But I never can desire--I may be wrong, but I never can desire--that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond, should be a fiddler." "Should be a fiddlestick, my dear," the old Colonel answered.
"Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born has a little kingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to invade.

Suppose George loves music?
You can no more stop him than you can order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing." "A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the world with a fiddle in his hand," says Mrs.Warrington, with a toss of her head.

"I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington School, and only learned it to please my mamma.

Say what you will, dear sir, I can not believe that this fiddling is work for persons of fashion." "And King David who played the harp, my dear ?" "I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak about him in that way," said Mrs.Warrington.
"Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration," the father replied gently.

It was Colonel Esmond's nature, as he has owned in his own biography, always to be led by a woman; and, his wife dead, he coaxed and dandled and spoiled his daughter; laughing at her caprices, but humouring them; making a joke of her prejudices, but letting them have their way; indulging, and perhaps increasing, her natural imperiousness of character, though it was his maxim that we can't change dispositions by meddling, and only make hypocrites of our children by commanding them over-much.
At length the time came when Mr.Esmond was to have done with the affairs of this life, and he laid them down as if glad to be rid of their burthen.