e a feast, and there a masquerade, and plays, and coaches,
and hurries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at the door, and
visits, and frolicks, and new fashions, I shall not care what they do
with the rest of the time, nor whether they count it by the old style or
the new; for I am resolved to break loose from the nursery in the
tumult, and play my part among the rest; and it will be strange if I
cannot get a husband and a chariot in the year of confusion.

Cycle, who is neither so young nor so handsome as Starlight, very
gravely maintained, that all the perplexity may he avoided by leaping
over eleven days in the reckoning; and, indeed, if it should come only
to this, I think the new style is a delightful thing; for my mamma says
I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they can but contrive
often to leap over eleven days together, the months of restraint will
soon be at an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that have been
laid against time, they could never kill it by act of parliament before.
Dear sir, if you have any vote or interest, get them but for once to
destroy eleven months, and then I shall be as old as some married
ladies. But this is desired only if you think they will not comply with
Mr. Starlight's scheme; for nothing surely could please me like a year
of confusion, when I shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and
the next to my needle, or wait at home for the dancing-master one day,
and the next for the musick-master; but run from ball to ball, and from
drum to drum; and spend all my time without tasks, and without account,
and go out without telling whither, and come home without regard to
prescribed hours, or family rules.

I am, sir,

Your humble servant,

PROPERANTIA.

MR. RAMBLER,

I was seized this morning with an unusual pensiveness, and, finding that
books only served to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in
hopes of relief and invigoration from the keenness of the air and
brightness of the sun.

As I wandered wrapped up in thought, my eyes were struck with the
hospital for the reception of deserted infants, which I surveyed with
pleasure, till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to reflect on
the fate of the mothers. For to what shelter can they fly? Only to the
arms of their betrayer, which, perhaps, are now no longer open to
receive them; and then how quick must be the transition from deluded
virtue to shameless guilt, and from shameless guil