Sarah :: :: University of Virginia Library

YOU are dissatisfied with my short letter,
what can I say to fill a long one? I am in better
health than when I left London; Mrs. Beaumont
is attentively polite, her daughters are pleasant
children, and could I spend my time wholly with
them, I should be extremely happy; yet, even as
it is, I am far from being unhappy. I love company,
but it must be the company of my equals.
You will say, are not those with whom you associate
so? Yes, but the generality of them think
themselves so vastly my superiors, and when they
pay me any civility, let me know in such a
pointed manner, that I owe their attentions entirely
to my connection with Mrs. Beaumont,
that I sometimes feel inclined almost to reject
their supercilious kindness. I have been to the
rooms; I would gladly have been excused, but
no apologies would be admitted. I was particularly
careful that my dress should be as simple
as possible; I never loved finery, and in my
present circumstances, the smallest appearance
of it, would be highly ridiculous; yet, simple as
my appearance was, I was unfortunate enough to
attract attention. Now, could I find it in my
heart to play the romantic girl, and write you
the whole occurrences of the evening, tell you

how elegantly I danced, and how finely I was
complimented; describe the dresses of half the
company, some from memory, and supply the
rest by invention; tell you of the handsome men,
and affected women; but I do so despise the general
style of girlish letters, and hear them so
often and so deservedly ridiculed by men of understanding,
that the very fear of having a letter
of mine meet the eye of a man of discernment,
will ever keep me from writing nonsense. Observe
the compliment I pay myself, in supposing
I can at any time write sense. Anne, last post
brought me another letter besides your valued
favor—that Darnley—what does he write for?
I wish he would not trouble himself about me.
Have you seen Frederic lately? When does he
sail? Dear worthy Frederic, how anxious he is
about my health and ease, how gladly would he
sacrifice all his little earnings to place me in
what he calls independence? But his ideas and
mine, on that subject, are different; while by
any laudable exertion of my own, I avoid being
a burthen to my friends, or a tax upon society
in general, I am, in my own opinion, perfectly
independent.

Last week, Mrs. Beaumont went with a party
to Clifton, and left me with my little companions
to pass the time as I pleased, and a delightful
time I had. As soon as the morning lessons
were over, I sallied out to the library, provided
myself with a good quantity of books, in the instructive
yet amusing style, and ordering a fire

in my own apartment, took out my drawing apparatus,
and sat down to copy a beautiful landscape
which I had transported from the drawing
room for that purpose, while Eliza and Lucy
read to me alternately. The day passed charmingly,
we never left the room but to dine, and
take tea; after which, music filled up the time
till nine o'clock, when my companions retired to
rest, and after an hour's indulgence with Spenser's
“Fairy Queen,” I followed their example.
The next day, and the following, we took long
walks on the parade and the crescent, and I will
own, agreeable as Mrs. Beaumont is, I almost
regretted when Saturday brought her home; for
now we are going on as usual, dressing, visiting,
and turning night into day; for though the public
rooms are not allowed to keep open later than
twelve o'clock, yet there are constantly large
private parties. I have some suspicion that the
gay and amiable widow will ere long again enter
the hymeneal pale, and that with a person
much younger than herself. Her kind friends
sneer at the attentions he pays her, but for my
own part I do not wonder at the preference
given her by the men in general; her person
still retains much fascination, her face is handsome,
her manners engaging, her understanding
highly cultivated, and her temper uncommonly
good. This is not the only professed admirer
who dangles after us to the theatre, dances attendance
at the tea-table, and lounges with us
at the libraries and pump-rooms—a Sir Watkin

Alden, a baronet, young, rich, handsome, and a
libertine. I can see the title has no charms
with Mrs. Beaumont. The native unadorned
merit of Mr. Frankly has made a serious impression
on her mind, and without being what is
called in love, I believe she is very sincerely attached
to him. And now I am on this subject,
I feel myself impelled to mention a circumstance
which has given me some pain, because
it has humbled me. This Sir Watkin has dared,
(shall I confess it, even to you, dear Anne?) whilst
openly addressing Mrs Beaumont, to make professions
of love to your humiliated friend; and
when my replies were such, as affronted delicacy
and wounded honor dictated, he laughed in
my face, and asked me what I meant to do with
my pretty person, high breeding, and splendid
accompl hments? The men are not in haste to
marry, except interest impels. “Oh that I were
a man,” said I, and my indignant passion so
choked me that I could not utter another syllable,
and could with difficulty restrain my tears.
“Why, what would you do?” said he, catching
my hands as I was rising to quit the room—
“Strike you to the earth, for your base, your
unmannerly conduct.” “Would you so, fair
tyrant?” cried he, insultingly. “But, my dear,
if you were a man, recollect, I should not give
you this cause for anger.” “Wretch!” cried I,
in a stifled voice, and wrenching my hands from
his grasp. In the exertion I made to disengage
them, my right hand suddenly burst from his hold

and struck his face. The blow was not intentional,
but it was not a light one; his nose gushed out with
blood. I darted out of the room, and left him to
make what excuses he could to Mrs. Beaumont,
whose footsteps I heard ascending the first flight
of stairs as I hastily ran up the second. This man's
insolence has given such a wound to my sensibility,
to my pride, and self love, that the remembrance
embitters all my moments of retirement
and reflection. What can I have done or
said, what action of my life can have given him
leave to hope he might succeed in his unworthy
attempts upon my honor? Heaven be praised,
my heart is not made of inflammable matter; it
is a quiet, rational kind of heart, and has never
yet fluttered at the fine speeches of a handsome
man, or bounded at the pressure of a hand, sending
its vital fluid to kiss the fingers which enfolded
mine. Yet, these are sensations I have heard
described by others; have read of in romances
and novels. Perhaps you will say he might have
succeeded in awakening these emotions, had he
proceeded cautiously. I do not think he would;
I believe I have a very sure guard against imbibing
any foolish passion—I am poor, Anne, but I
am proud, very proud—Oh, my full heart!—
Pardon my troubling you with this silly affair;
but it gave me pain, and I know you ever sympathize
in the pains and pleasures of your honored
and obliged,

SARAH.