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

I Was Born in the Reign of Queen Anne, but the exact Date of my Birth I do not know, owing to the unfortunate Occurrence of my having been abandon'd upon a Doorstep in tenderest Infancy. Whether my Natural Parents were, as the Saying goes, poor but honest, or whether they were poor and vicious, I cannot in Good Conscience say. That they were poor is a fair enough Conjecture, else why would they have left a poor 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 named Bellars: Sir Laurence Bellars and his Lady, Cecilia. Sir Laurence 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 extremely rich, and ev'rything he did, it seem'd, made him richer.

Sir Laurence 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, lord 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.

My Step-Mother, Lady Bellars, was one of the most wretchèd Creatures who ever 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 to use her married State as a Cloak to cover divers Amours, she languish'd in the Country, devoting herself to her Children far past the Age when they requir'd Care, and to a Menagerie of Beasts on whom she lavish'd a more than natural Maternal Affection. 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 practiced upon her by her Husband. I learn'd from her 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 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 Half-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!). For all these Things, I was teas'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 to 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.

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!

A Man who could write that must be the most sensitive Soul that e'er liv'd! He must have Eyes that see ev'ry Thing 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 Stairs or thrusting his greasy Hands into my Bosom.

•

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-gray saque-backed 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.

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 sort 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 cocked 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 (continued on page 203)Fanny(continued from page 106) manly as the Barking of Bull-dogs. I' faith, the Moment I saw him, I was prepar'd to forgive, or explain away as vicious Libels, all the scandalous Stories Lady Bellars had told me of him.

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 betrayed 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, 'tis not so.

But I was young 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. 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!

How long I lay unconscious I cannot tell, but I awoke to find the whole Household standing o'er me with great Concern and Solicitude, 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 deathlike Pallor, his large sensitive Eyes and long quivering Nose, the Physiognomy of Poet within the Carcass of a twisted Dwarf.

"Madam," 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 hath 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 Powers 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 shocked, 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.

Lord Bellars had not lower'd my Petticoats an Instant too soon, for in a very few Moments, Lady Bellars 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." 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.

•

We had a small Family Supper that Night, after which Mary was to favour 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).

The Poet was sitting on my Right, and i' faith often allow'd his Eyes to wander downward toward my Bosom, which, notwithstanding the Modesty Piece Lady Bellars had caus'd me to wear, was still quite visible. "Pray, Sir," I askt, "describe your Grotto for us, for Lord Bellars hath told us 'tis one of the Wonders of the World."

"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 blush'd 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 continued, " '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. Connected to this Grotto by a narrower Passage are two Porches with Niches and Seats--one facing toward the Thames, made ingeniously of smooth Stones, and the other rough with Shells, Flints and Iron Ore, like the Cave of the Muses itself. It wants no Thing 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 blush'd still more furiously crimson, and Lord Bellars laugh'd uproariously.

"Sir, you mock me," I protested.

"Marry come up, Fanny, I have never been more serious in my Life."

"But tell me more of the Grotto," I said, wishing desperately to move on to less indiscreet Subjects (for little did I suspect in my Innocent Youth 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. Eventually, there shall be a Bagnio and numerous 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 general 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. I resolv'd to find Mr. Pope privily after Supper and discourse more 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. 'Twas 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 have i' faith 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 clapt my Eye to the Hole.

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 toylike, whilst Lord Bellars was 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 any Thing--from twin Raindrops coursing down a Window Pane to fine Arabian Mares. Lord Bellars was surely one of those, and it astound'd 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?"

"Madam," 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."

"Madam, I am deeply asham'd," I said. "I beg you to accept my Apology."

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

•

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 since been my Experience, that only Fools concern themselves thus with relative Anatomies. 'Tis true there are vast Differences betwixt Men in regard to their Am'rous Equipage (which is why Men always wish to be reassur'd to the Contrary), but only Simpletons and Dullards dwell upon Differences 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 crooked Stalks; and some have tiny pinkish Things, more like budding Roses than Pricks. Also, no Thing 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 Battering-piece? Well, then, he will probably lie 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 no Thing but to lie 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 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 no Thing 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 toward 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 bath 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 toward me with a goatish Smile upon his Lips.

