The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless

by Eliza Fowler Haywood

Nothing so much encourages an unwarrantable passion for a married woman, as to know she has a husband regardless of her charms. A young gay gentleman, a companion of Mr. Munden's, privy to most of his secrets, and partner with him in many a debauch, had seen Mrs. Munden at Miss Airish's, where she still continued to visit. He had entertained a kind of roving flame for her, which his friendship for her husband could not prevent him from wishing to gratify; but, though they often met, he never could get an opportunity of declaring himself: all he could do was sometimes to whisper in her ear that she was divinely handsome—that he adored her—and that he died for her—and such like stuff; which she was too often accustomed to hear to take much notice of.

The indifferent opinion which most men of pleasure, or, in other words, genteel rakes of the town, have of women in general, joined to the too great gaiety he had observed in Mrs. Munden's behaviour, made him imagine there required little more for the gaining her than the making his addresses to her. The means of speaking to her in private seemed to him the sole difficulty he had to get over: and, in order to do so, he wrote to her in the following terms.

'To Mrs. Munden.

Madam,

A fine woman would reap little advantage from the charms she is mistress of, if confined to the languid embraces of a single possesser. Marriage takes off the poignancy of desire: a man has no relish for beauties that are always the same, and always in his power; those endearments generally make his happiness become disgustful to him by being his duty; and he naturally flies to seek joys yet untasted, in the arms of others. This, fair angel, is the case with us all—you have too much good-sense not to know it, or to expect your husband should vary from his sex in this particular.

Let those unhappy women, therefore, to whom nature has been niggard of her bounties, pine in an abandoned bed. You are formed to give and to receive the most unbounded joys of love—to bless and to be blest with the utmost profusion of extasies unspeakable.

To tell you how infinitely I adore you, and how much I have languished for an opportunity of declaring my passion, would require a volume instead of a letter: besides, my pen would but faintly express the sentiments of my soul—they will have more energy when whispered in your ear. I know such a thing is impossible at your own house, or at any of those where you visit. Favour me, then, I beseech you, with taking a little walk in the Privy Garden near the water-side, to-morrow about eleven; from which place, if my person and passion be not altogether disagreeable to you, we may adjourn to some other, where I may give you more substantial demonstrations how much I am, with the utmost sincerity, dear Madam, your eternally devoted, and most faithful admirer.

P.S. I do not sign my name for fear of accidents; but flatter myself my eyes have already said enough to inform you who I am.'

If this letter had come but a very small time before it did, it is possible that, though Mrs. Munden would even then have been highly offended at the presumption, yet her vanity and curiosity might have excited her to give the meeting required in it by the author; though it had only been, as she would then have imagined, merely to see who he was, and laugh at his stupidity for addressing her in that manner.

Not but she had some distant guess at the person; but whether it was him, or any other, who had taken this liberty, she now gave herself not the least concern: she was only desirous to put an entire stop to those audacious hopes she found he had entertained, and to keep herself from receiving any future solicitations, from the same quarter at least.

To send back his letter without any other token of her resentment and disdain at the contents, she thought would not be sufficient; and her ready wit, after a little pause, presented her with a method more efficacious. It was this.

She folded up the epistle in the same fashion it was when she received it, and inclosed it in another piece of paper; in which she wrote these lines.

'Sir,

As I cannot think any man would be weak enough to dictate an epistle of this nature to the wife of Mr. Munden, I must suppose you made some mistake in the direction, and sent that to me which was intended for some other woman, whose character it might better agree with.

I must intreat you, however, to be more careful for the future; for if any such impertinence should a second time arise, I shall think myself obliged to make a confidante of my husband, whose good-sense and penetration will, doubtless, enable him to discover the author, and his spirit and courage instruct him in what manner to resent the affront offered to his ever-faithful, and most affectionate wife,

B. Munden.'

This had all the effect she wished it should have—the beau was ashamed of the fruitless attack he had made—wrote to her no more—avoided her sight as much as possible—and, whenever chance brought him into her company, behaved towards her with all the distance and respect imaginable.

This lady, now fully convinced how dangerous it was to be too much admired for her external charms, ceased even to wish they should be taken notice of; and set herself seriously about improving those perfections of the mind which she was sensible could alone entitle her to the esteem of the virtuous and the wife.