Fanny: Being the True History of the Adventures of Fanny Hackabout-Jones

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

The Introduction to the Work or Bill of Fare to the Feast.

I, FANNY HACKABOUT-JONES, having been blest with long Life, which makes e’en the Harshest Events of Youth pale to Insignificance or, i’faith, appear as Comedies, do write this History of my Life and Adventures as a Testament for my only Daughter, Belinda.

I have, in other Documents, left this most Excellent Young Woman my Houses, my Lands, my Jewels, the Care of my Dogs, Horses, and Domestick Animals, and yet I am convinced that the ensuing History shall have more Value to her than all the Riches I have acquir’d in my Life, either by my Pen or by my Person. For tho’ ’tis no easy Thing to be born a Man in this Vale of Tears, ’tis more difficult still to be born a Woman. Yet I believe I have prosper’d despite this Capricious Destiny, or e’en because of it, and what better Legacy can I give to my beloved Belinda than a full and true Account of that very Life which hath been so oft’ distorted, slander’d, or us’d to inspire scandalous Novels, lascivious Plays, and wanton Odes?

If these Pages oft’ tell of Debauchery and Vice, ’tis not in any wise because their Author wishes to condone Wickedness, but rather because Truth, Stark-Naked Truth, demands that she write with all possible Candour, so that the Inheritor of this Testament shall learn how to avoid Wickedness or indeed transform it into Goodness.

All possible Care hath been taken to give no deliberate Offence to Modesty or Chastity; yet the Author avows that Truth is a sterner Goddess than Modesty, and where there hath been made necessary a Choyce betwixt the Former and the Latter, Truth hath, quite rightly, triumph’d.

If some of the Episodes in the ensuing History offend the gentler Sensibilities of an Age less lusty than that which gave me birth, let the Reader put it down to the Excesses of my Epoch, the doubtless impoverish’d Origins of my poor Natural Parents, the Lack of Formal Education occasion’d by my Sex, and the Circumstances of my Life, which caus’d me to make my Living by my Wits, my Pen, and my Beauty.

The World is so taken up of late with Histories and Romances in which Vice fore’er perishes and Virtue triumphs, that the intended Reader may wonder why Vice is not always punish’d and Virtue not always rewarded in these Pages, as in the Histories of Mr. Fielding and Mr. Richardson; to which your Humble Author can only reply that ’tis Truth we serve here, not Morality, and with howe’er much Regret we affirm it, ne’ertheless we must affirm that Truth and Morality do not always, alas, sleep in the same Bed.

’Tis a trite but true Observation that Examples work more forcibly upon the Mind than Precepts; yet whilst the Male Sex hath had no Derth of Examples of Greatness from Jesus of Nazareth to William Shakespeare, the Bard of Stratford, the Members of the Female Sex search in vain for Great Women on whom to model their perilous Destinies.

The Authors of contemporary Novels and Romances do little Service in this regard, for either they prate of Female Vartue, a Luxury which few Women can afford, and only the dullest and most witless can tolerate, or they condemn Female Vice in such Terms that upon reading these Male Authors, any spirited Young Woman should resolve to slit her own Throat forthwith. Neither Pamela Andrews, with her incessant Scribbling of her Vartue, nor tiresome Clarissa Harlowe, with her insuff’rable Weeping and Letter-writing, nor yet the gentle Sophia Western of whom Mr. Fielding so prettily writes, nor the wicked Moll Flanders of whom Mr. Defoe so vigorously writes, shines out as an Example upon which a Flesh-and-Blood Female can model her Life. For Life, as the Ancients knew, is neither Tragedy nor Comedy, but an Intermingling of the twain. ’Tis a Feast in which one is serv’d delicate Viands as well as spicy Hashes and Ragoos; rotten Meats as well as exquisite Fruits; exotick Spices and Sauces as well as plain Country Fare. If ’tis thus for Man, imagine how much more so for Woman! Woman who is ev’rywhere in Nature misunderstood and apprehended only as the Embodiment of Virtue or the Embodiment of Vice.

I have endeavour’d in this History to show the Falsity of these Embodiments; for like the aforemention’d Feast of Life, Woman is a Mixture of Sweets and Bitters. I here solemnly protest that not only have I no Intention to asperse or vilify anyone, but that ev’rything herein is copied faithfully from the Great Book of Nature and that I, your Author, am no more than an humble Amanuensis.

CHAPTER II

A short Description of my Childhood with particular Attention to the Suff’rings of my Step-Mother, Lady Bellars.

I WAS BORN IN the Reign of Queen Anne, but the exact Date of my Birth I did not, for many Years, know, owing to the unfortunate Occurrence of my having been abandon’d upon a Doorstep in tend’rest Infancy. Whether my Natural Parents were, as the Saying goes, poor but honest, or whether they were poor and vicious, I could not in Good Conscience say. That they were poor was a fair enough Conjecture, else why would they have left a helpless Babe of their Begetting upon the Doorstep of a Great House in the Neighbourhood?

The Foster-Parents that Fate thus arranged for me were nam’d Bellars: Laurence Bellars and his Lady, Cecilia. Lord Bellars had been born of impoverish’d Noble Ancestry, having had settl’d upon him a Family Seat as heavily mortgaged as our Chestnut Trees were heavy with Chestnuts; but thro’ judicious Employment of his Wife’s Dowery to finance his Speculations in Stock of the East India Company as well as thro’ Holdings in the Bank of England, he had grown extreamly rich, and ev’rything he did, it seem’d, made him richer. So able was he at Speculation, that e’en during the South Sea Bubble, when I was but a Young Girl, he was one of the few that not only prosper’d, but managed to transfer his Earnings into Land before the Bubble burst. I’faith, that Scandal, which was the Ruin of so many, provided our Estate with another two thousand Acres, not to mention paying our Debts and providing us with yet a more handsome Equipage, and still more Footmen in gorgeous Livery.

Lord Bellars chose to live mainly in London, pleading the Excuse of his business Dealings; tho’ i’faith, Gaming and Whoring probably occupied many of his Leisure Hours. He left his Wife, Cecilia, to preside o’er the Great House and Park in Wiltshire and to instruct the Children—Daniel, Mary, and myself—in the Virtues which he had neither Time nor Inclination to impart, either by Precept or by Example.

My Position in the Family was neither that of an Inheritor of the Family Fortune, nor that of a Servant. I was a Foundling, lov’d for my Quick Wit, my russet Curls, and my playful Disposition, yet not granted the Indulgences given to a proper Child, who, for better or worse, is of one’s own Blood.