"I was just this Moment wondering," 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 twiglike Legs dangl'd like broken Branches in the Wind, after a Storm.

"Well, then," said I, so engross'd in my Thoughts of the Muses that I scarce thought 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 some Day?"

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 these 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 no Thing 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 by one belonging to the Poet himself!), and by wiggling and squirming it and at the same time intermittently sucking, with renew'd Determination, upon one Nipple and then the other, 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 Shores, "cannot this Plan be alter'd? Cannot a great Female Poet rise up who will give the Lye to these immutable Theories?"

"No," said the Poet, "a thousand times NO. For whate'er exists in Nature is but an Expression of God's Will, and if He hath placed Women below Men, you can be sure 'tis for a Noble Purpose. In short, whate'er is, Is Right."

Whereupon he loosen'd his Breeches, fumbl'd 'neath his Waistcoat and curious Doublet for his tiny pink Member, threw my Petticoats above my Head, and made ready to assault my Maidenhead, with the very Weapon made for the Purpose. But my Guardian Angel must have been attending me at that Moment, for just as he made for my tender Virgin Cunnikin, his own Eagerness brought on the Ultimate Period of his Hot Fit of Lust, of which my firm young Thighs and clean Petticoats receiv'd the egregious Effusion.

"O, ohhh," he groan'd, part in Relief, part in Disappointment. And he buried his Head betwixt my Breasts, where his Eyes let fall a few hot Tears of Distress.

"O my Fanny, you are all the Inspiration I shall e'er wish. Come away with me to Twickenham. You shall be Mistress of my House and my Heart, Queen of the Muses, first among Women. I shall dress you in Sattens and gold Lace, cover you with Jewels, adorn you as I adorn my Grotto...."

"O Sir," said I, "I cannot leave the tender Parents who have taken me in and rais'd me to Womanhood. Lady Bellars would be heartbroken. Please, Sir, do not tempt me so." But his offer put me suddenly in Mind of a Plan for leaving Lymeworth and making my Way to London. Consequently, I did not tell the Poet what I thought of his miserable Form and his loathsome Avowals of Passion. I wip'd the sticky Substance from my Thighs with a fine Cambrick Handkerchief and begg'd my Admirer to take Leave of me so that I might consider his Proposal till the Morrow.

•

By the Time the Poet took Leave of me, 'twas nearing Eleven o' the Clock; for I could hear the large House Clock, which we had standing upon the Backstairs Head, ring its eleven Bells shortly after his Departure. Nor did he leave without putting almost a Handful of Gold into my trembling Hand and making a thousand Protestations of his Passion for me.

How can I convey to you my Perplexity about the Spectacle of Masculine Lust I had just witness'd? At Seventeen, I was a Virgin, and my Knowledge of Venus' Hot Fires was slight, indeed.

I' faith, I had witness'd Swiving in my Time--Dogs, Horses, Chickens, Servants and Daniel did it--that I knew. I had come upon him with the Dairymaid in the Dairy (whence they were doubtless curdling Cream), but to think so great a Bard as Mr. Pope should have such low and bestial Proclivities, 'twas puzzling, puzzling in the extream.

Thus was I reflecting when once again came a Knock upon the Door of my Bedchamber, and without waiting to be invited, who should appear, but my Step-Brother Daniel himself, drunk with Port and slobb'ring into his Shirt Front like an elderly Spaniel. (I could not but note with Amusement and Disdain that he had unbutton'd his Waistcoat most rakishly to show the copious Ruffles of his fine Holland linen Shirt, which he presum'd would have a most killing effect upon the Fair Sex!)

"'Tis a Shame you miss'd the Party, Fannikin, my Lamb," says he, advancing toward the Bed, and looking Goats and Monkies at me. "We scarce miss'd Mary's Concert at all--so merry were we with Drink and Conversation."

"Pray, who did you enter?" I demanded, leaping up from the Bed, so as to better defend my Person from his intended Assaults.

"Oho!" says Daniel drunkenly, picking at his Pustules with one Hand, "do you not wish for my Company?"

