Fanny Read Free Page B

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