know him very well) that nothing tempted my cousin Osborne to marry his lady (so much) as that she was an Earl’s daughter; which methought was the prettiest fancy, and had the least of sense in it, of any I had heard on, considering that it was no addition to her person, that he had honour enough before for his fortune, and how little it is esteemed in this age,—­if it be anything in a better,—­which for my part I am not well satisfied in.  Beside that, in this particular it does not sound handsomely.  My Lady Bridget Osborne makes a worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain my Lady Osborne would do.

I have been studying how Tom Cheeke might come by his intelligence, and I verily believe he has it from my cousin Peters.  She lives near them in Essex, and in all likelihood, for want of other discourse to entertain him withal, she has come out with all she knows.  The last time I saw her she asked me for you before she had spoke six words to me; and I, who of all things do not love to make secrets of trifles, told her I had seen you that day.  She said no more, nor I neither; but perhaps it worked in her little brain.  The best on’t is, the matter is not great, for though I confess I had rather nobody knew it, yet ’tis that I shall never be ashamed to own.

How kindly do I take these civilities of your father’s; in earnest, you cannot imagine how his letter pleased me.  I used to respect him merely as he was your father, but I begin now to owe it to himself; all that he says is so kind and so obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may see ’tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing to disguise in it.  ’Tis long since that I knew how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot that you showed me a letter of his (to a French Marquis, I think, or some such man of his acquaintance) when I first knew you; I remember it very well, and that I thought it as handsome a letter as I had seen; but I have not skill it seems, for I like yours too.

I can pardon all my cousin Franklin’s little plots of discovery, if she believed herself when she said she was confident our humours would agree extremely well.  In earnest, I think they do; for I mark that I am always of your opinion, unless it be when you will not allow that you write well, for there I am too much concerned.  Jane told me t’other day very soberly that we write very much alike.  I think she said it with an intent to please me, and did not fail in’t; but if you write ill, ’twas no great compliment to me. A propos de Jane, she bids me tell you that, if you liked your marmalade of quince, she would send you more, and she thinks better, that has been made since.