"Certainly not," say I. "When I wish for the Company of a drunken Lout, I shall find a prettier one than you at the Bear & Dragon." (The Bear & Dragon, as you may guess, was our local Village Tavern, and a dirtier, more scurvy Hole, fill'd with more drunken Country Hobnails could not be found in all of England.)

"Oho! Do you insult me then?" says Daniel, turning red behind all his Pimples and Pock-Marks.

"Call it what you will," I said haughtily, "so long as you quit this Place at once."

"Oho!" says Daniel, "I will not suffer gladly such Insults to my Person and my Parts," and he makes bold to approach me and breathe his pestilential Breath full into my Face (as if 'twould fell me quite--like a Dragon's Breath of Fire!). Whereupon, without further Ceremony or Preamble, he flings his Arms about my Neck, plants his loathsome Kisses upon my Bosom, and attempts to lay me down upon the Bed again and to unlock my Thighs. In a trice, I gather all my Force against his tott'ring Drunkenness, heave myself up with the Puissance which the Goddess of Anger alone makes possible, and kick, with one pointed Satten Slipper, straight into his Breech.

"O Jesus, I am kill'd!" he shouts. "O my poor Pillicock, my poor Peewee!" And he reels backward, holding his Hands to his Breech, and then falls o'er the Washstand, landing in a great Crash and Clatter, with the Wash Pitcher scatter'd in Pieces 'round him.

"Now, then," say I, standing o'er him and pressing my Advantage like Athena the Warrior Goddess herself, "out!"

"O cruel Fanny," slobbers Daniel, "cruel, cruel Fanny. Dost thou not know I love thee?"

"Go make Love to Mrs. Betty the Chambermaid, who is already Great with Child by thee. Or Mrs. Polly the Milkmaid, who soon will be! I have no use for a brawling drunken Lout who is my own Step-Brother to boot."

"But not Blood-Brother, Fanny. Come, what's the Harm in it?"

"The Harm is the next Kick I shall give thee, which shall finish thy Am'rous Tricks fore'ermore!" said I, savouring my Rage.

"O please," he whimper'd, "please, please," and he commenced to crawl upon his Belly like a Snake toward the Door of my Chamber, whimp'ring and mewling and slobb'ring, until, having reach'd the Doorjamb, he rais'd himself by the brass Door Pull and, with a reproachful, simp'ring backward Glance, let himself out of the Chamber. E'en as he departed, one idle Hand pinch'd a Pustule upon his Cheak. (If such a Complexion was the Result of Lust, 'twas well indeed I scotch'd it in myself!)

He had scarce been gone ten Minutes when once again the Door open'd and Lord Bellars enter'd my Virgin Chamber.

My Thoughts were in such a great Turmoil from the divers Events of the Ev'ning, and my Body so weary from my Exertions 'gainst Daniel, that I could do no more than sigh when Lord Bellars came to me, tow'ring o'er my Bed, and looking down at me with those fine sparkling brown Eyes.

"You are so beautiful, my Fanny," he said. "All this Night I have thought of no Thing but your Beauty."

"Pray, do not flatter me, Milord. It makes me blush."

And 'twas true, the Blood came as readily to my Face as Moths to a Candle Flame on a hot Summer Night. As their Wings quiver and flutter, so I trembl'd 'neath Lord Bellars' Gaze. My Hands grew cold, my Cheaks hot; the Blood drain's, it seem'd, from my Feet and Hands, and sped up into my patched and painted Cheaks.

"Nay. Do not forbid me Speech, for if I can possess you only with Words, I will speak, despite your Alarms. You are so inimitably fair and lovely. Your Limbs are fine-turn'd and your Eyes run o'er with Liquid Amber. Your Breasts are whiter than Alpine Snow and your Hair flames like a thousand Autumns past, and a thousand Autumns yet to come. You are like a Daughter to me and yet, do I dare dream an Intimacy betwixt us e'en greater than that of filial Duty and an Orphan's Gratitude?"

He clasp'd me in his strong Arms, and I almost fainted away like one drugg'd.

"Oh, no, Milord, pray, please refrain. Consider me, I beg you, for I am a Creature who hath no Protection but you, no Defense but your Honour. I conjure you not to make me abhor myself!--not to make me vile in my own Eyes!"

