April 3.
We have had a letter from
my brother George; he is landed, and
we expect him hourly in town. As our
house is large enough, I hope he will consent
to take up his abode with us while
we stay in London. My mother intends
to request it of him: she says it will be
for the reputation of a gay young man to
live in a
sober family. I know not how
Sir George may relish the proposal, as our
hours are not likely to correspond with
those, which I suppose he has been used to
since he has been absent from us. But
perhaps he may not refuse the compliment;
Sir George is not averse to oeconomy.
— How kind, how indulgent,
is this worthy parent of mine! She will
not suffer me to stay at home with her,
nay scarce allows me time for my journal.
'Sidney, I won't have you stay
within; I won't have you write; I
won't have you think—I will make a
rake of you; you shall go to the play
to-night, and I am almost tempted to
go with you myself, though I have
not been at one since your father's
death.' — These were her kind expressions
to me just now.—I am indeed indebted
to her tenderness, when she relaxes so
much of her usual strictness, as ever
to
think of such a thing.
