His friend spelt it through.
"My dear fellow, why don't you give this letter to the father of your
fair Louisa; he's quite rabid on such points; you'll make him a friend
for life by it!"
The advice was followed. The letter was cut from its old position in
the lid of the trunk, and presented to Sir John Blank, the father of
the lovely Louisa, who, in his turn, soon placed the hand of his
daughter in that of Colonel H-----.
Sir John, a noted follower in the steps of Horace Walpole, had no
sooner become the owner of this interesting letter, than he set to
work to find out its origin, and to fill up its history. Unfortunately,
the sheet had received some wounds in the wars, as well as the
gallant colonel. One corner had been carried away by an unlucky
thrust from a razor--not a sword; while the date and signature had
also been half eaten out by the white ants of Bengal. But such
difficulties as these were only pleasing obstacles in the way of
antiquarian activity. Sir John had soon formed an hypothesis
perfectly satisfactory to himself. His mother's name was Butler, and
he claimed some sort of affinity with the author of Hudibras; as the
Christian name of the poor poet had been almost entirely devoured
by the ants, while the surname had also suffered here and there, Sir
John ingeniously pursuaded {sic} himself that what remained had
clearly belonged to the signature of the great satirist; as for the
date, the abbreviation of "Nov.
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