He then fell to his Knees at the Edge of the Bed and exclaim'd, "I make an Oath at your Feet, to possess you or dye!" Whereupon he removes the tiny pointed Satten Slipper from my right Foot and presses his Lips to the Sole of my Foot.

"I beseech you, Milord ..." I stammer'd. For, had he kiss'd my Breasts directly, 'twould have provok'd less Rapture than when he thus abas'd himself to kiss my Foot. How unworthy was that coarse Foot against his fine Lips!

"Please, Sir," I protested.

"My Angel," he sigh'd, now flinging away the other Slipper and kissing the other Sole. "Please forgive, if e'er you can, my Coarseness upon that earlier Occasion, for until Dinner I did not know what a fine delicate Creature you had become, despite your lusty Beauty. O, for my Presumption, a thousand Pardons! But after hearing you discourse with Mr. Pope upon his Grotto, upon Nature and Art, I knew I had treated you most scurvily. And for that I would sooner drive this Sword ..." (and here he drew it and it twinkl'd evilly in the dim Candlelight)" ... into my Breast than have you loathe me for a vile Villain, a Common Rake, which surely is your Right, consid'ring what hath transpir'd before Supper."

O what Confusion reign'd in my Breast! First the Poet, then Daniel, then Lord Bellars! Daniel I knew for a Fool and Knave; the Poet seem'd a pitiable Creature, desiring to be above Women because he could ne'er stand equal with Men--but Lord Bellars?--how was I to judge Lord Bellars? Here was a Passion declar'd in Words so tender that one could scarce doubt its Sincerity. (O Lust I knew to be a low Emotion, but Love was all the Poets' highest Good!)

The Sword Tip hung pois'd o'er his manly Bosom. He tore off his Neckcloth, ripp'd open his embroider'd Satten Waistcoat and laid bare his linen Shirt Front, as if to pierce that snowy Field until the red Poppies of his Blood flower'd upon it.

"Well, then, come Death!" he exclaim'd, and with his left Hand tore open the Linen to reveal a fine, reddish Fur, twining here and there into sweet Ringlets, and two boyish Paps of rosy pink 'round which the same reddish Hair did spring.

"Hold!" I cried. "How should I e'er forgive myself if I were to be the Cause of your Death."

"I would rather dye than dishonour you," he said, "but my Love is such that I must do violence to one of us--and since I cannot be the Murderer of that fair Maidenhead, which I have rais'd from tend'rest Infancy, I must dye myself. 'Tis a tragick but necessary Choyce! Adieu, sweet Maid! Think of me tenderly, if you think of me at all." And, so saying, he drove the Sword Point into his Chest, whereupon I fell to my Knees on the Floor, beseeching him to refrain, to hold, to stop.

He dropp'd the Sword, fell to the Floor and smother'd me with Kisses. The flowing Blood from his Wound (a surface Wound, I later discover'd) stain'd my Breasts and Gown with its sweet Stickiness. I smell'd the salty Odor of his Blood as he enfold'd me, kiss'd me first on the Mouth, then betwixt the Breasts, then betwixt the Legs, where his Tongue thrust upward into my Virginal Opening, making the way slick for the stronger Thrusts to follow.

If I bled a little off'ring my Maidenhead, it seem'd as nothing compar'd to the Blood he had sacrificed for me. I' faith, who could tell where his Blood ended and mine began? Enmesh'd, entwin'd in mutual Stickiness and Sweetness, we lay together dying of Love. The Ecstasy was mutual and compleat.

Later, when I was cynical, I would learn to dissect and analyze the Act of Love, to pronounce upon the Techniques of my Lovers, and to judge them in the Lists of Love, because, perhaps, Love itself was lacking. But upon that first Occasion, my Heart no less than my Maidenhead was taken, and I could no more judge than I could resist. If he had askt me to pierce my own Breast, as he had pierced his. I would certainly have obliged him willingly. Afterward, he fell again to kissing my Feet, this Time in an Attitude of Prayerfulness.

