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Garb at all!”
    At this, I blusht still more furiously crimson, and Lord Bellars laugh’d uproariously.
    “Sir, you mock me,” I protested.
    “Marry come up, Fanny, I have ne’er been more serious in my Life.”
    “But tell me more of the Grotto,” I said, wishing desp’rately to move on to less indiscreet Subjects (for little did I suspect in my Innocence that Mr. Pope’s Grotto was perhaps a sort of warm Womb to him, who had such Difficulty persuading Ladies to share his lonely Bed).
    “There is little more to say,” said the Poet. “You must see it with your own Eyes, as Lord Bellars hath done. You will think my Description is poetical, but ’tis nearer the Truth than you would suppose. Moreo’er, I plan to expand the Grotto into no less than five Caverns, each with its own Design of Crystals, Amethysts, Shells, and Ores. I hope to secure rare Corals and petrified Moss, and e’en large Clumps of Cornish Diamonds. Eventually, there shall be a Bagnio and num’rous conceal’d Fountains whence Cataracts of Water shall precipitate above your Head, from impending Stones and Rocks, whilst salient Spouts rise in rapid Streams at your Feet. Water shall break amongst Heaps of Flints and Spar. Thus Nature and Art will join to the mutual Advantage of both.”
    I was silenced once again by the Beauty of his Description, for when Mr. Pope spoke, one forgot his twisted Form, his thinning Hair, the gen’ral Fustiness of his Person (for he was too twisted to bathe or dress without Assistance), and one saw, in place of his Form, the Beauties of the Things he describ’d. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a Poet—to compensate with Words for what Nature had denied one’s Frame; and sure he had a more than natural Passion for this Grotto of his, which seem’d to be a kind of pleasing Substitution for the Unpleasingness of his Person. ’Twas the Cave in which he summon’d the Muses and polish’d his Verses, but was it not also a Re-forming of himself? (Thus would I ruminate about Human Nature in my Melancholick Youth.)
    I wonder’d then if I could be a Poet, since there was no Beauty lacking in my Person; but certainly the Circumstances of being born an Orphan had given me Knowledge of Sorrow, which perhaps, together with much Practice and the Muses’ Blessing, would be enough. I resolv’d to find Mr. Pope privily after Supper and discourse of this with him.
    The Ladies (Lady Bellars, Mary, and myself) then withdrew, leaving the Gentlemen to piss and drink, Chamber-Potts and Bottles for the Purposes being produced from the Sideboard. I know ’tis perhaps indelicate to mention this Custom, but as I am writing for my own Belinda, who may be unacquainted with Country Manners at the Time of George I, I am sure my Indelicacy may be excus’d. For ’twas indeed the Custom of that Time for the Gentlemen to relieve themselves in the Dining Room whilst the Ladies retir’d to the House of Easement or their own Chambers.
    Upon this Occasion, when Lady Bellars had withdrawn to her Chamber, Mary grabb’d me rudely and propos’d that we two attempt to view the Gentlemen’s Diversions thro’ the Dining-Room Keyhole.
    “For I am sure,” says Mary, “that just as his Back is deform’d, so his Masculine Appendage must be similarly gothick and strange.” Whereupon she lets out a devilish Cackle, and goads me with: “Come, Fanny, are you such a Coward you will not?” Whereupon she claps her Eye to the Keyhole, and glues it there, whilst I struggle betwixt Curiosity and Disgust.
    “Oooh,” says she, “what a prodigious Engine he hath, despite his small Stature,” and then she falls silent for a Moment, staring thro’ the Keyhole with rapt Attention, and then she makes Noises of Mock-Alarm and Surprize, (acting more like a Chambermaid than a Lady—except that a Chambermaid might i’faith have had more Pretensions to the Graces than she).
    “Come,” she says, “have a Look. You will scarce believe your