etters to be read by any one else? Do you
recollect what you said about the Miss Browns in two or three of those
letters, and the unfavourable opinion you expressed of Mrs. Thompson's
character? Do you happen to recall the words which you used regarding
Jones himself, whom you subsequently married (for in consequence of
disputes about the settlements your engagement with Edward was broken
off)? and would you like Mr. J. to see those remarks? You know you
wouldn't. Then be pleased to withdraw that imputation which you have
already cast in your mind upon Lady Maria Esmond. No doubt her letters
were very foolish, as most love-letters are, but it does not follow that
there was anything wrong in them. They are foolish when written by young
folks to one another, and how much more foolish when written by an old
man to a young lass, or by an old lass to a young lad! No wonder
Lady Maria should not like her letters to be read. Why, the very
spelling--but that didn't matter so much in her ladyship's days, and
people are just as foolish now, though they spell better. No, it is not
the spelling which matters so much; it is the writing at all. I for one,
and for the future, am determined never to speak or write my mind out
regarding anything or anybody. I intend to say of every woman that she
is chaste and handsome; of every man that he is handsome, clever, and
rich; of every book that it is delightfully interesting; of Snobmore's
manners that they are gentlemanlike; of Screwby's dinners that they are
luxurious; of Jawkins's conversation that it is lively and amusing; of
Xantippe, that she has a sweet temper; of Jezebel, that her colour is
natural; of Bluebeard, that he really was most indulgent to his wives,
and that very likely they died of bronchitis. What? a word against the
spotless Messalina? What an unfavourable view of human nature! What?
King Cheops was not a perfect monarch? Oh, you railer at royalty and
slanderer of all that is noble and good! When this book is concluded, I
shall change the jaundiced livery which my books have worn since I began
to lisp in numbers, have rose-coloured coats for them with cherubs on
the cover, and all the characters within shall be perfect angels.

Meanwhile we are in a society of men and women, from whose shoulders
no sort of wings have sprouted as yet, and who, without any manner of
doubt, have their little failings. There is Madame Bernstein: she has
fallen asleep after dinner, and eating