University of Virginia Library

LETTER I.
SARAH TO ANNE.

YES! Anne, the die is cast—I am a wife. But
a less cheerful bride, one who looks forward
with less hope, perhaps never existed. You
were surprised, you say, to hear to whom I had
relinquished my hand and heart—leave out the
latter, Anne, it had nothing to do with the transaction.
Why were you not here, you say, to
have prevented a union which you are morally
certain will not conduce to my happiness? You
cannot be more certain of it, than I am; but
what could I do? Frederic gone to India; hemmed
round with persuasive meddlers, who, I am
more than half convinced, urged me to this
measure, fearful I should be burthensome to
them; and I was also told it was necessary

for the preservation of my reputation that I
should accept Darnley. I had no natural protector;
my father so far distant he was the same
as dead to me; Frederic gone; my health not
sufficiently established to enable me to undertake
the journey I meditated before you left England;
my finances reduced to a very small portion, and
though most earnestly entreated to forbear,
Darnley continuing his visits. I found I must
accede to his proposals, or be thrown on the
world, censured by my relations, robbed of my
good name, and being poor, open to the pursuits
and insults of the profligate. One thing which
encouraged me to hope I might be tolerably happy
in the union was—though my heart felt no
strong emotions in his favor, it was totally free
from all partiality towards any other. He always
appeared good humored and obliging; and though
his mind was not highly cultivated, I thought
time might improve him in that particular. However,
I was candid with him; told him the situation
of my heart, and asked if he could be content
with receiving attentions which would be
only the result of principle. He seemed to
think this only maidenish affectation, and perfectly
convinced within himself that I loved him
already.

I have read and heard much of the hilarity of
a wedding day. Oh, my dear Anne, when my
aunt entering my chamber told me it was time
to rise, my souls sunk within me, and like a condemned
wretch who hears the bell announce the

last hour of his existence, an involuntary ejaculation
arose, that I might escape from what on
its near approach seemed more terrible than
death itself.

My aunt Vernon, who had invited me to her
house a few days previous to the one which determined
my fate; and when she was convinced
I should soon have a house of my own, was very
officious about dressing me; she observed the
languor of my looks, and the redness of my eyes,
and attempted to rally me; my spirits could not
bear it. I burst into tears, “Oh why!” said I,
in an agony, “have I given my assent to a transaction
which my better reason disapproves.
Aunt, dear aunt, indeed I do not love this man;
and I fear”—“Nonsense!” said she hastily, “you
are a silly romantic girl, you are too young yet
to know any thing about love; marry him first,
you will learn to love him afterwards” “But
should I see one I may like better?”—Her
look petrified me—“Impossible,” said she, “impossible,
a woman whose passions are kept under
the dominion of reason, will never let a
thought wander to another, when once she is
married, though she may not love her husband,
she will not love another.” “I am very ignorant
in this respect,” I replied, “and I hope God
will enable me to do my duty in the state I am
about to enter.” I endeavored to assume a
tranquil appearance when I went down to
breakfast; Darnley was there; he rose, put a
chair to the breakfast table, seated himself beside

me and took my hand. Why, my dear girl, said
he, your hand is as cold as ice. It is not colder
than my heart, said I, and even now, Mr. Darnley,
I think you would consult your own happiness
by declining this union. I know better,
said he, what will promote my own happiness
than you do; I love you, I cannot live without
you; and I will compel you to love me; nay, you
do love me now. A coach was at the door; I
strove to swallow a cup of tea; it was impossible;
the moment was arrived when I must dash at
once into the tempestuous sea of wedlock; or
recede and perish in the flames of calumny, reproach
and ignominy, that would burst upon me
from all sides. I rose hastily; Darnley led me
to the coach, my aunt and her daughter followed.
At the church we met two gentlemen and
the mother of Darnley. I strove to repress my
emotions as I knelt before the altar; I prayed
for grace to fulfil the duties which would be required
of me: Tears rose to my eyes; I endeavored
to chase them back to my swelling heart;
I succeeded, but the consequence was worse than
had I suffered them to flow; for just as the clergyman
pronounced us man and wife, my nose
gushed out with blood; my handkerchief and
clothes were suffused with the crimson torrent;
it seemed to relieve the poignancy of my feelings,
for my temples had throbbed violently, and my
bosom seemed swollen almost to bursting. I felt
a faint sickishness come over me, but a glass of
water and the air prevented my appearing like
a foolish affected girl by fainting. The derangement
of my dress obliged a return to my aunt's.
When I got into my chamber I begged to be left
one hour to myself to compose my spirits. The
moment I was alone, I threw myself on
my knees by the bed, side, and covering my
face in the bed clothes, gave a free vent to my
tears. I cannot describe my feelings. I did not
pray; I could not collect my thoughts. Oh! that
I could call back the last hour, said I—but I cannot,
I have vowed; I must, I will submit.

The remainder of the day was spent at Windsor;
when we returned to town, an elegant supper
was provided at Darnley's own house, and I
was placed at the head of the table as its mistress.
Henceforth it is my home. I have not
seen much company. I have been considerably
indisposed; my hectic complaints have returned;
I was for a fortnight confined to my chamber; I
am now convalescent. Darnley loves society—I
must not make his house a dungeon—I will rouse
myself from the lethargic stupor which has for
more than two months pervaded every sense. I
see I may be tolerably happy if I do not wilfully
shun the path that leads to peace. Perhaps,
Anne, my heart was not formed to be agitated
by those violent emotions which some experience.
It is probable the passions so forcibly portrayed
by the pen of the fabulist, dramatist, or
historian, are merely the children of romance,
and exist only in a heated imagination. You tell
me you shall not return to England until autumn.

I anticipate the moment of your return
as the moment in which I shall taste pure unmixed
felicity. Adieu, my dear Anne; may the
pleasures that hover round your head and wait
upon your steps, be equal to the purity and integrity
of your heart.