rather listen to his fair friends discussing the merits of red and blue embroidery silks than the merits of Whigs and Tories. He would rather see them work the whole of the battle of Blenheim into their tapestry frames than hear their opinions once about the Duke of Marlborough. He waxes eloquent and even vindictive—for so mild a man—over the neglect of needlework amid more stirring avocations. "It grieves my heart," he says, speaking in the character of an indignant letter-writer to the "Spectator," "to see a couple of proud, idle flirts sipping their tea for a whole afternoon"—and doubtless discussing politics with heat—"in a room hung round with the industry of their great-grandmothers."
It has been observed before this that it is always the great-grandmothers in whom is embodied the last meritoriousness of the sex; always the great-grandmothers for whom is cherished this pensive masculine regard. And it may perhaps be worth while to note that these "proud, idle flirts" of Addison's day have now become our virtuous great-grandmothers, and occupy the same shadowy ped-
