his children; still more, proud of them. Every day when he looked into
the glass, and gave the last touch to his consummate toilet, he offered
his grateful thanks to Providence that his family was not unworthy of
him.

His grace was accustomed to say that he had only one misfortune, and it
was a great one; he had no home. His family had married so many
heiresses, and he, consequently, possessed so many halls and castles, at
all of which, periodically, he wished, from a right feeling, to reside,
that there was no sacred spot identified with his life in which his
heart, in the bustle and tumult of existence, could take refuge.
Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he was even
passionately fond of it; but it was remarkable how very short a period
of his yearly life was passed under its stately roof. So it was his
custom always to repair to Brentham the moment the season was over, and
he would exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,
they would be his companions under those circumstances. The daughters
loved Brentham, and they loved to please their father; but the
sons-in-law, though they were what is called devoted to their wives,
and, unusual as it may seem, scarcely less attached to their legal
parents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. The country in
August without sport was unquestionably to them a severe trial:
nevertheless, they rarely omitted making their appearance, and, if they
did occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes to Switzerland,
sometimes to Norway, they always wrote to their wives, and always
alluded to their immediate or approaching return; and their letters
gracefully contributed to the fund of domestic amusement.

And yet it would be difficult to find a fairer scene than Brentham
offered, especially in the lustrous effulgence of a glorious English