Containing an Incident of a more tragic than comedic Kind, the Import of which may not be Reveal’d for many Years, but which nonetheless alters our Heroine’s Destiny most profoundly.
UPON THE MORROW I awoke with all in Readiness for my Departure with Littlehat. My clothes were laid out upon a Chair, my few Valuables stuff’d in my Pockets; my Hat, my Riding Wig, my Boots—all were prepar’d.
I bolted out of Bed and ran to the Window. ’Twas a grey and rainy Day in London, near as cold in September as it might be at Christmastime, an autumn London Day that chills one to the very Marrow of one’s Bones.
I stood watching the Rain make Rivers of Garbage in the Street below—Rivers which carried all Manner of Offal from Orange Peels to Human Excrement, from drown’d Kittens to Shards of broken Glass. Since knowing myself with Child, my Feelings for Animals, always most puissant before, had grown intolerably strong, so that whene’er I saw a drown’d Kitten, or a starv’d Dog, my Heart seem’d to lurch in my Chest, and my Eyes wept with Pity for all the Animals in this World. ’Twas thus with an aching Heart that I watch’d the Gutter-Spouts drench the unwary Pedestrians who ran along, hugging the Wall, or, if they were jostl’d away from it, cov’ring their Heads as best they could with their Cloaks, for in those Days no Man would use an oil’d Umbrella for Fear of being thought Mollyish. Sooner be drench’d than that!
What a miserable Day to make our Escape upon horseback! But surely with a Plan this great, mere Weather would not foil it. I reach’d into my Bosom again to extract Lancelot’s Letter and read it just once more (for I had slept with it safe in my Shift)—but lo! the Letter was gone!
Panick then reign’d in my Breast. I ran to the Bed and search’d ’neath the Pillows, ’neath the Quilts, e’en ’neath the Mattress, but there was no Trace of the Letter. I had fallen asleep with it still about my Person and the Door to my Chamber lockt, but now ’twas lost! What Villain had snatch’d it? And what Use might be made of it to detain or betray my Lancelot?
O I had underestimated Kate’s Evil! I had thought her too cowardly to act against me, but ’twas clear I had been wrong. Why had I not burnt the Letter at once as Lancelot directed? Would my Longing to keep a mere Love Letter deprive me of the Love of Lancelot himself? O Cruel Irony!
I reach’d for the Key to my Chamber Door (which hung, these Days, on a Chain about my Neck), but, to my Astonishment, the Key, too, had vanish’d and the Door was securely lockt from the other side. I struggl’d with it, half in Disbelief, half in Fury, for still I could not credit my Senses in this Predicament. Could I be held Prisoner upon this Fateful Day? I pounded my Fists against the Door in Fury and Rage, but I doubted that anyone should come to my Rescue. The Deed had been too well done for it to be undone now by mere Pounding.
I ran to the Windows facing upon the Street. I could escape thro’ the Windows if not thro’ the Door; but the Windows were—I now remember’d—painted shut! Many Times had I told myself to have ’em scrap’d, but always procrastinated, and now all my Efforts to force ’em open avail’d nought!
Come, Fanny, thought I, how should you let mere Prison Walls detain you when now your Mind is fixt upon your Destiny with Lancelot? Whereupon I held myself in check and I sat down upon the Bed to think. Be still, I counsel’d my beating Heart. Be Serene, I counsel’d my disorder’d Mind. Panick ne’er broke down Prisons, but slow, calm Consideration might do so.
But my Thoughts came all in a Rush! I thought of Lancelot’s Brig, anchor’d off the Isle of Wight, riding the Seas, Flags flying, waiting to take me to my Destiny. I thought of the Witches’ Prophecy—“Your Daughter will fly across the Seas”—which seem’d to portend my Escape now, despite all Odds. I thought of Bellars’ Jewels and Promises, of the tragick Deaths of Isobel and Joan, and finally of Horatio’s utter Faith that I and I alone might convince Lancelot to shun the Colonies where poor Horatio should always be in Peril as a Runaway.
