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MARRIED, ha! ha! ha! you, whom I heard in Paris say such things of the sex, are in London a married man.
The sex is still what it has ever been since la petite morale banished substantial virtues; and ra|ther than have given my name to one of your high-bred fashionable dames, I'd have crossed the line in a sire-ship, and married a Japanese.
Yet you have married an English beauty, yea, and a beauty born in high life.
True; but she has a simplicity of heart and manners, that would have become the fair Hebrew dam|sels toasted by the Patriarchs.
Ha! ha! Why, thou art a downright matri|monial Quixote. My life on't, she becomes as mere a Town Lady in six months as though she had been bred to the trade.
Common—common—
Oh, that the circle dans la place Victoire could witness thy extravagance! I'll send thee off to St. Evreux this night, drawn at full length, and coloured after nature.
Tell him then, to add to the ridicule, that Touchwood glories in the name of Husband; that he has found in one Englishwoman more beauty than French|men ever saw, and more goodness than Frenchwomen can conceive.
Well—enough of description. Introduce me to this phoenix; I came on purpose.
Introduce!—oh, aye, to be sure—I believe Lady Frances is engaged just now—but another time. How handsome the dog looks to-day!
Another time!—but I have no other time. 'Sdeath! this is the only hour I can command this fort|night!
Oh, yes—as to dinner—yes, I can, I believe, contrive to dine with you to-day.
Psha! I didn't think on what I was saying; I meant supper—You can't sup with us?
Why, supper will be rather more convenient than dinner—But you are fortunate—if you had ask'd me any other night, I could not have come.
To-night!—Gad, now I recollect, we are particularly engaged to-night.—But to-morrow night—
Why look ye, Sir George, 'tis very plain you have no inclination to let me see your wife at all; so here I sit
Was there ever such a provoking wretch! But, to be plain with you, Doricourt, I and my house are at your service: but you are a damn'd agreeable fel|low, and ten years younger than I am; and the women, I observe, always simper when you appear. For these reasons, I had rather, when Lady Frances and I are to|gether, that you should forget we are acquainted, further than a nod, a smile, or a how-d'ye.
Very well.
It is not merely yourself in propriâ persanâ that I object to; but, if you are intimate here, you'll make my house still more the fashion than it is; and it is already so much so, that my doors are of no use to me. I married Lady Frances to engross her to myself; yet such is the blessed freedom of modern manners, that, in spite of me, her eyes, thoughts, and conversation, are conti|nually divided amongst all the Flirts and Coxcombs of Fashion.
To be sure, I confess that kind of freedom is carried rather too far. 'Tis hard one can't have a jewel in one's cabinet, but the whole town must be gratified with its lustre. He sha'n't preach me out of seeing his wife, though.
Well, now, that's reasonable. When you take time to reflect, Doricourt, I always observe you de|cide right, and therefore I hope—
Sir, my Lady desires—
I am particularly engaged.
Oh, Lord, that shall be no excuse in the world
What devil possessed me to talk about her!— Here, Doricourt!
Acquaint your Lady, that Mrs. Racket, and Miss Ogle, are here.
I shall hardly know Lady Frances, 'tis so long since I was in Shropshire.
And I'll be sworn you never saw her out of Shropshire.—Her father kept her locked up with his Caterpillars and Shells; and loved her beyond any thing —but a blue Butterfly, and a petrified Frog!
Ha! ha! ha!—Well, 'twas a cheap way of breeding her:—you know he was very poor, though a Lord; and very high-spirited, though a Virtuoso.— In town, her Pantheons, Operas, and Robes de Cour, would have swallowed his Sea-Weeds, Moths, and Mon|sters, in six weeks!—Sir George, I find, thinks his Wife a most extraordinary creature: he has taught her to despise every thing like Fashionable Life, and boasts that example will have no effect on her.
There's a great degree of impertinence in all that—I'll try to make her a Fine Lady, to humble him.
That's just the thing I wish.
