Court, and who pays me compliments there, the horrible man; and if you want to know what parsons are, you should see his behavior, and hear him talk of his own cloth.  They’re all the same, whether they’re bishops, or bonzes, or Indian fakirs.  They try to domineer, and they frighten us with kingdom come; and they wear a sanctified air in public, and expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing; and they intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and they slander worse than the worst courtier or the wickedest old woman.  I heard this Mr. Swift sneering at my Lord Duke of Marlborough’s courage the other day.  He! that Teague from Dublin! because his Grace is not in favor, dares to say this of him; and he says this that it may get to her Majesty’s ear, and to coax and wheedle Mrs. Masham.  They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen of mistresses in his court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king over us, I wager that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, will coax and wheedle them.  Oh, those priests and their grave airs!  I’m sick of their square toes and their rustling cassocks.  I should like to go to a country where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of ’em; and I would, only the dress is not becoming, and I’ve much too pretty a figure to hide it.  Haven’t I, cousin?” and here she glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which told her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face never were seen.

“I made that onslaught on the priests,” says Miss Beatrix, afterwards, “in order to divert my poor dear mother’s anguish about Frank.  Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin.  Talk of us girls being vain, what are we to you?  It was easy to see that the first woman who chose would make a fool of him, or the first robe—­I count a priest and a woman all the same.  We are always caballing; we are not answerable for the fibs we tell; we are always cajoling and coaxing, or threatening; and we are always making mischief, Colonel Esmond—­mark my word for that, who know the world, sir, and have to make my way in it.  I see as well as possible how Frank’s marriage hath been managed.  The Count, our papa-in-law, is always away at the coffee-house.  The Countess, our mother, is always in the kitchen looking after the dinner.  The Countess, our sister, is at the spinet.  When my lord comes to say he is going on the campaign, the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, and faints—­so; he catches her in his arms—­no, sir, keep your distance, cousin, if you please—­she cries on his shoulder, and he says, ’Oh, my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry to part with me?’ ‘Oh, my Francisco,’ says she, ‘oh my lord!’ and at this very instant mamma and a couple of young brothers, with moustaches and long rapiers, come in from the kitchen, where they have been eating bread and onions.  Mark my word, you will have all this woman’s relations at Castlewood three months after she has arrived there.  The old count and countess, and the young counts and all the little countesses her sisters.  Counts! every one of these wretches says he is a count.  Guiscard, that stabbed Mr. Harvey, said he was a count; and I believe he was a barber.  All Frenchmen are barbers—­Fiddledee! don’t contradict me—­or else dancing-masters, or else priests.”  And so she rattled on.