What dire Opinion would Horatio have of me, if I fail’d to appear as I had promis’d? And would Lancelot believe I had rejected his Love? Why had I fail’d to burn the Letter? Was there a Worm in my Heart gnawing away with Lust for Bellars? Was there yet a Part of me that could not sail across the Seas without setting Eyes upon him once again? Was I still torn betwixt Passion and Honour, betwixt fiery Lust and fond Friendship? Or was I merely still too innocent of Evil and had I taken too little Care to guard against Kate’s Envy?
These were the furious Thoughts that battl’d in my Brain as I sat upon my Bed, wond’ring when Littlehat should come to fetch me and how I should communicate to him my Imprisonment, my Love for Lancelot, my Willingness to flee with him and keep my Word to all the Merry Men?
I rose and dress’d myself in Man’s Attire, refusing to believe that I should not find some Way out of this foul, unfair Gaol. But, once dress’d, I could do nought but gaze at the Raindrops chasing each other down the Window Panes and wonder when my good Friend Littlehat should come.
’Twas deathly still and quiet in the House. I heard no Sounds of Coxtart or the other Wenches stirring. ’Twas strange; ’twas very strange indeed. Where might they have gone? What Ploy might Kate have us’d to so impound me without Hope, for I doubted not but she was the Culprit, the Author of this hellish Plan, the Serpent in this rotten Garden of Evil.
I struggl’d again with the Window, but ’twould not budge an Inch. I ran to the Bell Pull and yankt upon it with both Hands, but lo! it came loose as I did so! The entire Chamber had been prepar’d to thwart my Plans! O Villainy! O misplaced Innocence!
I press’d my Nose to the Rain-streakt Glass, determining that I should position myself there and wait for Littlehat to appear, then make such Noises that he could not fail to hear me, despite the Din of Traffick in the Rain-soakt Street.
Whilst waiting, I should find a Means to open the Window, I vow’d to myself. And so I station’d myself there, in Readiness for my Journey, whilst the Rain pour’d down and the Pedestrians, Chairs, Carts, and Coaches in the Street below sent a Din up to Heaven which might have been the very Echo of my Distress.
How long I waited I cannot say. Time lost all Meaning as I struggl’d with the Window, then stopp’d to rest, then struggl’d and stopp’d again. I watch’d the Pedestrians below with a Wary Eye. Whene’er I saw a short, fat Man or one with a black Beard, my Heart seem’d to cease beating in my Breast. ’Twas very like a mad Infatuation; I long’d for Littlehat’s squat Form and comical Face as if he, not Lancelot, had been my Lover!
The Rain grew heavier, then abated a little, then grew heavier once again. The Damp penetrated my Chamber, where no Fire burnt in the Grate upon this chill and miserable Day. I rubb’d my Hands together with the Cold. I press’d my cold Nose to the Panes. Many Times I began to weep for my Plight, but held myself in check with the stern Admonition that losing Hope was the greatest Defeat of all, and that if I might but maintain Faith in my eventual Salvation, then Salvation should somehow come to me.
At last, I saw a short, squat Figure in a green Surtout hurry along the Street, leading a fine Ebony Arabian Mare. The Gnome-like Figure walkt with lower’d Head, and, his Hat being uncockt, I could not see his Features; but from his Gait and Manner, I was certain ’twas Littlehat. Then the Rebellion had been a Success! For if Littlehat had left the Confines of the Prison Walls, perhaps ’twas safe to assume that Lancelot and the others had done so, too. At this very Moment, they were doubtless speeding towards our Rallying Ground. My Heart leapt in my Bosom with Joy and I wanted to shout “Hail Littlehat! Hail Lancelot! Hail Horatio!” For the nonce, I near forgot I was a Prisoner myself.
