As to the charge of having drawn satirical portraits,
she has already disclaimed all personality, and all
intention of satirizing any profession; and she is
grieved to find it necessary to repel such a charge.
The author of a slight work of fiction may, however,
be consoled for any unjust imputation of personal
satire, by reflecting, that even the grave and impartial
historian cannot always escape similar suspicion.
Tacitus says that “there must always be men,
who, from congenial manners, and sympathy in vice,
will think the fidelity of history a satire on themselves;
and even the praise due to virtue is sure to give
umbrage.”
August 1, 1815.
“How the wind is rising!” said Rosamond.—“God
help the poor people at sea to-night!”
Her brother Godfrey smiled.—“One
would think,” said he, “that she had an
argosy of lovers at sea, uninsured.”
“You gentlemen,” replied Rosamond, “imagine
that ladies are always thinking of lovers.”
“Not always,” said Godfrey; “only
when they show themselves particularly disposed to
humanity.”
“My humanity, on the present occasion, cannot
even be suspected,” said Rosamond; “for
you know, alas! that I have no lover at sea or land.”
“But a shipwreck might bless the lucky shore
with some rich waif,” said Godfrey.
“Waifs and strays belong to the lady of the
manor,” said Rosamond; “and I have no
claim to them.”
“My mother would, I dare say, make over her
right to you,” said Godfrey.
“But that would do me no good,” said Rosamond;
“for here is Caroline, with superior claims
of every sort, and with that most undisputed of all
the rights of woman—beauty.”
“True: but Caroline would never accept
of stray hearts,” said Godfrey. “See
how her lip curls with pride at the bare imagination!”
“Pride never curled Caroline’s lip,”
cried Rosamond: “besides, pride is very
becoming to a woman. No woman can be good for
much without it, can she, mother?”
“Before you fly off, Rosamond, to my mother
as to an ally, whom you are sure I cannot resist,”
said Godfrey, “settle first whether you mean
to defend Caroline upon the ground of her having or
not having pride.”
A fresh gust of wind rose at this moment, and Rosamond
listened to it anxiously.
“Seriously, Godfrey,” said she, “do
you remember the ship-wrecks last winter?”
As she spoke, Rosamond went to one of the windows,
and opened the shutter. Her sister Caroline followed,
and they looked out in silence.
“I see a light to the left of the beacon,”
said Caroline.—“I never saw a light
there before—What can it mean?”
“Only some fishermen,” said Godfrey.
“But, brother, it is quite a storm,” persisted
Rosamond.
“Only equinoctial gales, my dear.”
