to hear from you, for I love you dearly—dearly! and
if you do n't write, I'll come down to the Cove and make
you!
“There's little or no news in Prince George; we have
been plagued, as usual, by a crowd of stupid boys, tho' some
nice gentlemen came too. I have had another visit from my
bugbear, that Mr. Lindon, but I do n't think he'll call again
in a hurry. He made me the most insulting speech you can
think; but I returned it with interest. You would have
thought he was bidding for a slave-girl. I gave him my
answer in writing, and he tore it up, and went off in a rage.
He may rage as he pleases.
“Dearest papa has the gout again, but it did not prevent
his going to court the other day, and coming back in high
indignation about the new Act of Parliament—the attack
on our liberties. They think they'll make us slaves, but
they are very much mistaken. I've sealed up all the tea—
and I'd die before I'd drink a drop!
“We all rode to Mr. Bland's the other day, and found
the dear old gentleman home from the Burgesses. His sight
is failing, and he wears a green blind, but there's no finer
gentleman in the world. He made me a beautiful bow and
kissed my cheek. There are very few of the rising generation
like papa, or Squire Effingham, or Mr. Bland.[1]
“The day after, to Cawson's, which is as lovely as ever,
and I think I'll never grow tired looking on the meeting of
the two rivers, the white ships and dipping boughs. Frances
Randolph is there from Matoax, with the baby, who is almost
walking. She is as dark and lovely as ever, and little
Johnny is a wonder of beauty. He's a darling love of a
baby, and has a complexion like a lily with the morning
sun on it! There, madam! what would Mr. Cowley say
of that? I think they ought to have called him Bland,
too, or Effingham, as I'm told a lovely girl, named Kate Effingham,
or Mistress Catherine Effingham, if your ladyship
pleases, stood godmother for him. Simple John Randolph
is too short—do n't you think so? When I took the little
creature in my arms—you know all the babies come at once
to me—he laughed, and crowed, and clapped his hands, looking,
all the time, curiously at me out of his dark piercing
eyes.”[2]
“Give my love to Mr. Willie, and write soon, my precious
Kate. How I love you! Won't you come soon? Do,
there's a dear! Vanely's looking beautiful with green
leaves, and I long to see you, to hear your dear, kind laugh,
and kiss you to my heart's content! Tom Alston said, the
other day, that I reminded him frequently of you. I could
have run and kissed him, I assure you.
“Give oceans of love to everybody, and do n't forget to
kiss the baby for me. Good night, now, my own darling.
Please do n't stop loving your fond
“Bonnybel.
“
Postscript.—Did I mention that his Serene Excellency
and Royal Highness, the Honorable Lieutenant Henry St.
John, Esquire, was here? He has been good enough to
take notice of his small cousin occasionally, and to ride out
with me. On our return from one of these rides, he had
the audacity to take me in his arms! Just to think of his
impudence! but I boxed him soundly! Of course, 't was
in lifting me from the saddle. I fell into the water, coming
back from the “Charming Sally,” and the lieutenant had
the goodness, in putting on my slipper, which I 'd dropped,
to squeeze my foot into a jelly! Just reflect!
to squeeze a
young lady's foot! Was n't it dreadful? He thought himself
mighty fine, I dare say! Odious fellow! not that I
mean to speak ill of him, however. He 's too wholly indifferent
to me for me to take the trouble. By the bye, I
heard something of his paying his addresses to a young lady
from Glo'ster. Is it true? I ask from idle curiosity only—
it is nothing to
me.“Good night, my own dear Kate.
“Your
“Bonnybel.”