Now Littlehat approach’d the Door to Coxtart’s House, looking behind him, to ascertain whether he was being follow’d. Now he was momentarily out of my Sight as he rang at the Gate. Now he stepp’d back again, waiting; and now a female Figure in a Cloak came out to speak with him. She must have been waiting there all along, for she walkt with him into the Street, instead of calling him within. O Treachery!—’twas Kate!
At first, both were turn’d with their Backs towards me, but then they slowly turn’d ’round. Now I could see Littlehat’s Face. As he glanced up at the House, I beat with furious Fists upon the Window, but, alas, he could neither hear nor see me. Now Kate whisper’d something in his Ear, and now suddenly he wore a troubl’d Mien, his Moustache seem’d to droop, his Mouth quiver’d as if he should begin to cry. Quickly, I ran to the Bed, tore off the Linens, and began knotting ’em together in the Hope of making a sort of Ladder for my Escape. Why had I not thought of this sooner? Then back to the Window where I could see Littlehat was just now sadly walking away. With a Burst of Fury at Kate, and profoundest Anguish o’er Littlehat’s Melancholick Tears, I smasht my Fist thro’ the Window, breaking one Pane, but also cutting my Wrist so severely that it bled the brightest, reddest Blood.
“Littlehat! Littlehat!” I shouted, but he could not hear me. With my left Hand, I smasht another Window Pane, calling to him and screaming all the while—tho’ to no avail, and still the Opening in the Window was too small for me to crawl thro’.
O I was in a Rage of Tears and Madness! Paying no Attention to the spurting Blood, nor to the Pain in my Hands, I smasht at the Window with both Fists whilst calling to Littlehat, who, e’en now, was moving farther and farther away.
I ran to the Bedstand and found a brass Candlestick, and with this I batter’d at the Window Panes until I broke ’em all, whereupon I began the much more difficult Task of breaking the wood Frames so as to make an Opening for myself. But how to secure the Sheet so that I would not fall and dispatch myself to Heaven forthwith? I had not reckon’d with this Problem. Should I forget the Sheet, crawl out upon the Window Ledge, and hope that Littlehat would heed me then? ’Twas a long Fall to the Ground, yet if I could slide a little Way upon the Sheet, I might jump the Rest—tho’ a Fall from here might indeed be fatal.
Just then I spy’d a Hoisting Hook, a good two Feet above the outer Window Frame. If I could climb out upon the wet Window Ledge and afix my linen Rope to this, I might lower myself a bit and be within close enough Reach of the Street to leap the Rest of the Way. Carefully, praying to the Goddess above, I stepp’d out onto the slippery Ledge. With my bleeding Hand I grasp’d the side of the Window Frame (trying for all my Might not to look down) whilst with my good Hand I sought to attach the Linen to the Hook. ’Twas a Job that requir’d two Hands, but the Ledge was slick as Glass and I dar’d not let go. Still, what was Death compar’d with losing Lancelot? I let go my Hold upon the Frame, and carefully reach’d up and ty’d the utmost Corner of the Bed-Linen to the Hook. Then, begging the Goddess that the Hook should bear my Weight, I grasp’d the linen Ladder with both Hands and slid down it to Liberty!
O the Rope held for the nonce, yet ’twas far too short, and I had a long Way left to jump. But what other Choyce had I, dangling so precariously in Air? I took my Courage in my Mouth and leapt. Whereupon I fell upon the Street, trying to roll to break my Fall—but coming down, alas, so heavily upon one Foot that I bruis’d it horribly. For a Moment, the Pain prevented me from moving at all. Ne’ertheless, I soon scrambl’d to my Feet and began to limp in the Direction Littlehat had gone. I dragg’d myself along thro’ sheer Will and Stubbornness, for my Hand was bleeding more than e’er before and my Foot had now begun to swell within my Boot, making the Pain nearly unendurable. How I endur’d it, stumbling headlong in the Rain, I cannot say. I only know that I thought of Lancelot waiting, and of Horatio’s Distress when he should find himself betray’d, and of the Sadness of my Friend Littlehat, which had been so clear upon his loving Face.
