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!-Ay, 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 can not 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' familyhistory, 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 indispeusable; 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 consideration, which, however, ought not to be left out of the account; that a good child will be no less benefited by the warning, as Sir Charles no doubt is, from his father's unhappy turn; than by the example, as he is from that of his excellent mother.

Lady L referred to the paper given in by the shorthand writer, for the occasion (as mentioned by Sir Charles) VOL. II.

L

to which these three worthy children owed the loss of such a mother.* And this drew her into a melancholy relation of some very affecting particulars. Among other things, she said, her mother regretted, in her last hours, that she had no opportunity, that she could think just and honourable, to lay by any thing considerable for her daughters. Her jewels, and some valuable trinkets, she hoped, would be theirs: but that would be at their father's pleasure. I wish, said she, that my dear girls were to have between them the tenth part of what I have saved-But I have done but my duty.

I have told you Charlotte, said the countess, what my mother said to me, a few hours before she died; and I will repeat it to Miss Byron. After having, upon general principles, recommended filial duty, and brotherly and sisterly love to us all; and after my brother and sister had withdrawn, My dear Caroline, said she, let me add to the general arguments of the duty I have been enforcing upon you all, one respecting your interest, and let your sister know it. I am afraid there will be but a slender provision made for my dear girls. Your papa has the notion riveted in him, which is common to men of ancient families, that daughters are but incumbrances, and that the son is to be every thing. He loves his girls: he loves you dearly: but he has often declared, that, were he to have entire all the fortune that descended to him from his father, he would not give to his daughters, marry whom they would, more than 5000l. a-piece. Your brother loves you: he loves me. It will be in his power, should he survive your father, to be a friend to you.-Love your brother.

* Letter IV. p. 60.

To my brother afterwards she said something: I believe, recommending his sisters to him; for we coming in, boy as he was in years, but man in behaviour and understanding, he took each of our hands-You remember it, Charlotte; [both sisters wept;] and kneeling down, and putting them in my mother's held-out dying hands, and bowing his face upon all three-All, madam-All, my dearest, best of mammas, that you have enjoined

He could say no more; and our arms were wet with his tears.-Enough, enough, my son; I distress you!-And she kissed her own arm-These are precious tears-You embalm me, my son, with your tears-O how precious the balm!--And she lifted up her head to kiss his cheek, and to repeat her blessings to the darling of her heart.

Who could refrain tears, my Lucy, on the representation of such a scene?-Miss Jervois and I wept, as if we had been present on the solemn occasion.

But, my Charlotte, give Miss Byron some brief account of the parting scene between my father and mother. She is affected as a sister should be-Tears, when time has matured a pungent grief into a sweet melancholy, are not hurtful: they are as the dew of the morning to the green herbage.

I cannot, said Miss Grandison-Do you Lady L-—

Lady L-proceeded-My father had long kept his chamber, from the unhappy adventure, which cost him and us all so dear. My mother, till she was forced to take to her bed, was constantly his attendant: and then was grieved she could not attend him still.

At last, the moment, happy to her, long dreaded by us, the releasing moment, approached. One last long farewell she wished to take of the man, who had been ever dear to her; and who had cost her so dear. He was told of her

desire to be lifted to his bed-side in her bed; for one of his wounds (too soon skinned over) was broken out, and he was confined to his bed. He ordered himself to be carried in a great chair to hers. But then followed such a

Scene

All we three children were in the room, kneeling by the bed-side-praying-weeping-O how ineffectually!—Not even hope remaining-Best beloved of my soul! in faultering accents, said my mother, her head raised by pillows, so as that she sat upright-forgive the desire of my heart once more to see you!-They would not bring me to you !—O how I distress you! For my father sobbed; every feature of his face seemed swelled almost to bursting, and working as if in mortal agonies.-Charlotte, relieve me!

The sweet lady's eyes were drowned in tears

I cannot, said Miss Grandison; her handkerchief spread over her face.

Miss Emily sobbed. She held her hand before her eyes: her tears trickled through her fingers.

I was affected beyond measure-Yet besought her to proceed. She went on.

I have endeavoured, said my mother, in broken sentences —It was my wish—It was my pride: indeed, my chiefest pride,-to be a good wife!

O my dear! You have been-My father could not say what.

Forgive my imperfections, sir!

O my dearest life! you had no imperfections: I, I, was all imper-He could not speak out the word for his tears.

Bless your children in my sight: God hitherto has blessed them! God will continue to bless them, if they continue to deserve their father's blessing. Dear Sir Thomas, as you love them, bless them in my sight. I doubt