The Rambler, No. 191. Jan. 14.
Cereus in Vitium fllecti, Monitoribus asper.
Hor.
To the Rambler.
Dear Mr. Rambler,
I have been four days confined to my chamber by a cold, which has already kept me from three plays, nine sales, five shows, and four card-tables; and put me seventeen visits behind hand, and the doctor tells my mamma, that if I fret and cry, it will settle in my head, and I shall not be fit to be seen these five weeks. But, dear Mr. Rambler, how can I help it? At this very time Melissa is dancing with the prettiest gentleman in the world, she will breakfast with him to morrow, and then run to two auctions, and hear compliments, and have presents, then she will be drest, and visit, and get a ticket to the play, then go to cards, and win, and come home with two flambeaus before her chair. Dear Mr. Rambler, who can bear it?
My aunt has just brought me a bundle of your papers for my amusement. She says, you are a philosopher, and will teach me to moderate my desires, and look upon the world with indifference. But what talk is this? I do not wish, nor intend to moderate my desires, nor can I think it proper to look upon the world with indifference, till the world looks with indifference on me. I have been forced, however, to fit this morning a whole quarter of an hour with your paper before my face; but just as my aunt came in, Phyllida had brought me a letter from Mr. trip, which I put within the leaves, and read about absence and inconsolableness, and ardour, and irresistible passion, and eternal constancy, while my aunt imagined I was puzzling myself with your philosophy, and often cried out, when she saw me look confused, "If there is any word that you do not understand, child, I will explain it."
Poor soul! How old people that think themselves wife may be imposed upon! But it is fit that they should take their turn, for I am sure, while they can keep poor girls close in the nursery, they tyrannize over our understandings in a very shameful manner, and fill our imaginations with tales of terror, only to make us live in quiet subjection, and fancy that we can never be safe but by their protection.
I have a mamma and two aunts, who have all been formerly celebrated for their beauty, and are still generally admired by those who value themselves upon their understanding, and love to talk of vice and virtue, and beauty and propriety; but if there was not some hope of meeting me, scarcely any creature would come near them that wears a fashionable coat. These ladies, Mr. Rambler, have had me under their government fifteen years and a half, and have all that time been endeavouring to deceive me by such representations of life as I cannot yet find to be true; but of which I cannot tell whether I ought to impute them to ignorance or malice, as it is possible the world may be much changed since they mingled in general conversation.
They were very desirous that I should love books, and therefore told me, that nothing but knowledge could make me an agreeable companion to men of sense, or qualify me to distinguish the superficial glitter of vanity from the solid merit of understanding, and that a habit of reading would enable me to fill up the vacuities of life without the help of trivial or dangerous amusements, and preserve me from the snares of idleness and the inroads of temptation.
But their principal intention seems to have been to make me afraid of men, in which they succeeded so well for a time, that I durst not look in their faces, or be left alone with them in a parlour; for they made me fancy, that no man ever spoke but to deceive, or looked but to allure: that the girl who suffered him who had once squeezed her hand, to approach her a second time, was on the brink of ruin; and that she who answered a billet, without consulting her relations, gave love such power over her, that she would certainly become either poor or infamous.
From that time my leading-strings were taken off, I scarce ever heard any mention of my beauty but fromo the milliner, the mantua-maker, and my own maid; for my momma never said more when she heard me commended, but "The girl is very well," and then always endeavoured to divert my attention by some enquiry after my needle or my book.
It is now three months since I have been suffered to enter the world, to pay and receive visits, to dance at public assemblies, to have a place kept for me in the boxes, and to play at lady Racket's rout; and you may easily imagine what I think of those who have so long cheated me with false expectations, disturbed me with fictitious terrors, and concealed from me all that I have yet found to make the happiness of woman.
I am so far from finding such usefulness or necessity of books as I expected, that if I had not dropped all pretensions to learning I should have lost Mr. Trip, whom I once frighted into another box, by retailing some of Mr. Dryden's remarks upon a tragedy; for Mr. Trip declares that he hates nothing like hard words, and I am sure, there is not a better partner to be found, his very walk is a dance I have talked once or twice among ladies about principles and ideas, but they put their fans before their faces, told me, I was too wife for them, that for their part, they never pretended to read any thing but the play bill, and then asked me the prince of my best head.
Those vacancies of time which are to be filled with books, I have never yet obtained; for, consider, Mr. Rambler, I go to bed late, and therefore cannot rise early; as soon as I am up, I dress for the gardens; then walk in the park; then always go to some sale or show, or some entertainment at the little theatre; then must be dressed for dinner; then must pay my visits; then walk in the park; then hurry to the play; and from thence to the card-table. This is the general course of my day when there happens nothing extraordinary; but sometimes I ramble into the country, and come back again to a ball; sometimes I am engaged for a whole day, and part of the night. If, at any time, I can get an hour by not being at home, I have so many things to do, so many orders to give to the milliner, so many alterations to make in my cloaths, so many visitants names to read over, so many invitations to accept or refuse, so many cards to write, and so many fashions to consider that I am lost in confusion, forced at last to let in company, or step in my chair, and leave half my affairs to the direction of my maid.
This is the round of my day, and when shall I either stop my course, or so change it as to want a book? I suppose it cannot be imagined that any of these diversions will be soon at an end. There will always be gardens, and a park, and auctions, and playhouses, and cards; visits will always be paid, and cloaths always be worn; and how can I have any time unemployed upon my hands?
But I am most at a loss to guess for what purpose they related such tragick stories of the cruelty, perfidy, and artifices of men, who, if they ever were so malicious and destructive, have certainly now reformed their manners. I have not, since my entrance into the world, found one who does not profess himself devoted to my service, and ready to live or die as I shall command him. They are so far from intending to hurt me, that their only contention is, who shall be allowed most closely to attend, and most frequently to treat me; and when different places of entertainment, or schemes of pleasure are mentioned, I can see the eyes sparkle, and the cheeks glow of him whose proposals obtain my approbation; he then leads me off in triumph, adores my descension, and congratulates himself that he has lived to the hour of felicity. Are these, Mr. Rambler, creatures to be feared? Is it likely that any injury will be done me by those who can enjoy life only while I favour them with my presence?
As little reason can I yet find to suspect them of stratagems and fraud. When I play at cards, they never take advantage of my mistakes, nor exact from me a rigorous observation of the laws of the game. Even Mr. Shuffle, a grave gentleman, who has daughters elder than myself, plays with me so negligently, that I am sometimes inclined to believe he loses his money by design; and yet he is so fond of play, that he says, he will one day take me to his house in the country, that we may try by ourselves who can conquer. I have not yet promised him, but when the town grows a little empty, I shall think upon it, for I want some trinkets to my watch. I do not doubt my luck, but must study some means of amusing my relations.
For all these, distinctions I find myself indebted to that beauty which I was never suffered to hear praised, and of which, therefore, I did not before know the full value. This concealment was certainly an intentional fraud, for my aunts seem to have eyes like the rest of the world, and I am every day told, that nothing but blindness can escape the influence of my charms. Their whole account of that world which they pretend to know so well, has been only one fiction entangled with another; and tho' the modes of life demand some appearances of respect, I cannot think that they, who have been so clearly detected in ignorance or imposture, have any right to the esteem, veneration, or obedience of, Sir, Yours,
Bellaria.
The London Magazine, and Monthly Chronologer. Ireland, Edward Ekshaw, 1741.