I must have been in true Delirium by then, for I remember nought but shouting “Littlehat! Littlehat!” just before I stumbl’d in a Mud Hole and chanced to hit my Head against a Post.
What next transpir’d I also do not know, since I was dumber to the World than that Post upon which I’d dasht my Brains. I dreamt I was aboard a handsome Brig, anchor’d off the Isle of Wight, and I was dress’d all in a Pyrate’s Garb, with multicolour’d patchwork velvet Breeches, a velvet Coat and Waistcoat, and a gorgeous gleaming Cutlass, which I wielded ’gainst the Foe as ably as any Man. I climb’d the Rigging like an expert Sailor, then I stood in the Crow’s-Nest, high above the Water, watching the Seas glitter with Jewels of Sunlight whilst the Men upon the Deck below appear’d for all the World like Children’s Mannikins made of Lead.
Now Lancelot was beside me, kissing me upon the Face and Neck and thanking me for having Faith in him and promising that it should not be long before we found safe Haven for our new Jerusalem. In the Dream, all was Peace, Joy, and Tranquillity. My Heart was flooded with Sunshine and I knew that all would be well with me thereafter. ’Twas one of those Dreams we have when our Fortunes reach their lowest Ebb, and we wish to reassure ourselves that all is not lost.
But O what base Deception do our Dreams create! For when I awaken’d, ’twas in my familiar Bed in Coxtart’s House, with Coxtart’s awful Face, not Lancelot’s lovely one, watching o’er me, and my whole World seem’d suddenly black as Hell.
I wept and whimper’d in Coxtart’s Arms. Ne’er did any Wench have such a strange Nurse, such a curious Mother!
“Come now, Fanny mine,” says she. “Why weep when ye have charm’d a fine Admirer? Why, Lord Bellars himself hath call’d here a dozen Times if he hath call’d here once—and just in these three Days! My Word, you’ve hardly cause to weep when a Gentleman of Lord Bellars’ Rank hath been so daft with Worry o’er yer own fine Self!”
“Lancelot! Lancelot!” I cried amidst Gales of Tears.
“Pray, who is Lancelot? Is my Lord Bellars’ Christian Name Lancelot? I doubt it, for I have heard he is call’d Laurence, tho’ perhaps Lancelot is yer Pet Name for him abed!”
O I wept bitter Tears both at Coxtart’s Misunderstanding of my Plight, and the dread News that three whole Days had pass’d, and here it was too late to reach the Isle of Wight!
“Fanny,” Coxtart says, “I owe ye a great Debt of Gratitude for all yer valiant Efforts to arrest Kate’s Escape. For the Baggage hath elop’d, and I doubt not but all yer Struggles with the Window were nought but the most valiant Essays to stop the Wench. For truly she hath deceiv’d us all. She spirited away the other Girls with the News of a great Auction in the Royal Exchange, which prov’d a Lye. And when I return’d from Market, I found the Baggage gone—with all my Plate as well!—and you bleeding in the Street where you had fallen in yer Loyalty to me! O there was a Young Fellow who came here enquiring after you upon that Night of your Initiation as a Nun—a Fellow from Wiltshire—a rough Country Squire who claim’d to be the Heir to a Great Estate. I would have sent him packing, but Kate insisted she herself would entertain him—the Strumpet—and I reckon ’tis with him she hath elop’d! But fear not, we’ll see the Strumpet hang’d, I warrant. O what Satisfaction ’twill be to hear the Snap of her foolish Neck and see her swing at Tyburn.”
I only moan’d and wail’d for Lancelot and did not answer, but in my Mind many Visions rose and fell. Could it be Daniel who had come in search of me, and had he then been set upon by Kate? Impossible, I thought; Coxtart must be mad. Kate had doubtless stolen the Silver and then fled, or perhaps her mysterious Tradesman had come for her at last. Still, what did I care for Kate’s Affairs, with Lancelot gone!
