every where, and she began to find herself in circumstances which ought to domesticate a wife of a much graver turn than Lady Grandison pretended to have, he gave way to his predominate bias; and after a while, leaving the whole family-care to her, for her excellence in every branch of which he was continually praising her, (he did her that justice) he was but little at home in the summer; and, in the winter, was generally engaged four months in the diversions of this great town; and was the common patron of all the performers, whether at plays, operas, or concerts.

At first setting out in this way, he was solicitous to carry his lady with him to town. She always cheerfully accepted of his invitation, when she saw he was urgent with her to go. She would not give a pretence for so gay a man to throw off that regard to appearances which pride made him willing to keep up. But afterwards his invitations growing fainter and fainter, and she finding that her presence lengthened the time of his stay in town, and added greatly to his expenses, (for he never would abate, when they were together, of that magnificence in which he delighted to live in the country) she declined going up: and having by this time her three children, she found it was as agreeable to Sir Thomas as to herself, that she should turn her thoughts wholly to the domestic duties. Lady Grandison, when she found that she could not bring Sir Thomas to lessen his great expenses, supposed it to be wisdom to endeavour, to the utmost of her power, to enable him to support them without discredit to himself, or visible hurt to his family. The children were young, and were not likely to make demands upon him for many years to come.

Here was a mother, my dear! Who will say, that

mothers may not be the most useful persons in the family, when they do their duty, and their husbands are defective in theirs? Sir Thomas Grandison's delights centered in himself: Lady Grandison's in her husband and children. What a superiority! what an inferiority!

Yet had this lady, with the best economy, no narrowness in her heart. She was beloved for her generosity and benevolence. Her poor neighbours adored her. Her table was plenteous. She was hospitable, as well from the largeness of her own heart, as to give credit to her husband; and so far to accommodate herself to his taste, as that too great a difference might not be seen between his absence and presence. As occasions offered, she would confer benefits in the name of a husband, whom, perhaps, she had not seen for months, and knew not whether she might see for months to come. She was satisfied, though hers was the first merit, with the second merit reflected from that she gave him: I am but Sir Thomas's almoner; I know I shall please Sir Thomas by doing this: Sir Thomas would have done thus. Perhaps he would have been more bountiful had he been present.'

He had been once absent from this admirable wife six whole months, when he left her but for one: he designed only an excursion to Paris, when he set out; but when in company as gay as himself, while he was there, be extended his tour; and, what was still more inexcusable, he let his lady hear from him by second-hand only. He never wrote one line to her with his own; yet, on his return, affect. ed to surprise her by a sudden appearance, when she knew not that he was in England.

Was not this intolerably vain in him? The moment he appeared, so secure was he of his lady's unmerited love, that he supposed the joy she would

break out into would banish from her thoughts all memory of his past unkindness.

He asked her, however, after the first emotions, (for she received him with real joy) if she could easily forgive him?- Forgive you, sir?—Yes, it' you can forgive yourself.'

This he called severe. Well he might; for it was just. Lady Grandison's goodness was founded in principle; not in tameness or servility.

'Be not serious, Sir Thomas,' said my lady; and flung her arms about him. You know by your question you were unkind. Not one line from your own hand neither-But the seeing you now safe and well compensates me for all the anxieties you have given me in the past six tedious months-Can I say they were not anxious ones? But I pity yon, sir, for the pleasure you have lost by so long an absence. Let me lead you to the nursery; or, let the dear pratlers come down to receive their father's blessing. How delightful is their dawning reason! Their improvements exceed my hopes: of what pleasure do you deprive yourself by these long absences!'

My dear Miss Grandison let me write on. I am upon a sweet subject. Why will you tear me from it?' Who, Lucy, would not almost wish to be the wife, the half-slighted wife, of a gay Sir Thomas, to be a Lady Grandison?

'One reflection, my dear Miss Grandison, let me make before I attend you, lest I should lose it? What man who now, at one view, takes in the whole gay, fluttering life of Sir Thomas Grandison, though young, gay, and fluttering himself, can propose to be more happy than Sir Thomas thought himself? What woman, who in like manner can take in the whole useful, prudent, serene, benevolent, life of Lady Grandison, whatever turn to

pleasure, less solid, and more airy, she may have, sees not, from this imperfect sketch, all that they should wish to be; and the transitory vanity of the one, and the solid happiness that must attend the other, as well here as hereafter!

Dear lady!-had you not hurried me so, how much better should I have expressed myself! 'I come. I come.'

LETTER XII.

MISS BYRON. IN CONTINUATION.

MISS GRANDISON has been making me read aloud some part of the letter I had just writ to you, Lucy. "We know,' said she- it is about us; but we shall think what you have written greatly to our disadvantage if we cannot hear some of it.' Then she insisted (she is an arbitrary dear creature) on my giving the company [It was at tea, and Lord L. present] such histories as she should call for of my own family. On this condition only,' said she, 'will we consent to be made fully known, as I find we shall, if I do not steal away your pen and ink, to our grandmother Shirley, our aunt Selby, and even to our Lucy.'

Do not you think, Lucy, I ran on with pleasure in describing the persons and tempers of my father and mother, and relating their fortunes, loves, difficulties, as my grandmamma and aunt had enabled me to do, from what they used to recount in many a long summer day, and in many a winter evening, as we girls sat at work-Happy memorials! -Aye, but do you believe she did not question me about later events? She did, indeed, call upon me for two other histories.

And of whom?' methinks you ask.

I won't tell you, Lucy: but if my aunt should be solicitous to know, and should guess that my uncle's and hers, (so entertaining and instructive) was one of them; and if you, Lucy, should guess that the history of a young lady, whose discretion got the better of her love, and who cannot be dearer to herself than she is to me, is the other-Why, perhaps, neither my aunt, nor you, my dear, may be much mistaken.

Methinks I would fain rise now and then to my former serene pertness: [Allow you of the words so connected?] But my heart is heavy.

They were delighted with a certain gentleman's humorous character and courtship; with his lady's prudence and goodness, in the one story: and in the other, with the young lady's victorious discretion. They wish to be personally acquainted with each, and with my grandmamma. All the worthies in the world, my dear, are not in the Grandison family.

Before I resume the continuation of the ladies family-history, let me ask; Don't you think, my dear, that God has blessed these happy children for the sake of their excellent mother? And who knows, but for their duty to their less deserving father? It is my notion, that one person's remissness in duty, where there is a reciprocal one, does not absolve the other party from the performance of his. It is difficult, indeed, to love so well a faulty or remiss parent as a kind and good one. But our duty is indispensable; and where it is paid, a blessing may the rather be expected, as the parent has not done his. If, when you do well and suffer for it,' says the apostle, 'ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God.'-Not to mention one con