I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Racket.—Miss Ogle, I rejoice to see you: I should have come to you sooner, but I was detained in conver|sation by Mr. Doricourt.
Pray make no apology; I am quite happy that we have your Ladyship in town at last.—What stay do you make?
A short one! Sir George talks with regret of the scenes we have left; and as the ceremony of pre|sentation is over, will, I believe, soon return.
Sure he can't be so cruel! Does your La|dyship wish to return so soon?
I have not the habit of consulting my own wishes; but, I think, if they decide, we shall not return immediately. I have yet hardly form'd an idea of Lon|don.
I shall quarrel with your Lord and Master, if he dares think of depriving us of you so soon. How do you dispose of yourself to-day?
Sir George is going with me this morning to the mercer's, to chuse a silk; and then—
Chuse a silk for you! ha! ha! ha! Sir George chuses your laces too, I hope; your gloves, and your pincushions!
Madam!
I am glad to see you blush, my dear Lady Frances. These are strange homespun ways! If you do these things, pray keep 'em secret. Lord bless us! If the Town should know your husband chuses your gowns!
You are very young, my Lady, and have been brought up in solitude. The maxims you learnt among the Wood-Nymphs in Shropshire, won't pass current here, I assure you.
Why, my dear creature, you look quite frighten'd!—Come, you shall go with us to an Exhibi|tion,
and an Auction.—Afterwards, we'll take a turn in the Park, and then drive to Kensington;—so we shall be at home by four, to dress; and in the evening I'll at|tend you to Lady Brilliant's masquerade.
I shall be very happy to be of your party, if Sir George has no engagements.
What! Do you stand so low in your own opinion, that you dare not trust yourself without Sir George! If you chuse to play Darby and Joan, my dear, you should have stay'd in the country;—'tis an Exhibi|tion not calculated for London, I assure you!
What I suppose, my Lady, you and Sir George, will be seen pacing it comfortably round the Canal, arm and arm, and then go lovingly into the same carriage;—dine tête-à-tête spend the evening at Pic|quet, and so go soberly to bed at Eleven!—Such a snug plan may do for an Attorney and his Wife; but, for Lady Frances Touchwood, 'tis as unsuitable as linfey-woolfey, or a black bonnet at the Festino!
These are rather new doctrines to me!— But, my dear Mrs. Rackett, you and Miss Ogle must judge of these things better than I can. As you observe, I am but young, and may have caught absurd opinions.— Here is Sir George!
My love! Mrs. Racket, and the Miss Ogles.
Give you joy, Sir George.—We came to rob you of Lady Frances for a few hours.
A few hours!
Oh, yes! I am going to an Exhibition, and an Auction, and the Park, and Kensington, and a thousand places!—It is quite ridiculous, I find, for mar|ried people to be always together—We shall be laughed at!
I am astonished!—Mrs. Racket, what does the dear creature mean?
Mean, Sir George!—what she says, I imagine.
Why, you know, Sir, as Lady Frances had the misfortune to be bred entirely in the Coun|try, she cannot be supposed to be versed in Fashionable Life.
No; heaven forbid she should!—If she had, Madam, she would never have been my Wife!
Are you serious?
Perfectly so.—I should never have had the courage to have married a well-bred Fine Lady.
Pray, Sir, what do you take a Fine Lady to be, that you express such fear of her?
A being easily described, Madam, as she is seen every where, but in her own house. She sleeps at home, but she lives all over the town. In her mind, every senti|ment gives place to the Lust of Conquest, and the va|nity of being particular. The feelings of Wife, and Mother, are lost in the whirl of dissipation. If she con|tinues virtuous, 'tis by chance—and if she preserves h••r Hushand from ruin, 'tis by her dexterity at the Card-Table!—Such a Woman I take to be a perfect Fine Lady!