I was e’er a Bookworm, loving to read almost from the Time I was given my first Alphabet. In a Day when Girls were commonly thought to need no Education but the Needle, Dancing, and the French Tongue (with perhaps the Addition of a little Musick upon the Harpsichord or Spinet), I was plund’ring My Lord’s Library for Tonson’s Poetical Miscellanies, new Books by Mr. Pope and Mr. Swift, as well as older ones by Shakespeare, Milton, Boccaccio, Boileau, and Moliere. Latin I was left to teach myself; for tho’ that Noble Tongue was consider’d the Mark of Erudition in a Man, ’twas deem’d superfluous to Womankind. I’faith, I ne’er could comprehend why Daniel, a rather dull-witted, lazy Boy, but a Year my senior, should be sent to Day School to learn Latin, Greek, Algebra, Geometry, Geography, and the Use of Globes, whilst I, who was so much quicker, was encouraged only in Pastry-making, Needlepoint, and French Dancing, and laugh’d at for being vain of my fine Penmanship. Yet of all the Crafts I learnt in Childhood, Writing is the one that hath stood me in greatest Stead during my whole Life and hath most distinguish’d me from other Women. Beauty, alas, fades; Riches may be lost in one Turn of Fortune’s Wheel. A Woman with a fine Dowery can fall into the Hands of a Rogue who will not e’en allow her Pin-Money, and will gamble away her Widow’s Jointure and leave her nothing but Play-Debts and hungry Mouths to feed; but a Woman of Learning who can make her Living with her Quill is more secure of the Future (tho’ all the Coffeehouse Wits may scoff) than any Woman whatsoe’er. For what is Marriage but a Form of indentur’d Service in which the Wife gives up all (her Name, her Fortune, her very Health and physical Constitution) to secure the occasional Night-time Visits of a Knave with whom she shares nothing but a Roof and a Nursery full of screaming Babes?

My Step-Mother, Lady Bellars, was one of the most wretched Creatures who e’er liv’d, tho’ had she been a Man her Fortune and Beauty would have made her happy. Too clever to spend her Life betwixt the Tea-Table and the Card-Table, too sweet of Disposition to nag and scold her Husband for his long Absences, his Whoring and Gaming, and too timid to be a Female Rake in the Fashion of the Day, and use her Married State as a Cloak to cover divers Amours, she languished in the Country, devoting herself to her Children far past the Age when they requir’d her Care, and to a Menagerie of Beasts on whom she lavish’d more than natural Maternal Affection.

In addition to three Lapdogs and a Parrot, she kept a Marmoset Monkey, two Paroquets of Guinea, four Cockatoos, three Macaws, a dozen scarlet Nightingales from the West Indies, a half-dozen Canaries (both ash and lemon Colour), two dozen or so white and grey Turtledoves from Barbary, and num’rous Milk-white Peacocks that hopp’d freely around the Park. So devoted was she to her Menagerie that e’en upon the rare Occasions when Lord Bellars sent for her to come to London, she declin’d, pleading the Care of her Animals.

Thus, from my earliest Childhood, I had before me the Example of what a blighted, unloving Marriage could do to a Woman of tender Disposition, and I resolv’d in my Heart ne’er to let become of me what had become of my gentle Step-Mother, who, I sincerely believ’d, was driven half mad by the painful Betrayals practis’d upon her by her Husband.

Where a less tender Soul would have given Tit for Tat and repaid her Husband’s Amours with Cuckoldry and Back-Talk, Lady Bellars withdrew into her Menagerie, until at last, when she was a white-hair’d old Woman, she spoke more to her Peacocks and Turtledoves than she did to human Visitors.

Let that be a Lesson to you, I would silently command my Heart as I listen’d to my Step-Mother speaking to her Menagerie; and tho’ I learnt from her the Love of Animals which hath lasted to this Day, I also learnt to be wary of the Male Sex and to view ev’ry handsome Gallant and Man of Pleasure as a likely Robber of my Wits and my Peace of Mind. That Lesson, above all, hath been the Making of whate’er Good Fortune I have enjoy’d upon this Earth.

I’faith, like Belinda in The Rape of the Lock (a Poem which I read and read again thro’out my younger Years), my Guardian Angel taught me one Lesson above all others:

This to disclose is all thy Guardian can.

Beware of all, but most beware of Man!

CHAPTER III

In which I meet my first Great Man, and learn the Truth of that Maxim: ’Tis easier to be a Great Man in one’s Work than in one’s Life.

THAT LESSON WAS TO be tested soon enough. Thro’out the Peace and Plenty of my Country Childhood, I was told I was growing into a Beauty. I say this out of no Immodesty; i’faith, I scarce believ’d it myself. Like most Young Girls, when I lookt at myself in the Glass, I saw nought but my own grievous Faults; yet was I call’d a Beauty so oft’ that I came to understand the World regarded me thus. ’Twas merely the Condition of my Life that I should set Swains to sighing and Footmen to fondling my Hand longer than need be whilst helping me down from Chariots.

Just as my Step-Sister, Mary, was stubby and stout, had a Face like a Suet Pudding, and Hair of Mouse Colour, I was, by the perilous Age of Seventeen, straight and tall (too tall, I thought), with flaming Hair (too russet for my Taste), the brownest of Eyes (would that they were green!), a Bosom blue-white as skimm’d Milk (I minded not the Colour but the Size!), long taper’d Fingers (O my Hands were pretty—I would grant that!), and slender Legs (but who should see ’em ’neath my Petticoats?) ending in clever Feet that could do any complicated Dance whatsoe’er (for all the Good ’twould do me here in the dull Country!). In fact, I was greatly devoted to a Book call’d The Dancing Master, which listed no less than 358 diff’rent Figures and Tunes for Country Dances; and I knew as well how to twirl, flip and flirt a Fan, how to behave most fetchingly at Tea-Table, and how to place Patches to the best advantage upon my oval Cheaks. For all these Things, I was teaz’d and tormented by Daniel and silently hated by Mary, whilst my poor distracted Step-Mother tended to her Animals and seem’d wholly oblivious of the Fact that her three tender Human Charges were no longer little Babes, but were growing to an Age when all the Envies, Vices, and Temptations of the World might snare ’em.

’Twas about that Season in our Lives when Lord Bellars, who had been chiefly in London o’er the last three Years (with only brief Visits Home), came into the Country for a Stay of sev’ral Months.

When the News reach’d me that he was bringing down from London with him no less a Personage than the Great Poet Mr. Alexander Pope, I could hardly believe my Ears. Mr. Pope—whose Rape of the Lock I had got almost by Heart! Mr. Pope, whose Divine Quill had written the Lines:

Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish’d Hair

Which adds new Glory to the shining Sphere!

Not all the Tresses that fair Head can boast

Shall draw such Envy as the Lock you lost.

For, after all the Murders of your Eye,

When, after Millions slain, your Self shall die;

When those fair Suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those Tresses shall be laid in Dust;

This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to Fame,

And mid’st the Stars inscribe Belinda’s Name.

Mr. Pope, whose tender Heart had bled for an unknown Lady buried in a foreign Land….

