Another extols you for your cheerful wit, even when displayed, bold girl as you are, upon your uncle; in which indeed you are upheld by the wife of my bosom, whenever I take upon me to tell you what ye all, even the best of ye, are.

Yet sometimes they praise your modesty: and why your modesty? — Because you have a skin in a manner transparent; and because you can blush — I was going to say, whenever you please.

At other times, they will find out, that you have features equally delicate and regular; when I think, and I have examined them jointly and separately, that all your taliivgness is owing to that open and cheerful countenance, which gives them a gloss (or what shall I call it?) that we men are apt to be pleas-ed with at first sight. A gloss that takes one, as it were, by surprize. But give me the beauty that grows upon us every time we see it; that leaves room for something to be found out to its advan-tage, as we are more and more acquainted with it.

“Your correcting uncle,” you call me. And so I will be. But what hope have I of your amendment, when every living soul, man, woman, and child, that knows you, puffs you up? There goes Mr. Selby! I have heard strangers say — And who is Mr. Selby? another stranger has asked — Why, Mr. Selby is uncle to the celebrated Miss Byron. — Yet I, who have lived fifty years in tin’s country, should think I might be known on my oivn account, and not as the uncle of a girl of twenty.

“Am I not a saucy creature?” in another place you ask. And you answer, “ I know I am.” I am glad you do. Now may I call you so by j’our own authority, I hope. But with your aunt, it is only the effect of your agreeable vivacity. What abomi-nable partiality! E’en do what you will, Harriet, you’ll never be in fault. I could almost wish — But I won’t tell you what I wish neither. But some-thing must betide you, that you little think of; de pend upon that. AH your days cannot be halcyon ones. I would give a thousand pounds with all my soul, to see you heartily love: ay, up to the very ears, and unable to help yourself! You are not thirty yet, child: and, indeed, you seem to think the time of danger is not over. I am glad of your consciousness, my dear. Shall I tell Greville of your doubts, and of your difficulties, Harriet? As to the ten coming years, I mean? And shall I tell him of your prayer to pass them safely? — But is not this wish of yours, that ten years of bloom were over-past, and that you were arrived at the thirtieth year nf your age, a very singular one? — A flight! a mere Might! Ask ninety-nine of your sex out of an hundred, if they would adopt it.