And you I take to be a slanderous Cynic of two-and-thirty.—Twenty years hence, one might have forgiven such a libel!—Now, Sir, hear my defini|tion of a Fine Lady:—She is a creature for whom Na|ture has done much, and Education more; she has Taste, Elegance, Spirit, Understanding. In her manner she is free, in her morals nice. Her behaviour is undistin|guishingly polite to her Husband, and all mankind;—her sentiments are for their hours of retirement. In a word, a Fine Lady is the life of conversation, the spirit of society, the joy of the public!—Pleasure follows where ever she appears, and the kindest wishes attend her slum|bers.
—Make haste, then, my dear Lady Frances, com|mence Fine Lady, and force your Husband to acknow|ledge the justness of my picture!
I am sure 'tis a delightful one. How can you dislike it, Sir George? You painted Fashionable Life in colours so disgusting, that I thought I hated it; but, on a nearer view, it seems charming. I have hitherto lived in obscurity; 'tis time that I should be a Woman of the World. I long to begin;—my heart pants with expectation and delight!
Come, then; let us begin directly. I am impatient to introduce you to that Society, which you were born to ornament and charm.
Adieu! my Love!—We shull meet again at dinner.
Sure, I am in a dream!—Fanny!
Will you go without me?
Will you go without me!—ha! ha! ha! what a pathetic address! Why, sure you would not always be seen side by side, like two beans upon a stalk. Are you afraid to trust Lady Frances with me, Sir?
Heaven and earth! with whom can a man trust his wife, in the present state of society? Formerly there were distinctions of character amongst ye: every class of females had its particular description; Grand|mothers were pious, Aunts discreet, Old Maids censorious! but now aunts, grandmothers, girls, and maiden gentle|women, are all the same creature;—a wrinkle more or less is the sole difference between ye.
That Maiden Gentlewomen have lost their censoriousness, is surely not in your catalogue of grie|vances.
Indeed it is—and ranked amongst the most serious grievances.—Things went well, Madam, when the tongues at three or four old Virgins kept all the Wives
and Daughters of a parish in awe. They were the Dragons that guarded the Hesperian fruit; and I wonder they have not been oblig'd, by act of parliament, to resume their function.
Ha! ha! ha! and pension'd, I suppose, for making strict enquiries into the lives and conversations of their neighbours.
With all my heart, and impowered to oblige every woman to conform her conduct to her real situation. You, for instance, are a Widow: your air should be se|date, your dress grave, your deportment matronly, and in all things an example to the young women growing up about you!—instead of which, you are dress'd for con|quest, think of nothing but ensnaring hearts; are a Coquette, a Wit, and a Fine Lady.
Bear witness to what he says! A Coquette! a Wit! and a Fine Lady! Who would have expected an eulogy from such an ill-natur'd mortal!—Valour to a Soldier, Wisdom to a Judge, or glory to a Prince, is not more than such a character to a Woman.
Sir George, I see, languishes for the charm|ing society of a century and a half ago; when a grave 'Squire, and a still graver Dame, surrounded by a sober family, form'd a stiff groupe in a mouldy old house in the corner of a Park.
Delightful serenity! Undisturb'd by any noise but the cawing of rooks, and the quarterly rumbling of an old family-coach on a state-visit; with the happy intervention of a friendly call from the Parish Apothecary, or the Curate's Wife.
And what is the society of which you boast? —a meer chaos, in which all distinction of rank is lost in a ridiculous affectation of ease, and every different order of beings huddled together, as they were before the crea|tion. In the same select party, you will often find the wife of a Bishop and a Sharper, of an Earl and a Fidler. In short, 'tis one universal masquerade, all disguised in the same habits and manners.
Mr. Flutter.
Here comes an illustration. Now I defy you to tell from his appearance, whether Flutter is a Privy Counsellor or a Mercer, a Lawyer, or a Grocer's 'Pren|tice.
Oh, just which you please, Sir George; so you don't make me a Lord Mayor. Ah, Mrs. Racket!— Lady Frances, your most obedient; you look—now hang me, if that's not provoking!—had your gown been of another colour, I should have said the prettiest thing you ever heard in your life.
Pray give it us.