By foreign Hands thy dying Eyes were clos’d,

By foreign Hands thy decent Limbs compos’d,

By foreign Hands thy humble Grave adorn’d,

By Strangers honour’d, and by Strangers mourn’d!

A Man who could write like that must be the most sensitive Soul that e’er liv’d! He must have Eyes that see ev’rything and a Heart that beats out the Suff’rings of the smallest Creature alive. Here, perchance, was a Man who could understand me, a Man with a great enough Heart, a great enough Mind—not like the foolish Country Boys who gap’d at me in the Village, not like Daniel, who could think of nothing but Excuses for jostling me upon the Stair or thrusting his greasy Hands into my Bosom.

For a Week, the whole Household was engaged in Preparations. Pigeons and Partridges were shot and pluckt. Oysters were brought from Market and boil’d in their own Juices, and extravagant Receipts were taken from Cookery Books. Upon the Day after the Poet’s Arrival with Lord Bellars we were to have all the local Gentry in to meet our distinguished Visitor and to feast upon Spinach Tarts made with Nutmeg, Cloves, and Lemon Peel, Patty of Calves’ Brains with Asparagus, stew’d Oysters, roast Pigeons, roast Partridges, three sorts of Pudding, and a royal Dish called Fruits with Preserv’d Flow’rs, which took two Days to prepare, being a Concoction of Paste of Almonds, inlaid with red, white, blue, and green Marmalade in the Figures of Flow’rs and Banks, with upright Branches of candied Flow’rs made from glaz’d Cherryes, Apples, Gooseberries, Currants, and Plums.

But I would hardly be in any Mood to eat.

All Day I linger’d at the Windows of my Bedchamber, dreaming o’er a Book of Mr. Pope’s Poetry, fancying myself invited to London to mingle with Wits in a Coffee-House, to stroll thro’ Pall Mall or Covent Garden, to go by Wherry to Twickenham with Mr. Pope and be invited to view his fam’d Faery Grotto.

I must have changed my Gown three Times that Day, throwing off Dresses and putting ’em on as if I were a Strolling Actress in a Barn! First, I wore the Dove-grey Saque-backt Silk with the yellow Stomacher and Apron; then I changed into a blue Gown with my prettiest embroider’d Apron and a Tucker of white Lace; but at last, I chose a Cherry-colour’d Damask with no Tucker at all, because I had heard that Ladies in London wore their Bosoms almost bare and I did not wish to be thought a plain Country Wench!

’Twas almost Twilight when the Chariot with six Horses clatter’d into view, greeted by the Barking of all our Dogs. Yet still I linger’d at my Window, dabbing my Bosom out of a Vial of Tuberose Scent, biting my Lips to make ’em redder.

How had I imagin’d Mr. Pope? Can I not have heard till then that he was a Hunchback? Or can it be that Memory deceives me? Ne’ertheless, I fancied him in the Mould of one of the Heroes of a French Romance, perhaps because the Imagination of a Girl of Seventeen is apt to clothe a Poet in Colours of his own Making. His Words were handsome, so should his Figure be! Nothing else was possible. It did not then occur to me that Poets perhaps write in order to create that very Delusion in Wenches of Seventeen and indeed to augment with their Quills the paltry Equipment Nature hath bestow’d upon ’em.

Imagine my Surprize and Discomfiture when I saw the Figure that emerged from the Carriage!

He was not above four and one-half foot tall and his Back hump’d so prodigiously betwixt his Shoulder Blades that his fawn Coat must have been a Taylor’s Marvel to accommodate it! He seem’d to be wearing not one but sev’ral Pairs of silk Stockings at once, and yet his Legs were so piteously thin that the Stockings creas’d and hung on ’em as if they were Twigs rather than Flesh. Under his Coat and Waistcoat, he wore a kind of fur Doublet (such as our Ancestors wore), perhaps to bulk out his crooked and wasted Form, or perhaps to guard against the Chills such Flesh must be Heir to. From my Window’s Height, I could not see his lower’d Face, but beside Lord Bellars, he lookt like a sort of Question Mark of Humanity standing next to a Poplar Tree. Lord Bellars was tall and straight, with broad Shoulders and manly, muscular Legs. Under his black Beaver cockt Hat, edged with deep gold Lace, he wore a fine Riding Wig, and when he threw his Head back to laugh at some Witticism the Poet had utter’d, I glimps’d a handsome Roman Nose, a clear olive Complexion, glowing with Life and Fire, and Eyes that sparkl’d like Dew Drops upon Rose Petals. His Laugh was as resonant and manly as the Barking of Bull-Dogs. I’faith, the Moment I saw him again, I was prepar’d to forgive, or explain away as vicious Libels, all the scandalous Stories Lady Bellars had told me of him.

O, my Belinda, beware the Lure of a handsome Face, the all too ready Assumption that the lovely Façade must needs have lovely Chambers within; for as ’tis with Great Houses, so, too, with Great Men. They may have grand Porticos and Loggias without, but within may be Madness and Squalor. ’Tis said that by the Cock of the Hat, the Man is known, and Lord Bellars wore his with the Raffishness of a Rogue; yet more gentle Maids of Seventeen have been betray’d by their own trusting Hearts than by the artful Wiles of their Seducers. For, as ’tis usual at that Age to suppose that Nature is ev’rywhere consistent and harmonious, we presume, in our Innocence, that a beauteous Brow contains a beauteous Brain, a handsome Mouth, handsome Words, and a robust manly Form, robust manly Deeds. Alas, my Daughter, ’tis not so.

But I was younger at that Moment than you are now, and I was full of all the Wild Impetuosity of Youth; so I clatter’d at breakneck Speed down the Great Steps and should have run immediately into the Courtyard to greet our Visitors, had not a monstrous Villain upon the second Landing stuck out a Leg to stop me, and sent me toppling headlong down the Stair. Before the World behind my Eyelids went starry as the Night Sky and then black as the Grave, I glimps’d Mary’s Face like a boil’d Pudding with a Smile plaster’d upon it, mocking me from the second Landing; and I knew in my Heart, tho’ all Proof was lacking, that ’twas she who had tripp’d me. (Ah, Belinda, beware, e’en more than the Wiles of Men, the Envy of Women—for more gentle Maids have been betray’d by envious Sisters than e’en by their own trusting Hearts!)

The Ill-Feeling betwixt Mary and myself had an ancient History. Shortly after she was born—disappointingly enough a Girl-Child—Mary was put out with the Wet-Nurse till she was well-nigh three Years of Age, whilst in the Meantime Daniel was brought to birth and I was found upon the fateful Doorstep.

I’faith, both Daniel and I were suckl’d by Wet-Nurses for a Time after our Births, but wet-nurs’d within the Great House itself (where Lady Bellars could oft’ visit us), whilst Mary stay’d away from Home until she could speak. Meanwhile, Lady Bellars, repenting of having lost her Chances at Maternal Affection with her First-born, and i’faith feeling cheated by Lord Bellars’ Mockery of her Maternal Longings, lavish’d these tender Emotions upon me to such a Degree that Mary envied me extreamly, and doubtless wisht me dead.

