Page:The English humourists of the eighteenth century. A series of lectures, delivered in England, Scotland, and the United States of America (IA englishhumourist00thacrich).pdf/137

 herself as she speaks] as sit staring at a book which I know you can't attend.—Good Dr. Lucas may have writ there what he pleases, but there's no putting Francis, Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of your head, or making him absent from your eyes. Do but look on me, now, and deny it if you can. "L. Ch.—You are the maddest girl [smiling.] "L. Ha.—Look ye, I knew you could not say it and forbear laughing—[looking over Charlotte.]—Oh! I see his name as plain as you do—F—r—a—n, Fran,—c—i—s, cis, Francis, 'tis in every line of the book. "L. Ch.—[Rising]. It's in vain, I see, to mind anything in such impertinent company—but granting t'were as you say, as to my Lord Hardy—t'is more excusable to admire another, than oneself. "L. Ha.—No, I think not—yes, I grant you, than really to be vain of one's person, but I don't admire myself—Pish! I don't believe my eyes to have that softness. [Looking in the glass.] They an't so piercing: no t'is only stuff, the men will be talking.—Some people are such admirers of teeth—Lord, what signifies teeth! (Showing her teeth.) A very black-a-moor has as white a set of teeth as I—No, sister, I don't admire myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction in me: I don't know I'm in love with myself, only to rival the men. "L. Ch.—Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground ev'n of that rival of his, your dear self. "L. Ha.—Oh, what have I done to you, that you should name that insolent intruder? A confident opinionative fop.—No indeed, if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of both sexes, I shan't be so easily catched—I thank him—I want but to be sure, I should heartily torment him by banishing him, and then consider whether he should depart this life or not. "L. Ch.—Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this vanity in your humour does not at all become you. "L. Ha..—Vanity! All the matter is, we gay people are more sincere than you wise folks: all your life's an art.—Speak you real.—Look you there.—[Hauling her to the glass.] Are you not struck with a secret pleasure when you view that bloom in your look, that harmony in your shape, that promptitude in your mien? is not a respectable object, and a hermit though he may be out at elbows must not be in debt to the tailor.