"I swear my Eternal Love," he said. "I swear by Venus, by Jove, by Jesus Himself that I have ne'er lov'd before as I love now." And I felt for an Instant, that all the Fulfillment of my girlish Dreams had come true, that I was the Heroine of a French Romance, and that in one Night I had gone from Girlhood to Womanhood, had liv'd a thousand Lives, had felt my Soul incarnate in the Body of Cleopatra, of Desdemona, of Portia, of Eloisa, of Juliet. In me were all the Great Heroines of Romance join'd and combin'd. In me did Juliet mingle with Eloisa, did Portia lend her Strength to the melting Tenderness of Desdemona; in me was there e'en something of mad Ophelia--ready to dye for Love and float away down a mossy Stream 'neath a Weeping Willow Tree, whilst drowning Flow'rs dangl'd in my Hair.

Alas! Alas! What foolish Visions strut thro' the Head of a Maid of Seventeen! Lord Bellars took his Leave and I slept the Sleep of the Innocent, the Sleep of the Lamb who doth not yet know that God hath also created Lions, who doth not further guess that God hath created him King of the Beasts, in that teaming Jungle which we call the World.

•

I awaken'd at Five o' the Clock to the Singing of Birds. My Heart was as light as their Song. I wanted to throw my Cloak about me and run barefoot into the dewy Grass of the Park, skipping along the Velvet Lawns, like a Spaniel Pup, bending down to kiss the Grass, looking up to thank God for the new Day, for my Lover, for my Life.

In short, I was light with Love, skittish and sleepless, full of puppyish Enthusiasm. I dress'd in haste, splasht my Face with the cold Water in the Basin, and ran downstairs to greet the Day before the World was up.

The Housekeeper, Mrs. Locke, smil'd at me, yet not without a Query in her Eyes, but I was too taken with my own Am'rousness to answer that intended Query or e'en rightly to apprehend it.

What happen'd next, it pains me extreamly to report, tho' a Quarter of a Century hath pass'd since that Time.

I wander'd, distracted with Love, into the Library, where I meant to seek out a Love Poem, when, in all Idleness and Innocence, I pass'd his Escritoire, and spied upon it an unfinish'd Letter in his own Hand.

As the Mother Cat cannot neglect her Kittens, but must always be carrying 'em from one shady Spot to another, so the Lover cannot avoid examining any Thing belonging to her Belovèd--e'en if she will surely come to Grief thereby.

I paus'd, and read the Letter. I remember e'en the Date as if it had been branded on my Brain with a hot Iron. At first Glance, it seem'd intended for me.

Lymeworth, June 21st, 1724

Adorable Creature, thou dearest, best of Women, my Angel, my Queen, my Ruler:

As I am your devoted Slave, and as you have commanded me to report to you all my most trifling Dalliances--as you, I trust, report yours to me--let me tell you what hath transpir'd here this Ev'ning betwixt myself and my enchanting Step-Daughter, Fanny, the Orphan Girl of whom I have spoken, who lives here at Lymeworth thro' the Kindness and Magnanimity of my gen'rous Heart.

I know your Zeal, your ardent Fervour for Conquest, and I fear you will protest that to seduce a Young Girl, who hath seen no Thing of the World, who is deliver'd into my Hands as a Lamb to a Lion, and whom a kind and flatt'ring Epithet would not fail to intoxicate, is no Triumph at all, and not e'en worth reporting as a Victory. Madam, you are wrong. This Waif is no Serving-Maid, no mean Harlot, but a Devotée of the Muses, well-read in Poetry and Philosophy. Why, e'en as I watch'd thro' the Keyhole of her Closet, she repell'd the Advances of no less a Personage than the Poet, Mr. Alexander Pope, as well as the Advances of my scurvy Son, Daniel (which, admittedly, is no very Great Thing, because the Lad hath no more Charm than a Country Hobnail). But mark you, she is a Worthy Prey, despite her lowly Birth, for by Learning and Application, she hath acquir'd more Graces than my own Children, and tho' naturally hot-blooded, she is also full of Morality (which, as you will remember, is one of the Essential Traits we enumerated when we made up our little Rules for the Sport of amusing each Other, each with the Other's Dalliances).

