The days on which my step-mother, or sisters-in-law, come to see the children, are to me days of torment. Yesterday I was exposed to a rude attack of the following nature: one of my female cousins came to the house, in consequence of Democracia, and her adherents, being there on a visit: my youngest daughter, Clarissa, ran to embrace her, exclaiming: "wilt thou give me a sweetmeat, a little present!" I could dissemble no longer, but, calling to me the little girl, asked her somewhat sharply, whether she had forgotten the mode of making a request which I had taught her? I had scarcely concluded when Democracia, darting at me a fierce glance, and snatching the child from my arms, said to me in a tone of malediction: "it is well known that you do not love your children, and that you are rather their tyrant than their father. You who undertake to teach others good breeding, ought first to know that it argues great audacity to seek to correct a general custom; and that, were this not even the case, it is my will and pleasure."
How much I was irritated by this mode of procedure may be readily concluded; but, not to disturb the tranquillity of the neighbourhood, I forbore to speak in reply, and withdrew. I unburthen myself to you, gentlemen, and entreat you to demand, in my name, of all the mothers who think with Democracia, what idea they entertain of filial respect, and paternal superiority? If the idiom of our language has confidential and familiar expressions differing from those of reverence, why should they be confounded? Why should we accustom children to hold the same language to their mother as to the female slave who attends them, and not to distinguish their father from the coachman? And, lastly, why should a
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