“I have before told you, Nature has nothing to do with Real Life in London.”
“And yet,” continued Bob, “we are told, and I cannot help confessing the truth of the assertion, with respect to the ladies, that
“——Loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorn'd the most,” This certainly implies a natural or native grace.”
“Pshaw,” said Dashall, “that was according to the Old school; such doctrines are completely exploded now-a-days, for Fashion is at variance with Nature in all her walks; hence, driving is considered one of the accomplishments necessary to be acquired by the female sex in high life, by which an estimate of character may be formed: for instance—if a lady take the reins of her husband, her brother, or a lover, it is strongly indicative of assuming the mastery; but should she have no courage or muscular strength, and pays no attention to the art of governing and guiding her cattle, it is plain that she will become no driver, no whip, and may daily run the risk of breaking the necks of herself and friends. If however she should excel in this study, she immediately becomes masculine and severe, and she punishes, when occasion requires, every animal within the reach of her lash—acquires an ungraceful attitude and manner—heats her complexion by over exertion—sacrifices her softness to accomplish her intentions—runs a risk of having hard hands, and perhaps a hard heart: at all events she gains unfeminine habits, and such as are found very difficult to get rid of, and prides herself on being the go, the gaze, the gape, the stare of all who see her.”
“A very admirable, and no doubt equally happy state,” quoth Bob, half interrupting him.
“If she learn the art of driving from the family coachman, it cannot be doubted but such tuition is more than likely to give her additional grace, and to teach her all that is polite; and then the pleasure of such company whilst superintending her studies, must tend to improve her mind; the freedom of these teachers of coachmanship, and the language peculiar to themselves, at first perhaps not altogether agreeable, is gradually worn away by the pride of becoming an accomplished whip—to know how to turn a corner in style—tickle Snarler in the ear—cut up the yelper—take out a fly's eye in bang-up twig.”
“Excellent! indeed,” cried Bob, charmed with Dashall's irony, and willing to provoke it farther; “and pray, when this art of driving is thoroughly learned, what does it tend to but a waste of time, a masculine enjoyment, and a loss of feminine character—of that sweet, soft and overpowering submission to and reliance on the other sex, which, whilst it demands our protection and assistance, arouses our dearest sympathies—our best interests—attaches, enraptures, and subdues us?”
“Nonsense,” continued Tom, “you might ask such questions for a month—who cares about these submissions and reliances—protections and sympathies—they are not known, at least it is very unfashionable to acknowledge their existence. Why I have known ladies so infatuated and affected by an inordinate love of charioteering, that it has completely altered them, not only as to dress, but manners and feeling, till at length they have become more at home in the stable than the drawing-room; and some, that are so different when dressed for dinner, that the driving habiliments appear like complete masquerade disguises. Indeed, any thing that is natural is considered quite out of nature; and this affectation is not wholly confined to the higher circles, for in the City even the men and the women seem to have changed places.
“Man-milliners and mantua-makers swarm With clumsy hands to deck the female form— With brawny limbs to fit fine ladies' shapes, Or measure out their ribbons, lace and tapes; Or their rude eye the bosom's swell surveys, To cut out corsets or to stitch their stays; Or making essences and soft perfume, Or paint, to give the pallid cheek fresh bloom; Or with hot irons, combs, and frizzling skill, On ladies' heads their daily task fulfil; Or, deeply versed in culinary arts, Are kneading pasty, making pies and tarts; Or, clad in motley coat, the footman neat Is dangling after Miss with shuffling feet, Bearing in state to church her book of pray'r, Or the light pocket she disdains to wear;{1} Or in a parlour snug, 'the powdered lout The tea and bread and butter hands about. Where are the women, whose less nervous hands Might fit these lighter tasks, which pride demands? Some feel the scorn that poverty attends, Or pine in meek dépendance on their friends; Some patient ply the needle day by day, Poor half-paid seamsters, wasting life away; Some drudge in menial, dirty, ceaseless toil, Bear market loads, or grovelling weed the soil; Some walk abroad, a nuisance where they go, And snatch from infamy the bread of woe.”
“It is a strange sort of infatuation, this fashion,” said Bob, “and it is much to be regretted it should operate so much to the injury of the fair—”