Dear Cowden,—Your books are as the gushing of streams in a desert. By the way, you have sent no autobiographies. Your letter seems to imply you had. Nor do I want any. Cowden, they are of the books which I give away. What damn’d Unitarian skewer-soul’d things the general biographies turn out. Rank and Talent you shall have when Mrs. May has done with ’em. Mary likes Mrs. Bedinfield much. For me I read nothing but Astrea—it has turn’d my brain—I go about with a switch turn’d up at the end for a crook; and Lambs being too old, the butcher tells me, my cat follows me in a green ribband. Becky and her cousin are getting pastoral dresses, and then we shall all four go about Arcadizing. O cruel Shepherdess! Inconstant yet fair, and more inconstant for being fair! Her gold ringlets fell in a disorder superior to order!
Come and join us.
I am called the Black Shepherd—you shall be Cowden with the Tuft.
Prosaically, we shall be glad to have you both,—or any two of you—drop in by surprise some Saturday night.
