“Why, madam, she figured in the literary world, too!  Bet Flint wrote her own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in verse;—­it began: 

’When Nature first ordained my birth,
A diminutive I was born on earth: 
And then I came from a dark abode,
Into a gay and gaudy world.’(51)

So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her half-a-crown, and she liked it as well.  Bet had a fine spirit;—­ she advertised for a husband, but she had no success, for she told me no man aspired to her!  Then she hired very handsome lodgings and a footboy; and she got a harpsichord, but Bet could not play; however, she put herself in fine attitudes, and drummed.”

Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called herself by some fine name, I have forgotten what.

“She had not quite the same stock of virtue,” continued he, “nor the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied her accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of harmony, that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very divinely, the other jade had her indicted for a nuisance!”

“And pray what became of her, sir?

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“Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he had her taken up:  but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued; so when she found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a sedan chair, and bid her footboy walk before her.  However, the boy proved refractory, for he was ashamed, though his mistress was not."”

“And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?” “Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her.  ‘So now,’ she said to me, ’the quilt is my own, and now I’ll make a petticoat of it.’  Oh, I loved Bet Flint!"(52)

Oh, how we all laughed!  Then he gave an account of another lady, who called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole furniture; but he had not the same affection for her, he said, though she too “was a lady who had high notions of honour.”

Then followed the history of another, who called herself Hortensia, and who walked up and down the park repeating a book of Virgil.  But,” said he " “though I know her story, I never had the good fortune to see her.”

After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman:  “And she,” he said, “told me she owed all her misfortunes to her wit; for she was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself also a wit, though I believe she gave him not implicit credit for it, but it occasioned much contradiction and ill-will.”

“Bless me, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “how can all these vagabonds contrive to get at you, of all people?”

“O the dear creatures!” cried he, laughing heartily, “I can’t but be glad to see them.”

“Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd,(53) among the rest.”

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“Why, madam, I believe I should,” said he, “if it was not for the newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like very well, since I am become such a theme for the papers.”