"Father," interrupts _Anne_, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to the Beginning of the World, or all through the _Romish Calendar_, I will content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, because St. _Jerome_ lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a Home to quit." "What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening. "I call that an ill Home," returns _Anne_, stoutly, "where there is neither Union nor Sympathy--at least, for my Share,--where there are no Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, let, and hindered,--where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is reviled--my Mother's Family despised,--where the few Friends I have made are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,--where, for keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear--" "Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much. Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,--she takes French Leave of him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,--her Ingratitude will keep Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings. You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your Temper with you--you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;--your little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will--die--" "As well die," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of the Room. "Follow after her, _Deb_," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy me! tried every Way! An _Oedipus_ with no _Antigone_!"