Lady L---- had always insisted upon dancing at her sister's wedding. We were not company enough for country dances: but music having been ordered, and the performers come, it was insisted upon that we should have a dance, though we were engaged in a conversation that I thought infinitely more agreeable. Lord G---- began by dancing a minuet with his bride: she danced charmingly: but on my telling her so afterwards, she whispered me, that she should have performed better, had she danced with her brother. Lord G---- danced extremely well. Lord L---- and Lady Gertrude, Mr. Beauchamp and Mrs. Reeves, Mr. Reeves and Lady L---- danced all of them very agreeably. The earl took me out: but we had hardly done, when, asking pardon for disgracing me, as he too modestly expressed himself; he, and all but my cousins and Emily, called out for Sir Charles to dance with me. I was abashed at the general voice calling upon us both: but it was obeyed. He deserved all the praises that Miss Gran--Lady G----, I would say, gave him in her letter to me. Lord bless me, my dear, this man is every thing! But his conversation has ever been among the politest people of different nations. Lord W---- wished himself able, from his gout, to take out Miss Jervois. The bridegroom was called upon by Sir Charles: and he took out the good girl, who danced very prettily. I fancied, that he chose to call out Lord G---- rather than Mr. Beauchamp. He is the most delicate and considerate of men. Sir Charles was afterwards called upon by the bride herself: and she danced then with a grace indeed! I was pleased that she could perform so well at her own wedding. Supper was not ready till twelve. Mr. Reeves's coach came about that hour; but we got not away till two. Perhaps the company would not have broke up so soon, had not the bride been perverse, and refused to retire. Was she not at home? she asked Lady L----, who was put upon urging her: and should she leave her company? She would make me retire with her. She took a very affectionate leave of me. Marriage, Lucy, is an awful rite. It is supposed to be a joyful solemnity: but, on the woman's side, it can be only so when she is given to the man she loves above all the men in the world; and, even to her, the anniversary day, when doubt is turned into certainty, must be much happier than the day itself. What a victim must that woman look upon herself to be, who is compelled, or even over-persuaded, to give her hand to a man who has no share in her heart? Ought not a parent or guardian, in such a circumstance, especially if the child has a delicate, an honest mind, to be chargable with all the unhappy consequences that may follow from such a cruel compulsion? But this is not the case with Miss Grandison. Early she cast her eye on an improper object. Her pride convinced her in time of the impropriety. And this, as she owns, gave her an indifference to all men.