Oblivious of my Distress, Coxtart chatter’d on: “And mark my Words, you have slept thro’ the greatest Tumult London hath known since the Royal Entry of King George. Why, a Rebellion hath taken place in Newgate Prison and well o’er twenty Rogues and forty Debtors o’erpower’d the Guards and made away on horseback. ’Twas said they had Confederates without the Prison Walls who brought ’em Horses on which to escape—Stolen Horses, I’ll warrant—and the whole Town hath talkt of nothing else lo these three Days past!”
This News brought me suddenly to my Senses.
“And what became of the Mutineers?” I askt, my Voice hoarse with not having spoken a Word except to rave in three whole Days.
“See here,” says Coxtart, “I’ve The Daily Courant somewhere about.” And she lookt for it upon the Escritoire—but finding it not, she said: “No, no—’tis not here, but I’ll fetch it from the Parlour.” Whereupon she hasten’d towards the Door.
“Pray, Mother Coxtart,” I askt, “tell me, have I broken Bones? Will I be lame fore’er more?”
“I fear’d that, too,” says she, “for my beloved, dearest Fanny, but ’twas nothing more than a twisted Ankle, tho’ yer Leg swell’d so, we had to cut the Boot off. Clever Girl to pursue that Strumpet, Kate, in Man’s Disguise—but have no Fear, we’ll see her swing yet. Sure, Fanny, had ye not hit yer Head and knockt yer Brains to Heaven, that Ankle would have stopp’d ye—not to mention all the Blood ye lost from yer Wrist. Why, had ye wisht to suicide, ye could have done no better! Now then, I’ll fetch yer Tea and The Daily Courant, I’ll warrant there’ll be Love Letters as well from yer Fine Admirer….”
Coxtart bustl’d out the Door, full of counterfeit Love for me now that she saw still more Profits to be made off Lord Bellars’ Infatuation. I lay abed alone and moan’d with Anguish. I remember’d my Dream of Peace and Happiness and how I had awaken’d from it to this Nightmare. I curst my Fate which had orphan’d me fore’er more. Would I always be an Outcast, wand’ring the World, seeking my own Native Tribe, and finding it briefly only to be cast out again? I moan’d more with the Ache in my Heart than with the Pains in my Foot and Wrist. O why was I not dead if not with Lancelot? I wept until I soakt the Linens with my briny Tears.
Coxtart soon return’d, full of Chear and Bustle, placed a Tray before me set with Dishes of Tea and all Manner of Muffins, Buns, warm Breads, Butter, and Cheese.
“Come now, Fanny, dry yer Eyes. Lord Bellars will pay a Visit to ye anon,” whereupon the sly old Fox smil’d like a Tom Cat that tortures a Canary.
This News alarm’d me. Now, more than e’er before, Bellars must not see my Face! For surely if he knew I were his Step-Child, he would grow tired of me ere long.
“Pray, Mother Coxtart, you must keep Lord Bellars away from here until I am recover’d. I will not have him see me in this distress’d Condition. Why, Coquetry and Prudence alone dictate that he must ne’er see me in this Condition! I have sent Word to him already to await the next Costume Ridotto at The King’s Theatre and I’ll ne’er see him ere then. Do you think I have gain’d the passionate Loyalty of such a notorious Rake by letting him come to me at any Hour? Nay, Mother Coxtart, he will pay better for my Services if he is forced to wait!”
“Clever Wench!” says Coxtart, her Eyes glitt’ring with Greed. “Very well, then, I’ll keep the Wolf at bay. But mark ye—there are Letters here,” whereupon she hands me no less than four Letters with Lord Bellars’ Seal. Now she draws a somewhat tatter’d Copy of a News-Sheet out of her Apron, sets it before me, and with many counterfeit Kisses and Fondlings (which near cause me to be sick upon the Bed), she takes her Leave of me.
I put the Love Letters aside without the slightest Hesitation and turn hungrily to The Daily Courant before I e’en taste my Tea. There I read these stirring Words upon the Page:
London, September 24.