To make Matters worse, I was a precocious Child, clever where Mary was dull, able to recite lengthy Passages from Paradise Lost and the Sonnets of Mr. Shakespeare, whilst Mary could not e’en remember a simple Country-Ballad; and for this, too, she hated me. I was trotted out in all my babyish Finery to perform before Lord and Lady Bellars’ Guests, whilst my poor Step-Sister, whene’er she attempted a Performance, forgot her Lines, lookt Cow-like and dull-witted, causing Lord Bellars to declare:

La! What a Face! What ails the Child? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the Child was a Changeling and Fannikins my proper Daughter!

To be sure, none of this was calculated to create Good Will betwixt Mary and myself.

How long I lay unconscious I cannot tell. I dreamt I travell’d to the Moon and back, and that the Face of the Moon was the mocking Face of my Step-Sister, Mary. For a little while, I voyaged to those Spheres describ’d by Mr. Milton and Signor Ariosto, and then I awoke to find the whole Household standing o’er me with great Concern and Solicitude, but especially Lord Bellars and Mr. Pope, whose great, kind Eyes, I now could see, were the all-knowing Eyes of a Poet.

Come, gentle Nymph, says he to me, extending a Hand which was delicate as a Maid’s yet cold and pale as Death itself. I found myself at once repuls’d and attracted by his Delicacy, his Death-like Pallor, his large sensitive Eyes and long quiv’ring Nose, the Physiognomy of Poet within the Carcass of a twisted Dwarf.

My Dear, says Lord Bellars, aside to Lady Bellars, you did not tell me our little Foundling was growing into such a Beauty.

And why should I? says Lady Bellars; would you come Home for her when you would not come Home for your own Daughter?

Lord Bellars made a Motion to indicate that this Remark was beneath Contempt, and, thanking the Poet for his Kindness, he also extended a Hand to me, then swept me at once into his Arms, and in full view of the entire Household, carried me up the Stair to my Bedchamber.

Can you imagine the Fire burning in my Cheaks as this Marvel of Manhood scoops me up into his Arms and carries me thus impetuously off?

"Thou art growing into a Beauty, Lord Bellars says, looking down at me from, it seems, a great Height. And then he gallops up the Stair two at a Time, makes haste for my Bedchamber, where he throws me down on the Bed roughly yet playfully, and says, leering like the Devil himself, I know of but one sure Way to revive a fainting Wench." In a trice, my Petticoats and Shift are thrown o’er my Head, muffling my Protestations of Shock and Alarm, and a strong, warm Hand plays Arpeggios o’er the soft, silky Moss that but a few Years before had begun to spring from the Mount-Pleasant betwixt my youthful Thighs, as velvet Grass springs from a silted River-Bank.

His Fingers play’d and strove to twine in the Tendrils of that womanly Vegetation, but suddenly he begins to insinuate a Finger into the very Quick of my Womanhood, inflaming me beyond the twin Pow’rs of Modesty and Surprize to resist, and causing me to cry out, O! O! O! Whereupon he flips the Petticoats back to their Proper Place, surveys my Blushes with Amusement, caresses my Breasts, those great snowy Hillocks tipp’d with rosy Nipples (whose Largeness, i’faith, hath, till this Moment, done nought but embarrass me), laughs, kisses me upon the Lips, and declares, At least my Beauty is still a Virgin—tho’ from the Impatience I feel in her willing Young Blood, she will not be one for long! Whereupon he makes haste to withdraw, leaving me shockt, speechless, all but mute with Outrage mingl’d with shameful Pleasure. Fire cours’d thro’ my Veins, filling me with Longing, Disgust, and Self-loathing.

O, I had heard plenty from the Servants concerning the Evils of giving way to bestial Lust (tho’ from the Servants’ own Behaviour with each other, one should have thought they were scarce the ones to talk!). Yet I knew that the disorder’d Sensations I now felt presaged my Fall from precious Purity into Ruin and Disgrace, and I wept at my Shame. A Man might vent his Passions unafraid, but a Woman did so at her Peril—particularly before Marriage. E’en my timid Step-Mother had press’d upon all her youthful Charges a Pamphlet entitled Onania or the heinous Sin of Self-Pollution, and all its frightful Consequences in both Sexes Consider’d, which told of the Horrors and Distempers which would surely follow soon upon Indulgence in Carnal Pleasure. If Onania might cause Epilepsy, Fevers, Boils, and e’en Death—how much worse Horrors the Loss of a Maidenhead might bring! Yet was I verily confus’d o’er all these Matters, for I had heard Lord Bellars’ Amours jested of below Stairs as nought but Bagatelles, and e’en those of certain married Women of the County more laugh’d o’er than shunn’d. Was Gallantry then a Venial or a Mortal Sin? It depended, i’faith, upon the Committer of the Crime. If he were a Man of Fashion, the Crime was small, but if a Maid of Seventeen, ’twas enormous!

Lord Bellars had not lower’d my Petticoats an Instant too soon, for in a very few Moments, Lady Bellars and Mary arriv’d upon the Scene, and Lord Bellars pretended that nothing untoward had happen’d.

The Wench is just reviving, says he, with supreme Ennui.

So I see, said Lady Bellars haughtily. And then, under her Breath, to Lord Bellars, I wonder why you grace us with your Presence at all, when all you do here is Mischief.

Whereupon Mary peevishly says, defending her Father, as e’er, I’m sure ’twas Fanny’s Fault—the audacious Strumpet!

Hush, says Lady Bellars. And then, gently, to me, Please wear something more modest to Supper, Fannikins. These Poets are a very hot-blooded Lot. Twill not do to stir ’em to a Frenzy. And with that she sweeps out, following her Husband. Mary alone remains, sits upon the edge of my Bed, and whispers venomously into my Ear: You aren’t e’en my proper Sister, you saucy Baggage. Whereupon she spits into my Face and turns and runs.

Can you imagine my Feelings as I lay there on the Bed thus humiliated, arous’d, and finally spat upon? Betwixt my Ruminations upon the Consequences of my Lustful Passions, and my Resentment of my Step-Sister Mary, some new Resolution was brewing within my troubl’d Brain.

How should I revenge myself upon Mary for this Humiliation? And how should I resist those Fires of Passion Lord Bellars had, so knowingly, stirr’d? My Step-Father had been Home only a few Minutes and already the entire Household was in a Tumult.

