Containing the sundry Adventures of our Heroine in preparing her Escape, as well as many edifying Digressions upon Doweries, upon Love, upon the Beauties of the English Countryside, upon the Wisdom of Horses, upon the Necessity for Disguises, and, finally, upon the Preferability at all Times, of being a Man rather than a Woman.
DANIEL SLEPT LIKE A Pig, or still worse, like an old Country Squire, wheezing, sputt’ring, 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. From Time to Time, he stirr’d in his Sleep to mutter unintelligible Syllables. ’Twas not much Trouble to take what I wanted without awak’ning him—tho’ I did not fail to recall that mere Girls had been hang’d for less than I was stealing now, and that, after my Usage of him Yesterday Ev’ning, Daniel’s Revenge might be a terrible one.
The enormous Full-bottom’d Periwigs of my younger Years were just then fading from Fashion (tho’, i’faith, some older Folk still wore ’em) and Young Gentlemen of Fashion now wore smaller Wigs, especially for Riding. I snatch’d one of these, 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 compose a Farewell Letter to Lady Bellars and to attire myself properly in these stolen Clothes before setting out.
“My Lady,” (I wrote)
The very high Regard I have for your Ladyship, as well as your unfailing Kindness to me upon ev’ry Occasion, compels me to inform you of my impending Flight from Lymeworth. The Cause of that Flight I cannot divulge. Suffice it to say that I have impos’d upon your Good Humour longer than my Unworthiness merits. I should certainly want Feeling were I to fail to confess the Grief which stirs in my Bosom as I bid thee and Lymeworth Farewell. I have known happy Years here, have learnt the gentle Passion of Filial Love, the Gentle Arts of Reading and Writing, the harsher Lessons of History, and the robust Sports of Horsemanship, the Hunt, Angling, and Shooting. I hope with all my Heart you will not deem my Desertion perfidious. Someday, in the Fullness of Time, I shall explain the Causes of my Departure. Until then, farewell Sweet Mother (if I may so call you). I am,
Your most obedient and affectionate
Step-Daughter, till Death,
Fanny.
I seal’d this Letter not without a Tear, knowing as I did the Grief it could not but communicate to Lady Bellars. I wisht I could hide myself in the Skirts of her Gown, as I had when I was small. My Heart o’erflow’d with Melancholick Humours and my Memory brimm’d with the sweetest Recollections. Lady Bellars could have treated me no better had I been born of her own Blood. She had rais’d me as a true Daughter—a Daughter of her Heart, if not of her Womb—and, tho’ I had no Dowery and no Hopes of a fine Match, I was in some wise more fortunate than Mary because I was less oppress’d by Familial Duty. Mary should surely be married off to whate’er loathsome Fellow brought Lord Bellars’ Dynasty the largest Holdings of Land. And tho’ I could not but smile at her Fate, I knew the Injustice of it. E’en she did not deserve such Usage; no Woman did. ’Tis a Paradox that the Lack of a Dowery can be a Boon to some Ladies, for what had attracted Lord Bellars to Lady Bellars but her Dowery, and should she not have been far happier without him?
Certainly I could carry no Portmanteau upon horseback; thus ’twas essential that I hang all my Belongings about my Person, concealing my Valuables within my Breech, my Coat Pockets, e’en within the Crown of my Hat.
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 practis’d 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 my deepest 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 fasten’d the Letter to my Pillow with a Pin, snatch’d my Poems and secreted them about my Person, bade Farewell to my beloved 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 thankt 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 open’d upon the Park. I confess I contemplated whether or not to burn it, but decided instead upon Cunning and Stealth for my Revenge upon Lord Bellars; then I made my Escape.
I ran across the Velvet Lawns to the Stables, my small Feet slipping within the large Boots, my Heels sinking into the wet Earth. E’en upon this melancholy Occasion, I could not fail to remark upon the Beauty of the Wiltshire Countryside, the sweet Smell of the Grass in the light Rain.
