University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXI.
SARAH TO ANNE.

THIS elegant apartment, to which I had just
invited you, when I was obliged to relinquish my
pen, you must not think, is a sample of the rest
of our lodging. Madam's apartments are, in
reality, very genteelly furnished, and consist of a
handsome parlor, drawing room and bed-chamber;
within which last, there was a very pretty
room, intended for a dressing room, but in which
a bed was fixed for Miss Caroline. Here Mrs.
Bellamy wished me to sleep; but as I do not intend
to have the hours I devote to rest, broken
in upon by any one, I preferred taking up my
quarters in the room I have described. Here,
when all are wrapt in the arms of sleep, and a
dull silence reigns around, save when the drowsy
watchman drawls the hour, or the footstep of

the nightly reveller, returning to his neglected
home, breaks upon the ear, I sit and muse, and
write, and sometimes weep. Yet why should I
weep? is it the remembrance of past happiness?
No—no—for I do not remember any time so
happy, as to have a wish that it should return.
I have sometimes thought, circumstances might
have concurred to have made my lot in life easier;
but we are such inadequate judges of what would
constitute our real felicity, that perhaps, had I
fixed my own fortune, I should not have found
myself happier, than I am now; and yet, Anne,
when in early life I have thought upon a union
for life, with one of the opposite sex, I have
painted to myself scenes of domestic felicity;
have been fascinated with the pictures fancy has
portrayed, and simply thought time would, in
all human probability, realize them. Alas! how
miserably did I deceive myself!

But of what use is this retrospect? The past
is gone beyond recal; the present must be endured,
be its infelicities what they may; besides,
I am not the only unfortunate being in the world;
thousands and thousands are more wretched,
more depressed than I am. I have health; I
have a tolerable portion of understanding, which
has received the benefit of being cultured by education;
and I have what not worlds could purchase,
a tried, a valuable friend. Oh shame!
shame on me, that with such blessings in possession,
I should dare breathe a murmur for those,

which an all-wise Being, perhaps in mercy, has
thought proper to withhold from me.

In looking over what I had written the other
evening, I doubted whether I was acting right, in
communicating even to you, the suspicions which
had taken possession of my mind, concerning Mrs.
O'Donnel; but circumstances have since occurred,
to set aside those scruples, and I am at full
liberty to tell you, that I do not think that lady
is married to the man she lives with; or that his
name is O`Donnel. In truth, Anne, I have got
into a family every way uncongenial to my feelings,
and yet I am so situated, that I cannot well
leave it. But to proceed, and tell you how my
suspicions first arose, and how they were confirmed.
I had been with Mrs. Bellamy several times
to her daughter's house, which is a very elegant
one, furnished in a most expensive style, with
attendants, carriages, &c. suitable to the appearance
of the mansion; but in all these visits, I
never saw the husband. I inquired where he was,
and was told he was a great deal from home, as
he was a member of parliament. I looked over
the list, but did not see the name of O'Donnel.
It is strange, thought I, but I will not be impertinently
inquisitive; time, which developes all
mysteries, will expound this.

One morning, Mrs. O'Donnel being with her
mother, her son, a fine boy, about three years
old, standing up in the window to look out,
suddenly clapped his little hands, and cried out,
Papa! there is papa. I cast my eyes towards

the street, and saw a chariot passing with a coronet
on it; a gentleman and a lady were in it;
the gentleman looked up at the window, and I
saw, by the expression of his countenance, that
he knew the child, though he took no notice of
him. “Whose carriage is that?” said I to
Caroline, who stood beside me. “Lord Linden's,”
said she, and her face flushed crimson deep.
“Who was that gentleman in it,” said I. “Papa,”
said the little boy, without waiting for his sister
to reply. “What, is that your father, Caroline?”
said I. “No, not my—his lordship—that is
Mr.—” “What is the girl stammering about,”
said Mrs. Bellamy, who just then caught a word
or two of what we were saying, “can't you tell
Mrs. Darnley, that your father is not in Ireland?”
Caroline blushed still deeper; and even Mrs. O
'Donnel's face wore a higher tint, than it had received
from some of the best French rouge. I
said nothing more; Caroline was desired to play
her last lesson, and the child was child for calling
after his father. “Why, papa did not hear me,”
said the boy. “It is well he did not,” said his
mother, “he would have been angry with you,
and me too.”

These circumstances dwelt upon my mind—
but I thought it most prudent not to mention
them; though fully resolved to have my suspicions
removed, or confirmed, I was determined
to be watchful of circumstances as they took
place. Two or three nights after this, we were
at the play; and about the middle of the first

act, a large party came into the boxes immediately
opposite where we sat, among whom, I
saw the lady and gentleman who had passed in
the carriage. There was a young person with us,
who is niece to the woman of the house where
we lodge; to her I put the same question I had
before put to Caroline, of, Who are those? “In
the box to the right,” said she, “are general
Parkinson's daughters; that young officer who
stands behind the general, is going to be married
to the eldest; that handsome man, with a star on
his breast, in the next box, is lord Linden; the
pale, delicate lady on his right hand, is his wife,
and the lovely girl on his left, is his sister; I do
not know the other ladies.” “One of them is
Miss Meredith,” said Mrs. Bellamy, as unconcerned
as possible; “she is a lovely woman; but
as to that lady Linden, she is such an unmeaning,
cream-faced thing, I do not wonder her lord is
sick of his bargain; she had a swinging fortune;
and my lord was loaded with younger children's
portions; so for the sake of villas, parks, and
gardens, he took the inanimate statue into the
bargain.” This was said with a sneer, and was
followed by a laugh at her own wit. But my
dear Anne, can I paint to you the horror that
thrilled my heart, as I reflected, that Mrs.
Bellamy's daughter was the mistress of a married
man? For there was no longer room for doubt.
This was the man her child called papa; one
hope only remained, that she might have been a
deceived woman, and that lord Linden was lately
married. “How long have they been married?”
said I. “Seven years,” was the reply. “Have
they any children?” “Three, two girls and a
boy” Great God! thought I, are men all
alike? Is there no such thing as stability or
honor in the sex? I endeavored to suppress the
uncharitable thought; yet ideas would crowd and
jostle each other in their rapid flight through my
brain. Man—is it only the fault of man, that so
much depravity exists in the world? No! were
there no Romains, no O`Donnels, there would
be no Darnleys nor Lindens. Yet here, perhaps,
I err, and throw too great an odium on my own
sex. Who then is to blame? Or on what
must we throw the censure? On poor human
nature?—How bewildered is the mind, how
incapable is the judgment, of deciding on these
intricate points! Say, is it the fault of education?
Yet we know, nature left to herself, is liable to
the grossest errors; nay, will commit without
repugnance, actions, which, in civilized society,
are denominated crimes; even of the blackest
dye. But it may be argued, it were better the
mind remained in a savage state, than imbibe false
reasoning and false principles, under the semblance
of proper information.

I was sitting after supper, leaning my head on
my hand, and musing on this inexplicable riddle,
when Mrs. Bellamy thus accosted me:—But
it was a long conversation, and shall be the subject
of my next. Adieu. Heaven bless and
preserve my Anne.