’Twas e’er thus, in the Past, I recall’d. A Semblance of Order and Harmony prevail’d whilst he amus’d himself in London and Lady Bellars, Mary, Daniel, and myself got on tolerably well; but when my Step-Father betook himself to Lymeworth, all the Ruling Passions of his Wards came horribly to the Fore. Daniel, who (tho’ ungracefully stout and grievously bespatter’d with Pimples) always essay’d to ape his Father’s Manners as a Beau, became frenzied to imitate his Sire’s fabl’d Gallantries. Consequently, when Lord Bellars was at Home, Daniel plagued me continuously with his Lustful Attentions. Mary, for her part, became e’en more uncheckt in her Envy of me; and Lady Bellars, who could be tender, e’en witty, when left to her own Pleasures of Animals and Children, responded to her Husband’s Presence by becoming once again the prim Puritanical Heiress he had, all lovelessly, wed. Thus ’tis true that tho’ People can transcend their Characters in Times of Tranquility, they can ne’er do so in Times of Tumult. E’en I (I freely confess) became too vain and flirtations upon Lord Bellars’ Arrival, provoking my Step-Sister to a veritable Debauch of Envy.

Poor Mary—whose Passion for Roast Beef and Mutton got the better of all her Dreams of Slenderness and Grace—had been taking Purges for two Weeks past, in the Hopes of looking beautiful for her Father. But alas, it avail’d nought; for she would purge and purge, and starve and starve, and then, just as she appear’d somewhat more in the Mould of the Belle she ne’er would be, she’d polish off a whole roast Leg o’ Mutton, washt down with Claret and the sweetest Port!

As Gluttony was her Ruling Passion, so Riding was mine; Roast Beef could I easily forgo, Horseflesh ne’er. I seldom had cause to fret o’er my Form since exercising my dear Horse, Lustre, kept me as slender as Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding kept Mary stout. To be sure, I fretted o’er other Vexations: my uncertain Future, my Lack of Dowery or Prospects, my Dream—dare I confess it?—of going to London to seek my Fortune as a Bard!

For I had conceiv’d the most foolish Passion a Country Lass may entertain: that of going to London as a Lit’ry Wit. O I dreamt of writing Epicks and mingling with the Beau Monde in Town; I dreamt of London Coffee-Houses, Playhouses, Masquerades, and Balls. But chief amongst my Dreams was that of becoming a Famous Scribbler! If ’twas a risible Ambition for a Lad, then how much more ridiculous for a Lass! A Lass in London would be at the Mercy of all Manner of Rogues, Bawds, Sharks, and Sharpers. Lymeworth was Paradise compar’d to London’s Hell. In London were gentle Maids corrupted ev’rywhere, and in London (so I’d heard) did all the most voracious Wolves dress as the meekest Sheep.

At least here at Lymeworth I was Home—for all the Vagaries of my Situation. Perhaps Lord Bellars would find a Marriage Portion for me yet; or perhaps, failing that, I might become a Governess in another Country Seat and snag an Heir in Marriage for myself. As some Men of Fashion are said to have a Hair for Heiresses, perhaps I should discover in myself a Hair for Heirs!

So I mus’d for a Time all optimistick, but then Black Melancholy took me once again. Had I been born a Man, I thought, my orphan’d State should not have been so great a Bar to Preferment, but as a Woman, I suffer’d double Disadvantage. Orphan’d, female, and a secret Scribbler—what worse might the Fates bestow? E’en a Hunchback like Mr. Pope had greater Opportunity than a Lass with a straight Back, Quick Wit, but no Dowery! What Choyce had I then but to hold my Revenge ’gainst Mary in check and swallow my o’erweening Pride? Envy was not so unbearable, I suppos’d. Had not Herodotus himself decreed that ’Tis better to be envied than pitied? I must learn Stealth and Cunning, Guile and Intrigue—howe’er alien to my Temper these Traits were. Having not one Guinea to my Name, no Experience of the Wide World, and no Skills with which to earn my Bread, I must watch and wait for my Opportunity as a wily General waits for the proper Moment to move his Armies.

And so I wip’d the Spittle from my Cheaks and the Tears from my Eyes, and swore an Oath to God that, above all, I would endure.

CHAPTER IV

Of Gardening, Great Houses, the Curse of Fashion, Paradise Lost, a Family Supper with a Famous Visitor in Attendance, and the Foolish Curiosity of Virgins of Seventeen.

AS HATH BEEN SAID, our weary Travellers were not to be feasted that first Night, but rather upon the Morrow, when all our local Gentry would be invited to Dinner to meet our Great Man, Favourite of both Fortune and the Muses, tho’ not Nature—the Divine Dwarf, Mr. Pope. But upon the Night of the Poet’s Arrival, we were to have a small Family Supper, after which Mary would divert us with a Concert upon the Harpsichord (hoping, no doubt, to disguise with the Beauteousness of Mr. Handel’s Musick the Ugliness of her Form). Whereupon Mr. Pope would discourse to us concerning his fam’d Hobby, namely the Design of Gardens and Parks according to Nature’s own Rule; for Mr. Pope was one of the most loyal Sons of Flora that e’er liv’d and ’twas his Delight to help his Friends and Noble Patrons to plan their Gardens in such a Manner that the Works of Nature and Art should mutually compleat each other.

Lord Bellars had written Lady Bellars of all this and she had communicated it to me. Now that he had prosper’d so greatly and amass’d still another Fortune thro’ investing his Profits from the treacherous South Sea Bubble, Lord Bellars was eager to pull down the Family’s ancestral Mansion, a fine Gothick Pile, dating from the Time of Elizabeth, standing upon a Site bestow’d upon one of Lord Bellars’ Ancestors by Gloriana herself, and to replace it with a new House in the modern Palladian Style. So, too, with the Gardens—those geometrick Mazes and Hedgerows laid out in the Time of Charles the Second. They were to be mercilessly uprooted to make way for a Park in the very latest Fashion, design’d at great Expence to mimick Nature, with grazing Sheep, little Temples, diminutive Mosques and Pagodas, a tiny Village, with real Peasants dress’d in rustick Shepherds’ Garb, and e’en a Grotto, modell’d after Mr. Pope’s at Twickenham. The beloved Evergreens of my Childhood, (cut to resemble Peacocks with spread Tails, Bears dancing, heraldick Beasts, great Globes, Pyramids, and Cones), were to be consign’d to the Rubbish Heap in the Name of Fashion, and i’faith, Mr. Pope had come for no other Purpose than to help us plan our Garden, such a Devoté was he of the fine Art of making cultivated Parks resemble the very Wilderness from which they had sprung.

