A
Letter
written
for
my
Daughter
Mira Barber (b. 1717).
to
a
Lady
,
who
had
presented
her
with
a
Cap.
Your
late
kind
Gift
let
me
restore
;
For
I
must
never
wear
it
more
.
My
Mother
cries
,
"
What's
here
to
do
?
"
A
Crimson
Velvet
Cap
for
you
!
"
If
to
these
Heights
so
soon
you
climb
,
"
You'll
wear
a
Coachman's
Cap
in
time
:
"
Perhaps
on
Palfry
pace
along
,
"
With
ruffled
Shirt
,
and
Tete-Moutton
;
"
Banish
the
Woman
from
your
Face
,
"
And
let
the
Rake
supply
the
Place
;
"
Delighted
see
the
People
stare
,
"
And
ask
each
other
what
you
are
?
If
she
goes
on
to
this
dull
Tune
,
Poor
I
must
be
a
Quaker
soon
.
She'll
scarcely
let
me
wear
a
Knot
;
But
keeps
me
like
a
Hottentot
;
Says
,
Dressing
plain
,
at
small
Expence
,
Shews
better
Taste
,
and
better
Sense
.
I'd
take
her
Judgment
,
I
confess
,
Sooner
in
any
Thing
,
than
Dress
;
A
Science
,
which
she
little
knows
,
Who
only
huddles
on
her
Cloaths
.
This
Day
,
to
please
my
Brother
Con.
She
let
me
put
your
Present
on
;
And
when
she
saw
me
very
glad
,
Cry'd
out
,
She
looks
like
one
that's
mad
!
"
Know
,
Girl
,
(
says
she
)
that
Affectation
"
Suits
only
those
in
higher
Station
;
"
Who
plead
Prescription
for
their
Rule
,
"
Whene'er
they
please
to
play
the
Fool
:
"
But
that
it
best
becomes
us
Cits
,
"
To
dress
like
People
in
their
Wits
.
"