University of Virginia Library

LETTER XX.
SARAH TO ANNE.

A MOST delectable voyage and journey I
have had; bad weather, bad accommodations in
the packet, bad roads, and bad tempered folks
to deal with. Now is not this a bad beginning?
Well, there is an old adage which says, “A good
beginning often makes a bad ending;” and why
not vice versa? We were six days crossing the
Channel, the wind blew tempestuously, and two
or three times, I thought we should have been
obliged to revisit the coast of Wales, whether we
chose it or not; and that not in the pleasantest
manner imaginable.

However, here we are, all difficulties of wind
and weather over; quietly set down in a very
respectable lodging, in one of the most public
streets in Dublin. This Mrs. Bellamy is a very
different woman on this side St. George's Channel,
to what she was on the other; and to deal
plainly, had I known as much before I left England
as I do now, I should never have thrown
myself on her protection; but as I am here, I
will remain a few months. I have no great prediliction
for another voyage, though ever so
short, during the season, when “the winds let
loose, lash the mad billows, until they foam and
rise; threatening even heaven itself.” Indeed,

my dear, there is no scene that ever I witnessed
before, to be compared to the sublimely terrific
grandeur of a storm at sea. The horizon, contracted
by the black impending clouds; the angry
scud flitting with rapidity through the sky;
the liquid mountains rising to the topmast heads,
and from their summit, pouring with tremendous
roar; the white torrent, that as it falls,
threatens to whelm in its abyss, the fragile bark.
As the gloom of night approaches, to see on the
leeward quarter, the black coast o'er hung with
precipices, and fenced around with rocks, over
which, the rude surge incessant breaks; to hear
the wind howl through the rigging of the laboring
vessel, which scarce can bear the smallest
spread of sail; then to reflect, that perhaps, before
the morn returns, the vessel, crew, all! all!
may be enshrouded in a watery tomb! No one
can have an idea of the sensation that must, at
such a period, prevade the mind, even of the most
thoughtless, unless they have themselves been
present at such a scene. And to me, it seems an
impossibility, that any one who had once been in
such a situation, could ever disbelieve the existence
of a God, great, wise, powerful, and merciful.
Who, that has once contemplated his wisdom
and his power on the world of waters, would
wish to disbelieve, or for one single moment encourage
a doubt?

But I beg your pardon Anne, that after having
got you safe to Dublin, I have hurried you back,
to make you pass a stormy night at sea, with a

dangerous coast on your lee; but as you have escaped
shipwreck, you may even come quietly
again to Dublin; and setting down by my elbow,
in a little room up two pair of stairs, which is
but superior to a closet, in a very small degree;
the furniture of which consists of a half tester-bed,
a deal table, a small iron grate, that will
hold a handful of fire, and two rush bottom
chairs; now, is not the apartment most elegant?
Come sit down, and be quiet, and I will tell you
all about madam Bellamy, and her fair daughter
madam O'Donnel, and her sweet pretty, peevish,
petulant, perverse grand-daughter, Miss
Caroline O'Donnel.

The old dame does not want ideas in her head,
nor language to express those ideas; but she is
one of the most changeable, capricious beings,
that nature ever formed. Her manners have
been formed upon the scale of high life; and she
certainly has, in early days, sacrificed to the
graces; for even now, she can converse with condescending
affability, every word accompanied
by a fassinating smile; she can be cheerful even
to volability; persuasion will hang upon her
tongue, and the genius of taste, wit, and elegance
preside in her apartment. But see her two hours
after, you will not know her for the same woman;
her brow will lour, her large black eyes will flash
malignity, the demon of spite and slander take
possession of her tongue; and her language will
be such, as almost the lowest female would blush
to utter.

But this is a part of her character, only
known to those, who are unfortunately inmates
in her family; those who visit her transiently,
and only see her in company, think her all perfection;
indeed, I had myself a very high opinion of
both her head and heart, until I became a daily
witness to her private conduct; so true it is, that
intimacy seldom improves our opinion of those
of whom, from a slight acquaintance, we might
be inclined to think extremely well; and I believe
it is pretty much the case with us all. We wear
our best looks, best manners, best clothes, before
strangers; but carelessly assume our every day
appearance before our intimates. No, there is
one who, the more she is known, the more she
must be esteemed and beloved; it is my dear,
friendly Anne, whose face and manners are ever
the same; only that those who are so happy as
to see her in her most retired moments, will see
her most amiable. Forgive me, you know I never
flatter, but speak as I feel. I will own, that I may
be partial; self-love incites in us affection for those
who are continually shewing us marks of friendship;
and we are apt to think highly of the discernment
and understanding of those, who discover
merit in us. Now this is not by way of
apology for loving you, and discovering all your
excellencies; no, it is to make peace with you for
daring to tell you of them.

Madam O'Donnel is a handsome, tasty, shewy
belle; dresses to the extreme of the mode, rouges
high, and says any thing she thinks of at all times

and seasons. Now do not call me scandalous;
I have not as yet seen squire O'Donnel, but
I shrewdly suspect—But madam calls; so my
pen and my suspicions must rest until another
opportunity.