Alas, it made me very melancholick indeed—this Deference to the fickle Name of Fashion! Lymeworth (for that was the Bellarses’ Country Seat) had been my Home since Childhood, and to say the Truth, the Gothick Style of Building could produce no nobler Edifice. Lord Bellars might call it a nasty old Gothick Ruin, but to me it had the Smell of History and Grandeur. Elizabeth herself had once been a Guest at Lymeworth and heard Sweet Musick in the Long Gallery under the fram’d Portraits of the earliest Ancestors of Lord Bellars’. ’Twas rumour’d that Shakespeare had been a Visitor, perhaps coming as part of a travelling Troupe of Players. And ’twas further rumour’d that the High Great Chamber (with its Flemish Tapestries depicting the Court of Diana the Huntress, embower’d in a green Wood) was the Room in which he perform’d. But this was the very Room Lord Bellars had grown most to detest as "barbarously old-fashion’d and lacking in Elegance, Proportion, and Ton." So ’twas all to be pull’d down, the Bricks and Beams of my Childhood, the long Halls in which I had run and play’d with Daniel and Mary before Age, Envy, and Lust separated us; the vast stone Stair and the carv’d Chimney Pieces, the dancing Stags above the Fire-Place in the Great Hall, that very Fire-Place where we Children us’d to hide from each other (and from our Nurse) in our childish Games, and where once we had e’en burnt a great Full-bottom’d Wig of Lord Bellars’ for Sport (and had been severely punish’d for the Prank).

And the Gardens, what Villain could find fault with the Gardens? Lymeworth stood just below the Summit of a pleasing Hillock, shap’d like a plump Thigh, looking down upon a peaceful Valley below, shelter’d from the Wind by a Stand of Ancient Oaks, above a gently rolling Meadow embellish’d with Beeches, Elms, and Chestnut Trees. Besides the evergreen Mazes and topiary Trees of which I have previously spoken, there was a delightful enclos’d Garden, whose Wall was studded with Obelisks at regular Intervals, as well as great carv’d Balls and white heraldick Beasts, all fashion’d of Stone. Within the wall’d Garden was a Bow’r, smelling more sweetly of Flow’rs than anything in Mr. Milton’s Paradise. To pull this down was truly like pulling down Eden, and Lord Bellars must needs be our Lucifer, luring us out of this Garden in the Name of Fashion.

Milord, said the Poet to Lord Bellars, o’er our light country Supper of Broth, Bread, and fresh-churn’d Butter, Pudding with Suet and Raisins, and finally Cheese for Dessert, follow’d by Lisbon Oranges, Muscadine Grapes, Prunes of Tours, and Pears of Rousselet—Milord, there is nothing more repugnant to the Eye than the Mathematical Exactness and crimping Stiffness of the Gardens of our Ancestors. We must venture, rather, to paint a Landscape out of living Material, as Salvator Rosa, Gaspard Poussin, and Claude Lorrain painted the most romantick Prospects upon willing Canvas.

Romantick, Sir? Do you use that Term which means ‘all that is wild, unrestrain’d, and absurd in Nature’?

Nay, Milord, says the Poet, I mean the Passion for Things of a Natural Kind, where neither Art nor the Caprice of Man hath spoil’d their genuine Order but rather reform’d ’em closer to the Heart’s Desire. I speak of the Beauties of rude Rocks, mossy Caverns, flowing Rivulets, and rolling Waters…. I speak of enchanted Bow’rs, silver Streams, opening Avenues, rising Mounts, and glitt’ring Grottoes alive with the Sounds of running Water, like the classical Nymphaeum of Old, the very Haunt of the Muses.

I must confess I was impress’d by this beauteous Flow of Words and in my Mind’s Eye began to see an enchanted Garden, despite my previous Reluctance to suffer any Change at Lymeworth.

Pray, Sir, I askt the Poet (who was sitting on my Right, and had i’faith often allow’d his Eyes to wander downward towards my Bosom, which, notwithstanding the Modesty Piece Lady Bellars had caus’d me to wear, was still quite visible), describe your Grotto for us, for Lord Bellars hath told us ’tis one of the Wonders of the World, and if I am not mistaken, he means to build one here at Lymeworth, when the new House hath been erected according to the Plans of Mr. Kent and Mr. Campbell.

It gives me great Joy, says the Bard, to describe my Grotto to a Young Lady of your surpassing Beauty; for Harmony is all in Nature, and what greater Harmony could there be than to describe one beauteous Marvel of Nature for the Ears of another.

I blusht crimson at this gallant Compliment whilst Mary glower’d at me across the Table and Lord Bellars glow’d with Pride (or perhaps ’twas Lust), and Lady Bellars toy’d idly with a Muscadine Grape.

My Dear, he continu’d, ’tis the very Maze of Fancy, a subterranean Chamber, craggy and mysterious as if Nature herself had made it, finish’d with Shells interspers’d with Pieces of Looking Glass in angular Forms, and in the Ceiling is a Star of the same Material, from which, when a Lamp of an orbicular Figure of thin Alabaster is hung in the Middle, a thousand pointed Rays glitter, and are reflected o’er the Place. Connected to this Grotto by a narrower Passage are two Porches with Niches and Seats—one facing towards the Thames, made ingeniously of smooth Stones, and the other rough with Shells, Flints, and Iron Ore, like the Cave of the Muses itself. The Bottom is pav’d with simple Pebbles so as not to distract the Eye from the little open Temple it leads to, which is wholly compos’d of Cockle Shells in the rustick Manner, and agrees not ill with the constant dripping Murmur, which lends the whole aquatick Idea to the Place. It wants nothing to compleat it, my dear Fanny, but a Statue of you, in the Garb of a Nymph—or perhaps, if my Eyes do not deceive me about your Natural Beauty, in no Garb at all!

At this, I blusht still more furiously crimson, and Lord Bellars laugh’d uproariously.

Sir, you mock me, I protested.

Marry come up, Fanny, I have ne’er been more serious in my Life.

But tell me more of the Grotto, I said, wishing desp’rately to move on to less indiscreet Subjects (for little did I suspect in my Innocence that Mr. Pope’s Grotto was perhaps a sort of warm Womb to him, who had such Difficulty persuading Ladies to share his lonely Bed).

There is little more to say, said the Poet. You must see it with your own Eyes, as Lord Bellars hath done. You will think my Description is poetical, but ’tis nearer the Truth than you would suppose. Moreo’er, I plan to expand the Grotto into no less than five Caverns, each with its own Design of Crystals, Amethysts, Shells, and Ores. I hope to secure rare Corals and petrified Moss, and e’en large Clumps of Cornish Diamonds. Eventually, there shall be a Bagnio and num’rous conceal’d Fountains whence Cataracts of Water shall precipitate above your Head, from impending Stones and Rocks, whilst salient Spouts rise in rapid Streams at your Feet. Water shall break amongst Heaps of Flints and Spar. Thus Nature and Art will join to the mutual Advantage of both.

I was silenced once again by the Beauty of his Description, for when Mr. Pope spoke, one forgot his twisted Form, his thinning Hair, the gen’ral Fustiness of his Person (for he was too twisted to bathe or dress without Assistance), and one saw, in place of his Form, the Beauties of the Things he describ’d. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a Poet—to compensate with Words for what Nature had denied one’s Frame; and sure he had a more than natural Passion for this Grotto of his, which seem’d to be a kind of pleasing Substitution for the Unpleasingness of his Person. ’Twas the Cave in which he summon’d the Muses and polish’d his Verses, but was it not also a Re-forming of himself? (Thus would I ruminate about Human Nature in my Melancholick Youth.)