O Belinda, I have travell’d extensively abroad, have cross’d both North and South Atlantick and the Caribee, but no Place is as beautiful as this England. Nowhere but here are the Tree Trunks themselves kiss’d with Moss; nowhere but here are the Trees so verdant and heavy of Leaf, the Lawns so green, the Roses so pink, the Hedges so aromatick. Why, e’en the English Cows who graze ’neath the Rain-drench’d Trees are more beauteous than Cows of any other Nationality! Whene’er the Mutability of Sublunary Things makes me melancholick, I rest my Mind upon an English Landscape, and once again am peaceful and content. Others may sigh for long Sea-Voyages or the Sublimity of the Alps. O I have been besotted with the Charms of Seas and Sailing Ships in my Time, and I have climb’d many Mountains and admir’d the Clouds from above as well as below; but when all is said and done, an English Landscape is the very Perfection of Nature. ’Tis neither Rude Excrescence nor Gothick Error; ’tis neither too flat nor too high, but a Harmony entire of Serpentine Curves. Whene’er I am the least sadden’d by the Follies of Mankind, I feast upon its wet deep Green, and find myself most blest.
Yet running across the Lawn to the Stables, I experienced a Stab of Indecision. (Pray, why is Home ne’er more beauteous than when we leave it?) On the previous Night, which now seem’d an Eternity away, the Poet had offer’d all—House, Lands, Riches, his undying Devotion. Perhaps I ought then to swallow my Pride, forget my impetuous Decision to flee, and instead go away with him? I doubted not but he would make good his Promises. A Gentleman of his Figure had not perfect Freedom in his Choyce of Ladies, and I suppos’d I might easily manipulate his Good Humour, honey him into parting with his Fortune, and play the splendid Madam to his twisted Goat.
But O my Stomach rose at it! I knew enough now of the gentle Passion of Love to be obliged to reject the loathed Embraces of a Monster. Lord Bellars had treated me rascally and prov’d to be as arrant a Whoremaster as Lady Bellars had warn’d; still, I had felt ardent Affection for him—e’en if ’twas only to be dasht to Bits when I learnt of his Perfidy. In short, I had known Love, tho’ he had not, and Love, as the Poets say, is like a Flame. Anything which passes thro’ it must be changed. ’Tis entirely possible for Love to be true when one Lover feels it and the other doth not. We may know Humiliation and Pain later, but we cannot undo the Love that we felt at first, and sure we cannot undo the Changes wrought in us by the Pow’r of Love. Thus I could not now venture to Twickenham with Mr. Pope. Only a narrow, vulgar Soul could so dissemble. And my Soul, not narrow before, had been further stretch’d by Love.
Belinda, ’tis true that the World is not form’d for the Benefit of Women, and oft’ they must sacrifice their nice Principles in order to put Bread into their own Mouths and those of their Children; but I was ne’er so made as to be able to pretend Love of a loathsome Man for Hope of Gain, and it hath been my Experience that I have prosper’d nonetheless.
At Times, I readily confess, I have flasht false Lightning from my Eyes, fetch’d Sighs from my Bosom (which none could have heard unmov’d) altho’ I did not wholly mean ’em, and carelessly dropp’d the Handkerchief from my Bosom, in order to win some Point in Discourse, either philosophical or pecuniary. But I swear I have ne’er feign’d Love for one who did not merit it, and I have ne’er us’d the noble Pow’r of Love to obtain rich laced Clothes or Jewels. Had I done so, I might indeed be richer than I am Today. But truly I am rich enough for all my Wants. And what Use is Wealth if the Means of getting it causes us to detest ourselves? Wealth is nothing but the Oil which allows the Wheels of the World to turn.
So I reason’d then and so I reason now; and 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.