We have receiv’d Information of a major Tumult Yesterday at Newgate Prison. The Turnkey, perceiving the Prisoners going into a Riot, sent Guards for a File of Musqueteers to prevent it, and a Tumult arose, in which there were seven Men kill’d and a like Number of Soldiers wounded, despite which Occurrence, well o’er Forty Prisoners escap’d upon horseback, doubtless with the Aid of Confederates without the Walls. A Committee of Council hath been form’d to look into this Disorder and the Warden hath been directed to take more effectual Care for the Future.
So the Rebellion had not fail’d! Yet who were the seven Men kill’d? Was Lancelot amongst them? And did they truly escape and reach the Isle of Wight? Upon this the News-Sheet was anguishingly silent. Was there no further Report, no News at all but this? Alas, the Paper was far more prolix upon the Subjects of lost Dogs, erring Wives, and facial Washes. For in the self-same Sheet I also read:
Lost September 24, 1724, betwixt St. James’ Sq. and the Old Palace-Yard, a little Cross-shap’d Dog, of the Lurcher kind, of a yellow-brown Colour. ’Twas taken up by an ill-lookt Fellow, a Notorious Dog-Stealer, and led by a blue String towards York Building. He answers to the Name of Bugg, and leaps o’er a Stick. Whoe’er brings him next door to the Great House in Dean’s Yard, shall have Two Shillings Reward. N.B. He will ne’er be worth a George to those who have him, his Marks being known.
’twas clear that lost Dogs merited a far more Precise Account than Prison Rebellions. Likewise, Lost Wives:
Whereas Dame Eliza Penny (Wife of Sir James Penny of York Place in the County of Surrey, Bart, and Daughter of Samuel Snellgrove, late of Deptford in the County of Kent, Shipwright), aged 23 years, or thereabouts, hath elop’d from her said Husband without any Cause, and endeavours to run him in Debt, by taking up Goods from Tradesmen and otherwise. The said Husband, with an honest Intent, that Tradesmen and others should not be impos’d on: Doth hereby give Notice of the said Elopement, and that he will not pay any Debts she shall contract. This Notice is further to Forewarn all Persons not to trust her; and to the End no Person may be impos’d upon by her under any False Names in the Future, all Persons are inform’d that she is a little Woman, light brown Hair, full grey Eyes, large Eyebrows, round Visage, pale Complexion, with a small Moon-shap’d Scar in the Middle of her Forehead, and hath a very voluble, deceitful Tongue.
Alas for the English Nation which hath e’er set a higher Value upon Dogs than upon Wives! I doubted not but Eliza Penny had good cause to leave her “said Husband,” and in my Heart I wisht her God’s Speed. Likewise Lancelot, tho’ I knew not whether he was alive or dead. O curse the foolish News-Sheet which had more Space for Notices of Aids to Beauty than for Notices of Rebellions in Newgate Prison! For now I glanced down the Page, where, in my Distress and Anguish, I allow’d my Eye to linger o’er the trivial Notices of Beauty Aids, many of which I already had employ’d:
The famous Bavarian Red Liquor; Which gives such a delightful blushing Colour to the Cheaks of those that are White or Pale, that it is not to be distinguish’d from a natural fine Complexion, nor perceiv’d to be artificial by the nearest Friend. Is nothing of Paint, or in the least hurtful, but good in many Cases to be taken inwardly. It renders the Face delightfully handsome and beautiful; is not subject to be rubb’d off like Paint, therefore cannot be discover’d by the nearest Friend. It is certainly the best Beautifier in the World; is sold only at Mr. Payn’s Toy-Shop, at The Angel and Crown in St. Paul’s Churchyard near Cheapside, at 3s. 6d. a Bottle, with Directions.