I wonder’d then if I could be a Poet, since there was no Beauty lacking in my Person; but certainly the Circumstances of being born an Orphan had given me Knowledge of Sorrow, which perhaps, together with much Practice and the Muses’ Blessing, would be enough. I resolv’d to find Mr. Pope privily after Supper and discourse of this with him.

The Ladies (Lady Bellars, Mary, and myself) then withdrew, leaving the Gentlemen to piss and drink, Chamber-Potts and Bottles for the Purposes being produced from the Sideboard. I know ’tis perhaps indelicate to mention this Custom, but as I am writing for my own Belinda, who may be unacquainted with Country Manners at the Time of George I, I am sure my Indelicacy may be excus’d. For ’twas indeed the Custom of that Time for the Gentlemen to relieve themselves in the Dining Room whilst the Ladies retir’d to the House of Easement or their own Chambers.

Upon this Occasion, when Lady Bellars had withdrawn to her Chamber, Mary grabb’d me rudely and propos’d that we two attempt to view the Gentlemen’s Diversions thro’ the Dining-Room Keyhole.

For I am sure, says Mary, that just as his Back is deform’d, so his Masculine Appendage must be similarly gothick and strange. Whereupon she lets out a devilish Cackle, and goads me with: Come, Fanny, are you such a Coward you will not? Whereupon she claps her Eye to the Keyhole, and glues it there, whilst I struggle betwixt Curiosity and Disgust.

Oooh, says she, what a prodigious Engine he hath, despite his small Stature, and then she falls silent for a Moment, staring thro’ the Keyhole with rapt Attention, and then she makes Noises of Mock-Alarm and Surprize, (acting more like a Chambermaid than a Lady—except that a Chambermaid might i’faith have had more Pretensions to the Graces than she).

Come, she says, have a Look. You will scarce believe your Eyes.

Reluctantly, foolishly, and with Feelings of Dread and Foreboding, I knelt and clapp’d my Eye to the Hole, thro’ which I saw a Sight which scarce was worth the Pain it caus’d me later.

My Step-Father, Lord Bellars, was betting with the Poet about who could most closely hit a Grape thrown into the Pisspott, whilst poor, corpulent Daniel lookt on, with Awe and Admiration for his Father’s manly Gifts. As for their Masculine Engines, ’twas hard to tell beneath their long Coats, but Mr. Pope’s seem’d a tiny piddling Thing, not deform’d, but Toy-like, whilst Lord Bellars appear’d most mightily well equipp’d. But ’twas the Gaming I wonder’d at, more than the Anatomy. I had little Experience then of confirm’d Gamblers, tho’ Today, I know they will lay Wagers upon anything—from twin Raindrops coursing down a Window Pane to fine Arabian Mares. Lord Bellars was surely one of those, and it astounded me that the Great Poet, who just Moments before had discours’d of Nature and Art, should now be taking great Delight in pissing at a Grape in a Chamber-Pott!

Pray, what are you doing? came a stern Voice behind me. ’Twas Lady Bellars, suddenly return’d to pry out our Mischief.

I rose and faced her, blushing hotly.

Fanny forced me to, says Mary, unbidden. Fanny forced me. I was so frighten’d. I e’en clos’d my Eyes and refus’d to look. I swear it. I swear it upon a Bible.

Hush, said Lady Bellars. Fanny, is this true?

My Lady, says I, I cannot plead my own Case. As you saw me with my Eye to the Keyhole, so I was. My Sin was Curiosity, nothing more. But I swear I did not force Mary’s Hand.

Yes, she did! She did! says Mary.

Go to your Chambers, both of you, says Lady Bellars. I will get the Truth of this later.

My Lady, I am deeply asham’d, I said. I beg you to accept my Apology.

Go, says Lady Bellars, both of you, go.

As we were departing, Mary whisper’d one final Insult in my Ear. I’ll have you banish’d from Lymeworth yet, says she.

Mary, I said, drawing myself up straight and tall, you are nothing but a Fool. Having me punish’d will not save you from your own Foolishness. You are a Fool for Life, I fear.

I believe my Dignity alarm’d her more than any Excuses or Insults might have done, for as she blam’d me, she very rightly expected I would blame her, but I had sufficient Understanding of Human Nature e’en then to know ’twould do no Good. Mary had brought her own Punishment upon her Head since, as she had hop’d to win her Father’s Favour by serenading him and his Famous Guest upon the Harpsichord, she was now bereft of that Consolation. Had I plotted such a Revenge, I could not have executed it more cunningly than Mary’s own Curiosity and Lechery (as well as her Desire to betray me) had done.

If you learn only one Thing, my Belinda, learn that your Enemies will sooner betray themselves than you can help ’em to Betrayal. Accept the Blame for your own Errors and seek to learn from them, but do not try to shift the Blame onto others. ’Twill not only do you no Good (for Blaming can ne’er undo a Wrong), but ’twill cause you to become a Scold and a Coward. When caught in a grievous Error, hold your Tongue and look deep into your Heart. Let Fools scold, and blame; look instead within yourself. A Soul is partly given, partly wrought; remember always that you are the Maker of your own Soul.

Ne’ertheless, perhaps Mary’s Rancour was an Instrument of the Fates; for tho’ our Concert now was cancell’d, my own Adventures were only just beginning, as you presently shall see.

CHAPTER V

Of Flip-Flaps, Lollipops, Picklocks, Love-Darts, Pillicocks, and the Immortal Soul, together with some Warnings against Rakes, and some Observations upon the Erotick Proclivities of Poets.

BANISH’D TO MY CHAMBER, I ponder’d my Plight. Owing to my Foolish Curiosity I had lost the Opportunity to discourse with Mr. Pope upon Subjects dearer to my Heart than the Sizes of Masculine Machines. It hath anyway been my Experience, dearest Belinda, that only Fools concern themselves thus with relative Anatomies. ’Tis true there are vast Diff’rences betwixt Men in regard to their am’rous Equipage (which is why Men always wish to be reassur’d to the Contrary), vast Diff’rences betwixt the Pow’rs granted by Venus, and vast Diff’rences betwixt the Native Temperaments granted by their Stars (about all of which I shall have more to say anon), but only Simpletons and Dullards dwell upon these Diff’rences in Size to the Exclusion of other Qualities.

Some Men have stiff staring Truncheons, red-topp’d, rooted into Thickets of Curls which resemble the jungl’d Shores of the Indies; some have pitiful crooked Members, pale and white as unbak’d Bread; some Men have strange brownish Mushrooms upon bent Stalks; and some have tiny pinkish Things, more like budding Roses than Pricks. Also, nothing in this weary World hath as many divers Names as that commonplace Organ; and you will find that the Name by which a Man calls his own hath much to do with how he regards himself.

