prank of the devil-----with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and nutcracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside.--No! rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may-----God forgive me!
MRS. MILL. The wretch!--but you'll be made to keep a clean tongue in your head!
MILL. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must put my bristles up.--You're never more stupid than when you have the most occasion to show a little sense. What's the meaning of all that trash, about your daughter being a great lady? If it's to be cried out about the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with it straight to the prince, mistress, And minister, and then there's the devil to pay.
Enter LOUISA, with a book in her hand.
LOUISA. Good morning, dear father!
MILL. (affectionately). Bless thee, my Louisa!--I rejoice to see thy thoughts are turned so diligently to thy Creator. Continue so, and his arm will support thee.
LOUISA. Oh! I am a great sinner, father!--Was he not here, mother?
MRS. MILL. Who, my child?
LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my head wanders so.--Was he not here? Ferdinand?
MILL. (with melancholy, serious voice). I thought my Louisa had forgotten that name in her devotions?
LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes too late. I can no longer pray, father --Heaven and Ferdinand divide my bleeding soul, and I fear --I fear--(after a pause). Yet no, no, good father.--The painter is best praised when we forget him in the contemplation of his picture.--When in the contemplation of his masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator; is not that, father, the true praise of God?