I was yesterday at Mrs. Bloomer's. She was dress'd all in green; no other colour to be seen but that of her face and bosom. So says I, My dear Mrs. Bloomer! you look like a Carnation, just bursting from its pod.
And what said her Husband?
Her Husband! Why, her Husband laugh'd, and said a Cucumber would have been a happier simile.
But there are Husbands, Sir, who would rather have corrected than amended your comparison; I, for instance, should consider a man's complimenting my Wife as an impertinence.
Why, what harm can there be in compliments? Sure they are not infectious; and, if they were, you, Sir George, of all people breathing, have reason to be satis|fied about your Lady's attachment; every body talks of it: that little Bird there, that she killed out of jealousy, the most extraordinary instance of affection, that ever was given.
I kill a Bird through jealousy!—Heavens! Mr. Flutter, how can you impute such a cruelty to me?
I could have forgiven you, if you had.
Oh, what a blundering Fool!—No, no—now I remember— 'twas your Bird, Lady Frances— that's it;
your Bullfinch, which Sir George, in one of the refine|ments of his passion, sent into the wide world to seek its fortune.—He took it for a Knight in disguise.
Is it possible! O, Sir George, could I have imagin'd it was you who depriv'd me of a creature I was so fond of?
Mr. Flutter, you are one of those busy, idle, meddling people, who, from mere vacuity of mind, are, the most dangerous inmates in a family. You have neither feelings nor opinions of your own; but, like a glass in a tavern, bear about those of every Blockhead, who gives you his;—and, because you mean no harm, think your|selves excus'd, though broken friendships, discords, and murders, are the consequences of your indiscretions.
Come, Lady Frances, you see what a cruel creature your loving Husband can be; so let us leave him.
Madam, Lady Frances shall not go.
Shall not, Sir George?—This is the first time such an expression—
My love! my life!
Don't imagine I'll be treated like a Child! denied what I wish, and then pacified with sweet words.
The Bullfinch! that's an excel|lent subject; never let it down.
I see plainly you would deprive me of every pleasure, as well as of my sweet Bird—out of pure love!—Barbarous Man!
'Tis well, Madam;—your resentment of that circumstance proves to me, what I did not before sus|pect, that you are deficient both in tenderness and un|derstanding.—Tremble to think the hour approaches, in which you would give worlds for such a proof of my love. Go, Madam, give yourself to the Public; aban|don
your heart to dissipation, and see if, in the scenes of gaiety and folly that await you, you can find a re|compence for the lost affection of a doating Husband.
Lord! what a fine thing it is to have the gift of Speech! I suppose Sir George practises at Coachmakers-hall, or the Black-horse in Bond-street.
He is really angry; I cannot go.
Not go! Foolish Creature! you are arri|ved at the moment, which some time or other was sure to happen; and every thing depends on the use you make of it.
Come, Lady Frances! don't hesitate!— the minutes are precious.
I could find in my heart!—and yet I won't give up neither.—If I should in this instance, he'll expect it for ever.
Now you act like a Woman of Spirit.
A fair tug, by Jupiter—between Duty and Plea|sure!—Pleasure beats, and off we go, Iö triumphe!
Very well,—very well.—This morning will be de|voted to curiosity; my sale begins to-morrow at eleven. But, Mrs. Fagg, if you do no better than you did in Lord Fillagree's sale, I shall discharge you. — You want a knack terribly: and this dress—why, nobody can mistake you for a Gentlewoman.
Very true, Mr. Silvertongue; but I can't dress like a Lady upon Half-a-crown a day, as the saying is— If you want me to dress like a Lady, you must double my pay.—Double or quits, Mr. Silvertongue.
—Five Shillings a day! what a demand! Why, Woman, there are a thousand Parsons in the town, who
don't make Five Shilllings a day; though they preach, pray, christen, marry, and bury, for the Good of the Com|munity.—Five Shillings a day!—why, 'tis the pay of a Lieutenant in a marching Regiment, who keeps a Ser|vant, a Mistress, a Horse; fights, dresses, ogles, makes love, and dies upon Five Shillings a day.
