vers about your daughter? Had
you taken less pleasure in their idle flattery, you would have saved us
a great deal of trouble about her.

_Mrs. D._ And what is the matter now? The girl----

_Mr. D._ Loves one; why then the rest? Why, by high flown compliments,
excite her pride? why, by unmeaning sentiments, corrupt her heart?
Speak yourself; is that my fault or yours?

_Mrs. D._ But let me tell you----

_Mr. D._ Your caprices always cross our best plans; and when all is
entangled and lost, who is to assist? who can?--The husband, the
father--happy if you still allow him to do that.

_Mrs. D._ You speak, as if every thing were lost.

_Mr. D._ Lost enough.--How often have I spoken against the affected
sensibility inculcated by what are called sentimental novels! I
provided good books, but in vain. You were proud of her refined
feelings; delighted with her ecstatic sensibility. I advised, warned,
entreated; but was not heard.

_Mrs. D._ Nature has given her a susceptible heart--will you call its
emotions weakness? then--

_Mr. D._ I distinguish, very well. Nature has given her a generous
heart, sensible to the miseries of mankind.--It was enough; but not for
_you_; and so you have suffered the noblest feelings of an excellent
disposition to be perverted by the overstrained and effeminate
sensibility of frivolous affectation.

_Mrs. D._ [hastily]. Here you are mistaken--

_Mr. D._ [much affected]. From me her heart is entirely alienated----

_Mrs. D._ [sits down]. Oh! you tear my heart with these reproaches!

_Mr. D._ [taking her hand]. Forgive me, my dear! I am deeply afflicted,
I know no more how to speak to her.--Her heart bleeds; advice is
unwelcome. With sufficient grounds for real unhappiness, she increases
it by imaginary misfortunes. It was my first care to shew her the world
as it is; to dispose her mind to bear her part with fortitude. But she
dreams of a world, that does not exist; of a husband, as he never will,
never _dare_ be----What comfort can she bring to a husband in his
misfortunes? What a mother can she be to her children, who meets
affliction with tears instead of courage, and who regards the common
pleasures of life as scarcely worthy of a smile?

_Mrs. D._ What shall I answer? I see too well I cannot satisfy you.

_Mr. D._ No! you cannot.--I see her fade and wither in the bloom of
youth; I see her pining after an imaginary happiness, which she cannot
attain.--I see myself, her father,