To Col. Bellville.
Wednesday Night.
I Can't conceive, Bellville, what it is
that makes me so much the men's
taste: I really think I am not handsome–
not so very handsome–not so handsome
as Lady Julia,–yet I don't know how it is–
I am persecuted to death amongst you–
the misfortune to please every body–'tis
amazing–no regularity of features–fine
eyes indeed–a vivid bloom–a seducing
smile–an elegant form–an air of the
world–and something extremely well in the
Toute ensemble–a kind of an agreeable
manner–easy, spirited, degagée–and for
the understanding–I flatter myself malice
itself cannot deny me the beauties of the
mind. You might justly say to me, what
the Queen of Sweden said to Mademoiselle
le Favre, "With such an understanding,
are you not ashamed to be handsome?"
Thursday Morning.
Absolutely deserted. Lord and Lady
Belmont are gone to town this morning on
sudden and unexpected business: poor
Harry's situation would have been pitiable,
had not my Lord, considering how impossible
it was for him to be well with us both
à Trio, sent to Fondville to spend a week
here in their absence, which they hope will
not be much longer. Harry, who is viceroy,
with absolute power, has only one commission,
to amuse Lady Julia and me, and not
let us pass a languid hour till their return.
O Dio! Fondville's Arabians! the dear
creature looks up–he bows–"That
bow might from the bidding of the gods
command me"–
Don't you love quotations? I am immensely
fond of them: a certain proof of
erudition: and, in my sentiments, to be a
woman of literature is to be–In short,
my dear Bellville, I early in life discovered,
by the meer force of genius, that there
were two characters only in which one might
take a thousand little innocent freedoms,
without being censured by a parcel of impertinent
old women, those of a Belle
Esprit and a Methodist; and, the latter
not being in my style, I chose to set up for
the former, in which I have had the happiness
to succeed so much beyond my hopes,
that, the first question now asked amongst
polite people, when a new piece comes out,
is "What does Lady Anne Wilmot say of
it?" A scornful smile from me would damn
the best play that ever was wrote; as a look
of approbation, for I am naturally merciful,
has saved many a dull one. In short, if you
should happen to write an insipid poem,
which is extremely probable, send it to me,
and my Fiat shall crown you with immortality.
Oh! heavens! à propos, do you know
that Bell Martin, in the wane of her charms,
and past the meridian of her reputation, is
absolutely married to sir Charles Canterall?
Astonishing! till I condescend to give the clue,
She praised his bad verses. A thousand
things appear strange in human life, which,
if one had the real key, are only natural
effects of a hidden cause. "My dear sir
Charles, says Bell, that divine Sapphic of
yours–those melting sounds–I have
endeavoured to set it–But Orpheus or
Amphion alone–I would sing it–yet
fear to trust my own heart–such extatic
numbers–who that has a soul"–
She sing half a stanza, and, overcome by
the magic force of verse, leaning on his
breast, as if absorbed in speechless transport,
"she fainted, sunk, and dyed away". Find
me the poet upon earth who could have
withstood this. He married her the next
morning.
Oh! Ciel! I forgot the Caro Fondville.
I am really inhuman. Adieu!
"Je suis votre amie tres fidelle."
I can absolutely afford no more at present.
