You will smile, remembering how
little my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but as
Chaulieu so prettily says--I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment
is this--"although concealed by a sylvan wall of leaves, impenetrable--(he
is pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys and intricacies of a
rustic labyrinth)--yet, your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint
and far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen
smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so,
though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;"--and such is my case.
'One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made to
me. The Book of Life--the fountain of life--it must be drunk of, night and
morning, or their spiritual life expires.
'And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with all
assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me ever
yours affectionately.
'SILAS RUTHYN.'
Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile--
'And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymester
in his alley, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfect
liberty, and a peremptory order to return in a week;--all illustrating one
another.
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