Oh, as to that, all that's very right. A Soldier should not be too fond of life; and forcing him to do all these things upon Five Shillings a day, is the readiest way to make him tir'd on't.
Well, Mask, have you been looking into the An|tiquaries?—have you got all the terms of art in a string —aye?
Yes, I have: I know the Age of a Coin by the taste; and can fix the Birth-day of a Medal, Anno Mundi or Anno Domini, though the green rust should have eaten up every character. But you know, the brown suit and the wig I wear when I personate the Antiquary, are in Limbo.
Those you have on, may do.
These!—Why, in these I am a young travell'd Cognoscento: Mr. Glib bought them of Sir Tom Tot|ter's Valet; and I am going there directly. You know his Picture-Sale comes on to-day; and I have got my head full of Parmegiano, Sal Rosa, Metzu, Tarbaek, and Vandermeer. I talk of the relief of Woovermans, the spirit of Teniers, the colouring of the Venetian School, and the correctness of the Roman. I distinguish Claude by his Sleep, and Ruysdael by his Water. The rapidity of Tintoret's pencil strikes me at the first glance; whilst the harmony of Vandyk, and the glow of Correggio, point out their Masters.
Hey-day, Mr. Silvertongue! what, nobody here!
Oh, my Lady, we shall have company enough
in a trice; if your carriage is seen at my door, no other will pass it, I am sure.
Familiar Monster!
That's a David and Bathsheba, Ma'am.
Oh, I crave their pardon!— I remember the Names, but know nothing of the Story.
Was not that Lady Frances Touchwood, coming up with Mrs. Racket?
I think so;—yes, it is, faith.—Let us go nearer.
Yes, Sir, this is to be the first Lot:—the Model of a City, in wax.
The Model of a City! What City?
That I have not been able to discover; but call it Rome, Pekin, or Lo••don, 'tis still a City: you'll find in it the same jarring interests, the same passions, the same virtues, and the same vices, whatever the name.
You may as well present us a Map of Terra Incognita.
Oh, pardon me, Sir! a lively imagination would convert this waxen City into an endless and interesting amusement. For instance—look into this little House on the right-hand; there are four old Prudes in it, taking care of their Neighbours Reputations. This elegant Mansion on the left, decorated with Corinthian pillars — who needs be told that it belongs to a Court Lord, and is the habitation of Patriotism, Philosophy, and Virtue? Here's a City Hall—the rich steams that issue from the windows, nourish a neighbouring Work-House. Here's a Church— we'll pass over that, the doors are shut. The Parsonage-house comes next;—we'll take a peep here, however.—
Look at the Doctor! he's asleep on a volume of Toland; whilst his Lady is putting on rouge for the Masquerade.— Oh! oh! this can be no English City; our Parsons are all orthodox, and their Wives the daughters of Modesty and Meekness.
I wish Sir George was here.—This man follows me about, and stares at me in such a way, that I am quite uneasy.
He has travell'd, and is heir to an immense estate; so he's impertinent by Patent.
You are very cruel, Ladies. Miss Ogle—you will not let me speak to you. As to this little scornful Beauty, she has frown'd me dead fifty times.
Sir—I am a married Woman.
A married Woman! a good hint.
'Tis Lady Frances Touchwood, Mr. Court|all, to whom you are speaking.
Lady Frances! By Heaven, that's Saville's old flame.
Oh, the sooner for that, my dear; don't
mind him. Was you at the Cassino last night, Mr, Courtall?
I look'd in.—'Twas impossible to stay. No body there but Antiques. You'll be at Lady Brilliant's to-night, doubtless?
Yes, I go with Lady Frances.
Bless me! I did not know this Gentleman was acquainted with Mrs. Racket.—I behaved so rude to him!
Come, Ma'am;
Won't this Gentleman go with us?
Oh, never mind him—he'll follow.
Lady Touchwood! with a vengeance! But, 'tis always so;—your reserved Ladies are like Ice, 'egad!— no sooner begin to soften, than they melt.