Doth he call it a Batt’ring-Piece? Well then, he will probably lye with you that way. Doth he call it a Bauble? He is probably vain of his Wigs and Waistcoats as well. Doth he call it a Dirk? He is surely a Scotsman, and gloomy ’neath his drunken Bravado. Doth he call it a Flip-Flap? Well then, be advis’d: you will have to work very hard to make it stand (and once standing, ’twill wish for nothing but to lye down again). Doth he call it a Lance-of-Love? Doubtless, he writes dreadful Verses, too. Nor is a Man’s Estimation of his own Privy Member necessarily infallible. The Politician who boasts of his Member-for-Cockshire, the Butcher who praises his Skewer, the Poet who prates of his Picklock, the Actor who loves his Lollipop, the Footman who boasts of his Ramrod, the Parson who praises his Pillicock, the Orator who apotheosizes his Adam’s-Arsenal, the Archer who aims his Love-Dart, the Sea Captain who adores his own Rudder—none of these Men, howsoe’er lively their Mental Parts, is to be trusted upon his own Estimation of his Prowess in the Arts (and Wars) of Love!

But, as I was saying, no one but a Blockhead dwells upon Anatomy to the Exclusion of other Qualities. The Soul is far more important than the body in ev’ry respect and e’en a Man of Pleasure (if he is also a Man of Parts) understands this.

Only a Rake cares more for his Privy Member than his Soul, and a Rake, you will find ere long, is the dullest sort of Man. Because he is so devoted to his Masculine Organ, he can think of nothing but finding divers Whores to gratify his Lust for Novelty. He thinks he will find a Woman with a newer, prettier Way of wiggling her Hips, a Whore who knows three score and nine Arabick Love Positions, Tricks with Handkerchiefs, Oils and Salves of the Orient, Bijoux Indiscrets (as the French call ’em), or ivory Toys and Gewgaws from China which are carv’d to resemble Elephant Organs or other Absurdities of that sort. Stay away from such Men. There is no Pleasure to be found in their Company, no Wisdom in their Conversation, no Generosity towards their Mistresses, and before long they will surely give you Pox into the Bargain. A dissolute Footman, a Dancing Master with an Excess of Hubris, a Porter with Delusions of Grandeur, makes a better Rake than a Man of Parts and Breeding, because he hath no Education to cause him a Moment’s Hesitation in his loathsome, ignoble, and degrading Vices; if you let a Rake into your Bed, you will i’faith often find a Footman in the cast-off Clothes of his Lord.

But to continue with my Tale. I lay abed consid’ring how my Foolish Curiosity (and Mary’s Treachery) had undone my rare Opportunity to discourse with a True Poet upon the Habits and Habitations of the Muses, when suddenly the Door sprang open, and who should enter but Mr. Pope himself!

O Sir, I said, you were just at this very Moment in my Thoughts.

And so were you in mine, says the Poet, coming towards me, with a goatish Smile upon his Lips.

I was just this Moment wond’ring, I said, the Blood flying up into my Face, Neck, and Breasts, if I might pose you a few Queries concerning the Art of Poesy.

Pose all you like, my Dear, says he, loping o’er to the Bed, and seating himself upon the edge of it, whence his tiny Legs dangl’d like broken Twigs in the Wind, after a Storm.

Well, then, said I, so engross’d in my Thoughts of the Muses that I scarce troubl’d to enquire what he was doing in my Chamber, is it vain for a Woman to wish to be a Poet, or e’en to be the first Female Laureate someday?

Whereupon he broke into a Gale of unkind Laughter, which made me blush still harder for my presum’d Foolishness.

Fanny, my Dear, the Answer is implied in the Query itself. Men are Poets; Women are meant to be their Muses upon Earth. You are the Inspiration of the Poems, not the Creator of Poems, and why should you wish it otherwise?

I confess I was dumbfounded by the Manner in which he pos’d his Query and press’d his Point. I had my own tentative first Verses secreted directly ’neath the Pillow of the Bed, but I was far too abash’d at that Moment to draw ’em out and ask his Opinion. I’faith, with each Word he utter’d, I was coming, increasingly, to disdain those Verses, which only a few Moments before had seem’d touch’d with the Fire of the Muses.

See these fine twin Globes? said the Poet, suddenly reaching into my Boddice and disengaging my Breasts. I gasp’d with Shock but dar’d not interrupt the Poet’s Flow of beauteous Words:

See their roseate Nipples, the Colour of Summer Dawn? Why, they are like the twin Planets of an undiscover’d Cosmos, says he, and these Lips… (he made bold to glue his cold, clammy Lips to one Nipple) are like unto the Explorer who comes to set his Standard upon their Shores…

Alarm’d as I was, I could not think of how to interrupt him without insulting an honour’d Guest, and as he suckt upon one Nipple and then the other, firing my Blood and putting all my Thoughts into Disorder, my Resolve grew e’er more befuddl’d. For tho’ I found his Person loathsome, his Words were fine and elegant, and despite what he argu’d about the Fair Sex and the Art of Poesy, I was e’er more conquer’d by fine Language than by fine Looks.

But Sir, I protested, moving, albeit momentarily, out of his Grasp, is not Inspiration a Thing which hath no Gender, is neither male nor female, as Angels are neither male nor female?

In Theory, that is correct, said the Poet, reaching under my Shift and insinuating a cold, clammy Hand betwixt my dampening Thighs, but in Practice, Inspiration more frequently visits those of the Male Sex, and for this following Reason, mark you well. As the Muse is female, so the Muse is more likely to receive male Lovers than female ones. Therefore, a Woman Poet is an Absurdity of Nature, a vile, despis’d Creature whose Fate must e’er be Loneliness, Melancholy, Despair, and eventually Self-Slaughter. Howe’er, if she chooses the sensible Path, and devotes her whole Life to serving a Poet of the Masculine Gender, the Gods shall bless her, and all the Universe resound with her Praise. ’Tis all part of Nature’s Great Plan. As Angels are above Men and God is above Angels, so Women are below Men and above Children and Dogs; but if Women seek to upset that Great Order by usurping Men in their proper Position of Superiority, both in the Arts and the Sciences, as well as Politicks, Society, and Marriage, they reap nothing but Chaos and Anarchy, and i’faith the whole World tumbles to its Ruin.

So saying, he had managed to wiggle a Finger upward into that tender Virginal Opening which had been unattempted till that very Day (when ’twas visited first by a Finger belonging to Lord Bellars and then one belonging to the Poet himself!), and by wiggling and squirming it and at the same Time intermittently sucking, with renew’d Determination, upon both Nipples, he had made fair Headway against my Maidenhead, whilst speaking of God’s Great Plan and the Mighty Laws of Nature.

But Sir, I said, above the growing Pounding of my Blood in my Ears, like Waves upon the Shore, "cannot this Plan