I' faith, she possesses all the Requisites: Beauty, Morality, Passion, and she possesses 'em in abundance.

Now, you will wish to know what Strategy I adopted, what Campaign, and what Maneuvers; in short, by what Means I arriv'd at my Victory, and the total Subjugation of my Prey. I decided upon a Combination of two Strategies: first, the near-Ravishment (which heated her Blood and disorder'd her Senses), then our oft-discuss'd Strategy of Terror and Astonishment, in which I threaten'd Self-Slaughter and let her be my Sweet Saviour, my Minist'ring Angel. It workt better than I might have hop'd! On other Occasions, many Days, e'en 'Weeks, have been requir'd for Compleat Victory. Here the entire Conquest took only Minutes!

I enter'd her Room, prais'd her Beauty in Terms borrow'd from the Playhouse, made bold to kiss her Feet (mark you, not her Breasts!), threaten'd to dye for Love unless she save me, actually drew my own Blood, and was rescu'd from the Brink of the Void by the Angel's own Maidenhead. What Capital Sport! Madam, had you yourself been watching thro' a Peephole (as upon that previous Occasion which I am sure you well remember), you would have commended me most highly. Yes, Friend, she is mine, entirely mine; after Tonight she hath nothing left to grant me.

I am still too full of my Triumph to be able to fairly appreciate it. But I promise you, it shall go down in our little Book of Amours as one of our most enchanting Ev'nings of Sport. Cupid himself prepares a Crown for me!

I hope you are well. Madam, and that your Silence does not portend a Continuation of that Ague you reported in your last Letter. I' faith ...

I could read no more. My Eyes brimm'd with salty Tears and my Heart ach'd with Humiliation so great that Death alone could ease it. I ran into the wall'd Garden, where I wisht to dash my Brains out at the Feet of Venus, and would, no doubt, have done so, had not Cowardice, a base Fear of doing myself bodily Injury, interven'd. The cruelest Phrases from that wicked Letter rang thro' my Brain, like Church Bells resounding in a Belfry.

"Capital Sport!"--I heard Lord Bellars' own mocking Voice say those detested Words. "Subjugation of my Prey!" "A Combination of two Strategies!" "Terms borrow'd from the Playhouse!" Was it not enough that I was ruin'd, that my first, fine Belief in the Pow'r of Love had been betray'd? But must I also be held up to Ridicule in the Eyes of Lord Bellars' London Mistress--no doubt a Woman of Fashion to whom my Ruin was a mere Toy to pass away an Afternoon, or a lewd Playlet, a sort of Afterpiece, to heat the Blood of Jaded Lovers?

O, ne'er was a Wench so wretched as myself! How should I survive this Humiliation? I could not face Lord Bellars or my Foster Mother again. I could not sit at Table across from the Poet, Lady Bellars, Mary, Daniel and the villainous Lord Bellars himself without showing my Distress. What could I do but flee?

Fortunately, I had the Guineas the Poet had press'd upon me, and I had, besides, some good Clothes and Jewels that might be pawn'd, a Silver Snuff-Box, a Gold Watch and sev'ral Gold Rings.

I ran back to my Chamber to gather all my worldly Possessions (including my tentative first Verses) and to plan my Flight from Lymeworth.

I was consid'ring how I might escape to London, without falling Prey to Highwaymen and Robbers, when I recall'd the Custom of certain famous Actresses in London of dressing up in Men's Clothes to play "Breeches Parts," and I form'd the Idea of stealing Daniel's Riding Clothes and Riding Wig and making my Way to London en homme. Fortunately, I was an excellent Horsewoman, but whether I should be able to fetch my own chestnut Arabian Stallion, Lustre, without incurring Suspicion from the Groom and the Stable Boys, I did not know, and whether I should be able to reach London unharm'd was also doubtful. But what other Choyce did I have? I dried my Tears and set about preparing for my Journey.

•

Daniel slept like a Pig, or, still worse, like an old Country Squire, wheezing, sputtering and farting. For all his Pretensions to the Manners of a Man of Pleasure whilst awake, asleep 'twas clear he was more to be pitied than fear'd.

