To-morrow we shall serve God in our usual way. Adieu, my dear Lady G. This is the sort of stuff you must be satisfied with from a poor untalented girl; as is

Your ever-devoted,

LUCY SELBY.

No end of love, compliments, &c. I begin again to doubt I shan’t please you: so am (allowably) tired.

Letter II.

Lady G. to Miss Selby.

Monday, November S7. Come, come, Lucy, you do pretty well. Don’t be disheartened, child. Yet you are not quite the clever girl I once thought you. You, that held such a part in the correspondence of our Harriet. But you say, you can’t help it. Poor girl! I am sorry for it. Your talents lie in speech, not in writing.^ Your account of the interview between Orme and my brother, shews you can’t tvrite at all. No, not you Poor Lucy! But write one letter more before you come to town. Do! my dear! You have charming subjects before you, yet.

I, you see, have a talent to make subjects out of nothing: you, poor soul! can’t follow them when made to your hand. I’ll tell you a story of my good man and his good woman. A short one. The poor man is very sensible of slight ailments. Happy, as lie is, in a wife, no wonder he is afraid of dying. He was complaining to me just now [To whom but to a pitying wife should a man complain when he ails any-thing?] that he had a troublesome disorder in the inside of his mouth. I looked very grave; shook my careful head, I am afraid, my lord, something is breeding there, that should not. He started, and looked concerned. The man will ne-ver know me. God forbid! said he afraid of no — thing less than a cancer. Have I not told you a thousand times, my lord, of your gaping? Assure as you are alive, your mouth is fly-blown.

Kxpecting compassion, he found a jest, and never was man so angry. I was forced to take his hand, and stroke his cheek with mine, to be friends.

But, Lucy, let not any of these flippanccs meet my brother’s eye, or invade his ear; 1 shall be undone if they do.

Carohne is pure mcH. Her lord is never out either of her chamber, or the nursery.

Aunt Nell makes an admirable nurse. Her par-rot and her squirrel are now neglected for a little marmouset. Every-body but the real nurse likes aunt Nell. The good creature is so understandino-, so directing! I protest, these old maids think they know every-thing. The nurse, I see, can’t endure her.

I interfere not. The boy is robust, and they leave him the free exercise of his limbs, and he has a fine pipe, and makes the nursery ring whenever he pleases; so will do well enough.

But high — ho, Lucy! all these nursery mementos how do they sadden and mortify me! The word viot/icr, what a solemn sound has it to me now; Ca-roline’s situation before me! But, come, the evil day is at distance: Who’s afraid?