P.S.--The Bo'sun assures me the moon will last another week.
This Postscript Master Barnabas must needs read three times over,
and then, quick and furtive, press the letter to his lips ere he
thrust it into his bosom, and opened and read the Captain's: The Gables,
Hawkhurst.
Written in the Round-house, June 29, 18--.
MY DEAR BEVERLEIGH,--How is Fashion and the
Modish World? as trivial as usual, I'll warrant me. The
latest sensation, I believe, is Cossack Trousers,--have
you tried 'em yet? But to come to my mutton, as the
Mounseers say.
The Duchess of Camberhurst, having honored my
house with her presence--and consequently set it in an
uproar, I am constantly running foul of her, though
more often she is falling aboard of me. To put it plainly,
what with cross-currents, head-seas, and shifting winds
that come down suddenly and blow great guns from every
point of the compass, I am continually finding myself
taken all a-back, as it were, and since it is quite
impossible to bring to and ride it out, am consequently
forced to go about and run for it, and continually pooped,
even then,--for a woman's tongue is, I'm sure, worse
than any following sea.
Hence, my sweet Clo, with her unfailing solicitude
for me, having observed me flying signals of distress, has
contrived to put it into my head that your presence might
have a calming effect. Therefore, my dear boy, if you
can manage to cast off the grapples of the Polite World
for a few days, to run down here and shelter a battered
old hulk under your lee, I shall be proud to have you as
my guest.
Yours faithfully to serve, JOHN CHUMLY.
P.S.--Pray bring your valet; you will need him, her
Grace insists on dressing for dinner. Likewise my Trafalgar
coat begins to need skilled patching, here and there;
it is getting beyond the Bo'sun.
MY DEAR MR. BEVERLEY,--The country down here,
though delightfully Arcadian and quite idyllic (hayricks
are so romantic, and I always adored cows--in pictures),
is dreadfully quiet, and I freely confess that I generally
prefer a man to a hop-pole (though I do wear a wig), and
the voice of a man to the babble of brooks, or the trill of
a skylark,--though I protest, I wouldn't be without
them (I mean the larks) for the world,--they make me
long for London so.
Then again, the Captain (though a truly dear soul,
and the most gallant of hosts) treats me very much as
though I were a ship, and, beside, he is so dreadfully
gentle.
As for Cleone, dear bird, she yawns until my own
eyes water (though, indeed, she has very pretty teeth),
and, on the whole, is very dutiful and quarrels with me
whenever I wish. 'T is quite true she cannot play chess;
she also, constantly, revokes at Whist, and is quite as
bad-tempered over it as I am. Cards, I fear, are altogether
beyond her at present,--she is young. Of course time may
change this, but I have grave doubts. In this deplorable
situation I turn to you, dear Mr. Beverley (Cleone knew
your address, it seems), and write these hasty lines to
ntreat,--nay, to command you to come and cheer our solitude.
Cleone has a new gown she is dying to wear, and I have
much that you must patiently listen to, so that I may
truly subscribe myself' Your grateful friend, FANNY CAMBERURST.