creation. In my conscience, Harriet, look all my acquaintance through, of both Sexes, I think there are three silly fellows to one silly woman: Don't you think so in yours?—Are your Grevilles, your Fenwicks, your Ormes, your Fowlers, your Pollexfens, your Bagenhalls, and half a score more I could name, to be put in competition with Mrs. Shirley, Mrs. Selby, Lady D. our Lucy, Nancy, Miss Orme, the two Miss Holles's?—Let uncle Selby and cousin James determine on the question.
I am half in hopes, that the little rogue Emily will draw herself in. Beauchamp is modest, yet not sheepish; he is prudent, manly, lively; has address: He will certainly draw her in, before she knows where she is: And how? Why by praising sincerely, and loving cordially, the man at present most dear to her. When he first addressed her at St. Alban's, O Mr. Beauchamp, said she, with an innocent freedom, not regarding his tremblings, his glow, and his falterings, I am glad to see you: I long to have you entertain me with stories of my guardian. But, ah! Sir, speaking lower, and with a fallen countenance, tears ready to start, Whose, whose is he by this time? Yet, if you know it, don't tell me: It must not, must not be.
The praises given to those we really love, I believe, are more grateful to us than those conferred on ourselves. I will tell you how I account for this, in general cases, my brother out of the question.—We doubt not our own merits; but may be afraid, that

the favoured object will not be considered by others as we are willing to consider him: But if he is, we take the praise given him as a compliment to our own judgment. Self-love, self-love, at the bottom of all we say and do: I am convinced it is, notwithstanding all you have urged to the contrary. Generally, you know, I said. Do you think I will allow you to judge of the generality of the world by what you find in one of the best hearts in it?
An instance, in point—I remember a Miss Hurste, a sweet pretty creature, and very sensible: She had from her chamber-window been shot through the heart by the blind archer, who took his stand on the feather of a military man marching at the head