Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)Cleland, John
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Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)
Cleland, John
England -- Fiction; Erotic fiction; Prostitutes -- Fiction
“Neither my extraction, nor the most critical adventure of my life, is
sublime enough to impeach me of any vanity in the advancement of the
proposal you have approved of. My father and mother were, and for aught
I know, are still, farmers in the country, not above forty miles from
town: their barbarity to me, in favour of a son, on whom alone they
vouchsafed to bestow their tenderness, had a thousand times determined
me to fly their house, and throw myself on the wide world; but, at
length, an accident forced me on this desperate attempt at the age of
fifteen. I had broken a chinabowl, the pride and idol of both their
hearts; and as an unmerciful beating was the least I had to depend on
at their hands, in the silliness of these tender years, I left the
house, and, at all adventures, took the road to London. How my loss was
resented I do not know, for till this instant I have not heard a
syllable about them. My whole stock was two broad pieces of my
godmother’s, a few shillings, silver shoe-buckles and a silver thimble.
Thus equipped, with no more clothes than the ordinary ones I had on my
back, and frightened at every foot or noise I heard behind me, I
hurried on; and I dare sweare, walked a dozen miles before I stopped,
through mere weariness and fatigue. At length I sat down on a style,
wept bitterly, and yet was still rather under increased impressions of
fear on the account of my escape; which made me dread, worse than
death, the going back to my unnatural parents. Refreshed by this little
repose, and relieved by my tears, I was proceeding onward, when I was
overtaken by a sturdy country lad, who was going to London to see what
he could do for himself there, and, like me, had given his friends the
slip. He could not be above seventeen, was ruddy, well featured enough,
with uncombed flaxen hair, a little flapped hat, kersey frock, yarn
stockings, in short, a perfect plough boy. I saw him come whistling
behind me, with a bundle tied to the end of a stick, his travelling
equipage. We walked by one another for some time without speaking; at
length we joined company, and agreed to keep together till we got to
our journey’s end; what his designs or ideas were, I know not: the
innocence of mine I can solemnly protest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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