Would I now, having lost Lancelot, and all my Dreams of Liberty, devote myself entirely to being a Painted Whore, and fill my Life, like so many Women, with these Trifles? Then I had best read carefully, for this News-Sheet foretold my entire Destiny:
The true Royal Chymical Wash-Ball for the beautifying of the Hands and Face, as it is from the first Author, without Mercury or anything prejudicial, largely experienced and highly recommended by all that use them, and that for making the Skin so delicately soft and smooth, as not to be parallel’d by either Wash, Powder, or Cosmetick; and it being indeed a real Beautifier of the Skin, by taking off all Deformities, as Tetters, Ringworms, Morphew, Sunburn, Scurff, Pimples, Pits, or Redness of the Small Pox, keeping it of a lasting and extream Whiteness. It soon alters red or rough Hands and is admirable in shaving the Head, which not only gives an exquisite Sharpness to the Razor, but so comforts the Brain and Nerves, as to prevent catching Cold, and is of a grateful and pleasant Scent; which has been sold above this twenty Years at the Corner of Pope’s-Head Alley in Cornhill, over against the Royal Exchange, and is still continu’d to be sold at the same Place by Mr. Lambert, Glove-Seller, and at Mrs. King’s Toy-Shop in Westminster Hall. Price one Shilling each, and Allowance by the dozen. Beware of Counterfeits which may prove very prejudicial.
Beware, indeed, of Counterfeits! Would a Bavarian Red Liquor cure a pallid aching Heart and make it robust and red again? Would a Royal Chymical Wash-Ball cleanse Deformities from the Soul? O the News-Sheet did not answer this! But how informative ’twas upon the Subject of Perfume for Wigs!
The Royal Essence for the Hair of the Head and Perriwigs, being the most delicate and charming Perfume in Nature, and the greatest Preserver of Hair in the World, for it keeps that of Perriwigs (a much longer Time than usual) in the Curl, and fair Hair from fading or changing Colour, makes the Hair of the Head grow thick, strengthens and confirms its Roots, and effectually prevents it from falling off or splitting at the Ends, makes the Powder continue in all Hair longer than it possibly will, by the use of any other Thing; by its incomparable Odour and Fragrancy it strengthens the Brain, revives the Spirits, quickens the Memory, and makes the Heart chearful, never raises the Vapours in Ladies, & c, being wholly free from (and abundantly more delightful and pleasant than) Musk, Civet, &. c, ’tis indeed an unparallel’d fine Scent for the Pocket, and perfumes Handkerchiefs, & c. excellently. To be had only at Mr. Allcraft’s, a Toy-Shop at The Bluecoat Boy by Pope’s-Head Alley against The Royal Exchange, Cornhill, seal’d up, at 2s. 6d. a Bottle with Directions.
O Mr. Allcraft, sure I could use some of your Craft! For ne’er did my Brain need so much strengthening, nor my Memory so much quickening, nor my Spirits so much reviving, nor my Heart so much chearing! O I must go to Mr. Allcraft’s Toy-Shop presently! I must have this Royal Essence to revive my Spirits! I must cover my aching Heart with Paints and Patches, my aching Brain with perfum’d Powder for a Wig, my sadden’d Soul with Petticoats and Panniers, my sunder’d Spirit with silver Lace or gold. Alas, Belinda, we read the News-Sheets for News of Life and Death, Survival of our Souls in Worlds to Come, Reunion with our Loves and Lovers—and we find nought but Notices for Toys and Toy-Shops, Beauty Aids and Scents! The Printing-Press may have a certain Pow’r, but it doth nought to bring us back our Friends nor heal our Hearts! And when we read the News for Comfort and Consolation—Cosmeticks are all we get!
My Tea was now cold as Ice, likewise my Breads and Muffins; and, putting ’em all aside, I crumpl’d the accursed News-Sheet into a Ball and fell to weeping again as if I must discharge the stor’d Tears of an entire Lifetime. O that my briny Tears were the briny Sea and I were aboard the Hazard with Lancelot! But ’twas not to be. The Fates had other Jests in Store.