MARIA. Very indifferently, I assure you, my dear: You know, Harriet, I do most cordially hate dancing at any time; but what must one do with one's self these irksome, heavy, dreary Winters? If it were not for cards, visits to and from, and---- HARRIET. Assemblies. MARIA. Yes, as my last resource, Assemblies, I should absolutely be in a state of despair before Spring.--Then one may take an excursion on York or Long-Island--an agreeable sail on the East-River--a walk in the Broadway, Pharisee-like, to be seen of men, and--to see them--and then how refreshing to take a negligent stroll on the Battery, the Fort, the Mall, and from thence to Miss Such-a-one, then to Mrs. Such-a-one, then to Lady What's-her-name, and then home;--but now I am half of my time as motionless as Pitt's statue; as petrified and inanimate as an Egyptian mummy, or rather frozen snake, who crawls out of his hole now and then in this season to bask in the rays of the sun. HARRIET. And whenever the sunshine of Mr. Frankton's eyes breaks upon you, you revive. MARIA. Pshaw--I wish you had Mr. Frankton yourself, since you are so full of his sweet image. HARRIET. I'm sure you did not wish so last night: Your eyes seem'd to say,--I wish I could secure the good-for-nothing, agreeable rake. MARIA. Oh, you _heard_ my _eyes_ say so, did you? I ask pardon of your penetration. HARRIET. But do you really think the Winter is so destitute of comforts? MARIA. Ha, ha, comforts! by comforts I suppose you mean the sweets of domestic life--the large portion of comfort arising from a large winter fire, and the very pleasing tittle-tattle of an antiquated maiden aunt, or the equally pleasing (tho' less loquacious) society of a husband, who, with a complaisance peculiar to husbands, responds--sometimes by a doubtful shrug, sometimes a stupid yawn, a lazy stretch, an unthinking stare, a clownish nod, a surly no, or interrogates you with a--humph? till bed time, when, heaven defend us! you are doom'd to be snor'd out of your wits till day-break, when---- HARRIET. Hold, Maria--what a catalogue of uncomfortable comforts have you run over.--Pleasure and Comfort are words which imply the same thing with me; but in this enlighten'd age, when words are so curiously refin'd and defin'd, modern critics and fashionable word-mongers have, in the abundance of their wisdom, made a very nice distinction between them--for my part, I always endeavour to reconcile modish pleasure with real comfort, and custom with reason, as much as is in any way consistent with the obligation one is under to conform a little to the perverse notions of mankind. MARIA. There now!--you know I can't abide to hear you moralize--prithee, my dear Harriet, leave that to grey beards and long-ear'd caps--everything is beautiful in its season, you know.