'Twas not much Trouble to take what I wanted without awak'ning him. I snatch'd a fine black Riding Wig that must have cost a Pocketful of Shillings, and took as well a Pair of Jack Boots, brown Leather Riding Breeches, Stockings, a fine Silver-Hiked Sword, a green Redingote, clean Linen, a Cravat, a black Beaver Hat, and a heavy scarlet Cloak against the Rain.

I was too full of Fear about awak'ning Daniel to wonder about the Fit of these Clothes or what Sort of Figure I should cut as a Beau. E'en as I left his Chamber, Daniel heav'd and mutter'd, "Fanny, Fannikins, Fan ...," and for a Moment I fear'd I was lost. But 'twas only a Dream; the scurvy Fellow would pollute me in Sleep e'en as he would awake.

I hasten'd to my Chamber to attire myself properly in these stolen Clothes before setting out.

O I cut a fine Figure as a Boy! My long Hair bound up close to my Skull with Ribbands and Pins (so as to remain hidden under my Riding Wig), my Face bare of Paint or Patch, my Breasts hidden 'neath Coat and Cloak, my Hat tilted rakishly forward to shadow my Face, my Jack Boots and Sword giving me the Assurance of a Beau.

I stood before the Glass and practised talking like a Man.

"Stand and deliver!" I fancied a Gentleman of the Road demanding.

"Damme if yer not a Rascal and a Knave!" I replied in a deep Voice.

But 'twas no good; I still sounded like a Girl.

"Sir, yer a Rascal and a Knave!" I said in a deeper Voice. 'Twas better, if only by an Ounce.

Well, then, again.

"Damme if yer not a Son of a Whore!" I said with still greater Assurance and (what I hop'd was) a fine manly Tenor. 'Twas fair enough, tho' not perfect. I should ne'er sing Bass, but perhaps I might pass as a Castrato!

I then composed a farewell Letter to Lady Bellars, knowing as I did the Grief it could not but communicate to her.

I fasten'd the Letter to my Pillow with a Pin, snatch'd my Poems and secreted them about my Person, bid Farewell to my belovèd Chamber, and crept down to the Stables.

The Clock struck Eight as I let myself quietly down the Back Stair, and thence thro' a Secret Passage which led to the Library. I thanked my Guardian Angel that Mrs. Locke and the other Servants were below in the Kitchen preparing Breakfast, and I took one last Look at the detested Letter as I cross'd the Library to reach the Double Doors that led into the Park.

I ran across the Velvet Lawns to the Stables, my small Feet slipping within the large Boots, my Heels sinking into the wet Earth.

The Fates surely must have approv'd my Journey, for they arranged it that the Groom and the Stable Boys were off in the Meadows exercising two prize Arabian Stallions which Lord Bellars wisht to race at Newmarket the following Year, and I was able to saddle my own dear Horse, Lustre, and make my Escape without anyone being the Wiser.

•

What heavenly Bliss to gallop across the English Meadows upon a June Morning, talking to one's Horse! What a perfect Cure for the Vapours! Ne'er did I mount Lustre without Exhilaration, and ne'er did I gallop upon his Back, the Wind at my Ears, without a Sense of Freedom so compleat it banish'd all Melancholia. Yet, as I remember'd this was no ordinary Morning Gallop, but my very last Morning at Home, the Tears began to flow as if they should ne'er cease!

Adieu! Adieu! Sweet Home of my Youth, and all the Safety I e'er have known! I began then to brood upon the terrible Tales I'd heard told of London, Tales of Highwaymen and Bawds, of Robbers disguis'd as Dealers in Hair or old Clothes, of Procuresses disguis'd as Housekeepers or Decent Matrons. I' faith, I was upon the very Point of turning back, when I harshly commanded myself to cease weeping and be brave. Whereupon my old Determination did not fail me (for I had learn'd e'en then the curious Knack of commanding myself to appear courageous in the Face of Fear--and lo and behold, the Pretense of Courage almost created it!).

"So I spur'd Lustre on and gallop'd toward the High Road, resolving bravely to face the sundry Adventures which the Fates surely had in Store.

"In a trice, my Petticoats and Shift are thrown o'er my Head, muffling my Protestations of Shock."