How I lov’d that Horse! He was my first, and I shall ne’er forget his rich chestnut Colour, his silken Coat, the Blaze upon his Forehead, and the dear white Stocking upon his left Leg—as if he had stumbl’d into a Bucket of white Paint. He was fleet, too, tho’ I should ne’er take him to a Race-Meeting and let all sorts of scurvy Blackguards lay Wagers upon his Flesh. No, to me a Horse was more than an Excuse for Gaming. A Horse was sleek as the Wind, Grace itself; in short, ’twas entirely clear to me why the Ancients had identified Horse with Poesy. Moreo’er, one of the chief Things I had learnt at the Knee of my Step-Mother was the very tender Sensibilities of our four-legged Friends. Thus I ne’er fail’d to converse sensibly with Lustre, to inform him of the Purpose of our Journey, and he always serv’d me better for that Reason, because I honour’d him as a Rational Creature.
For mark you, Belinda, Dean Swift (about whose personal Proclivities I shall have more to say later) was entirely right about Horses! Compar’d to their orderly, rational Behaviour, we Humans do, i’faith, appear as Yahoos. Who can be more sympathetick towards the Trials and Tribulations of Love than a loyal Horse (unless it be a loyal Dog)? And who can listen with more Affection to one’s Woes than a Member of either of those noble Races of Creatures which we, in our o’erweening Hubris, dare to term sub-human? I avow that we, rather, are sub-equine and sub-canine!
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 suddenly I remember’d this was no ordinary Morning Gallop, but my very last Morning at Home, whereupon 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, or 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 learnt e’en then the curious Knack of commanding myself to appear courageous in the Face of Fear—and lo and behold, the Pretence of Courage almost created it!).
I had travell’d but little about the Countryside in my younger Years, yet I knew that if I could make my Way to the Bath Road, I should be able to follow it easily enough to London. Certainly I fear’d the Highwaymen that infested the Roads to London, and certainly I knew that they grew more num’rous as one approach’d the Metropolis, but I forced myself to feel a certain Safety, dress’d as a Man. Perhaps, as I remarkt to Lustre, ’twas a false Safety. But there is nothing quite so liberating as being free of the Fear of Ravishment—which, unless she dresses as a Man, a Woman can ne’er, not e’en for a Moment, forget. Besides, there is an Exhilaration in leaving off one’s Hoops and Petticoats and wearing Breeches. And there is a Freedom in Disguise that one ne’er knows when one appears as oneself.
“Can you conceive that, Lustre?” I askt my Horse, drying my Tears. “Can you conceive the Freedom of suddenly being disguis’d a Boy?”
He neigh’d in sympathy; sure there was a more than verbal Bond betwixt us. I then tried to find a Metaphor from the Sphere of Horses so that Lustre should entirely understand my Meaning.
“La,” says I, “’tis as if you were to play at being a Brood Mare.”
Lustre shook his Head and whinnied; ’twas clear he did not like my Meaning.
“Do you understand now?” said I.
Again he whinnied loudly and shook his Head. I puzzl’d awhile, riding along upon his Back, and suddenly understood his Displeasure. For him to be a Mare was not the same at all—and being a Rational Creature, he very well understood this, (tho’ a Man, engaged in the same Dialogue, should not).
To dress as a Boy gave one Privileges no Woman could e’er possess: first, the Privilege of being left in Peace (except by Robbers, who prey’d almost equally upon both Sexes); second, the very substantial Privilege of Dining where’er one wisht without being presum’d a Trollop; third, the Privilege of moving freely thro’ the World, without the Restraints of Stays, Petticoats, Hoops, and the like. For I had form’d the Theory that Women should ne’er be entirely free to possess their own Souls until they could ride about the World as unencumber’d as possible. The Hoop Skirt, I reason’d, was an Instrument of Imprisonment. I might shudder with Horror at the Idea of the legendary Amazons cutting off one Breast, but sure I could not but understand their Motives.
“Lustre, I love only you,” I said, spurring him on and galloping towards the High Road. “You are my Inspiration, my Lover, my only Friend!”
And the Stallion whinnied his Reply, which I took to be, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”