It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and Wicked, My Love—the second book in the Wicked Little Secrets series—releases today in audiobook form. That means a new post about old love letters. Yay! ( Wicked, My Love is available on Amazon, Audible, and other Audiobook sellers. Learn more about this zany comedy!)
Err, actually, this post isn’t about love letters. Rather, it’s about letters about love, marriage, and other perils of the Georgian era.
I would like to use very modern terms to describe love in the Eighteenth Century: It’s complicated.
Marriages were tense, ruthless negotiations involving extended families (and you know what families are like). The delicate bud of love was often crushed under the heavy foot of an ambitious papa or mama before it had the chance to bloom. Sincere suitors were dismissed for the tiniest blemish on their résumé, a mere glance in the wrong direction, or—most unforgivably—for committing the greatest faux pas of all: being poor.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to marry in the 18th century, mostly because I doubt I could write so verbosely and ad nauseam about my anguish at being forced to wed someone I despised. I’m not sure I could conjure such brilliance as: “Consider, Sir, the Misery of bestowing yourself upon one who can have no Prospect of Happiness but from your Death.”
Alas, dear reader, I must confess—I have formed a little bit of a Black Mirror-esque tendre for AI these past few weeks. While the letters below have been faithfully extracted from The Ladies Complete Letter-Writer, published in 1765, their introduction comes from my delightful new assistant—who, unlike an 18th-century suitor, requires neither a dowry nor a family’s meddling approval. (← AI said that about itself.)
Let’s dive in!
Courtship and Parental Intervention
Romance in the 18th century was rarely just a matter of the heart. These letters capture the careful negotiations between hopeful suitors, cautious parents, and wary daughters.
From a Daughter to a Mother, Requesting Approval for a Suitor
A young woman, having secured respectable employment, finds herself the object of a dancing master’s affections. Though pleased, she seeks her mother’s approval before proceeding.
Honoured Madam,
Soon after I left you and my Friends in the Country, I happily engaged with one Mrs. Prudence, a Governess of a noted Young Ladies’ Boarding School at the Court End of the Town, to act as her Assistant. She has treated me, ever since I have been with her, with the utmost Good-Nature and Condescension, and has all along endeavoured to make my Service more easy and advantageous to me than I could reasonably expect. On the other hand, as a grateful Acknowledgment of her Favours, I have made her Interest my whole Study and Delight.
My courteous Deportment towards the young Ladies, and my constant Care to oblige my Governess, have not only gained me the Love and Esteem of the whole House, but young Mr. Byron, the Dancing Master who attends our School weekly, has cast a favourable Eye upon me some Time, and has lately made me such Overtures of Marriage as are, in my own Opinion, worthy of my Attention. However, notwithstanding he is a great Favourite of Mrs. Prudence, a Man of unblemished Character, and very extensive Business, I thought it would be an Act of the highest Ingratitude to so indulgent a Parent as you have been to me, to conceal from you an Affair whereon my future Happiness or Misery must so greatly depend.
As to his Person, Age, and Temper, I must own, Madam, with a Blush, that they are all perfectly agreeable; and I should think myself very happy, should you countenance his Address. I flatter myself, however, that I have so much Command of my own Passions, as in Duty to be directed in so momentous an Affair by your superior Judgment. Your speedy Answer therefore will be looked upon as an additional Act of Indulgence shown to
Your most dutiful Daughter.
The Mother’s Response: Proceed with Caution
A measured and pragmatic reply. The mother urges patience, warning her daughter that men may promise much but deliver little. Yet, she does not dismiss the match outright…
Dear Daughter,
I received yours in regard to the Overtures of Marriage made you by Mr. Byron, and as that is a very weighty Affair, I shall return to London as soon as possible, in order to make all due Enquiries. And in case I find no just Grounds for Exception to the Man, I have none to his Occupation, since ’tis suitable enough to that State of Life for which you seem to have a peculiar Taste.
However, though I should rejoice to see you settled to your Satisfaction and Advantage, and though you seem to entertain a very favourable Opinion of his Honour and Abilities to maintain you in a very decent Manner, yet I would have you weigh well the momentous Matter in Debate: Don’t be too hasty, my Dear; consider, all is not Gold that glitters. Men are too often false and perfidious; promise fair, and yet, at the same Time, aim at nothing more than the Gratification of their unruly Desires.
I don’t say that Mr. Byron has any such dishonourable Intentions, and I hope he has not; for which Reason I would only have you act with Discretion and Reserve; give him neither too great Hopes of Success, nor an absolute Denial to put him in Despair. All that you have to say till you see me is this: that you have no Aversion to his Person, but that you are determined to be wholly directed by your Mother in an Affair of so serious a Concern.
This will naturally induce him to make his Application to me on my first Arrival; and you may depend upon it, no Care shall be wanting on my Side to promote your future Happiness and Advantage.
I am,
Dear Daughter, Your truly affectionate Mother.
Forced Marriages and Pleas for Mercy
Not all proposals come with joy—many come with dread. These letters capture the voices of young women fighting against their fates, protesting marriages arranged for power, wealth, or revenge.
From a Daughter to Her Father: A Plea Against a Wealthy but Detestable Suitor
“Does wealth purchase peace? Does it purchase happiness?” A daughter writes in anguish, knowing she is to be sold into a marriage with a man she cannot love
Honoured Sir,
I never till now thought it could be a Pain to me to answer any Letter that came from my dear Papa; but this last of yours distresses me to the greatest Degree, as I know not how to send an Answer that is consistent with the Duty I owe, and the Affection I bear, to the best of Parents, without at the same Time offering up my Sincerity, and making a Sacrifice of my Peace and Happiness.
Ah! dear Sir, reflect, do reflect on the real Worth and Use of Riches: Do they purchase Health? Do they purchase Peace? Do they purchase Happiness? No—Then why am I to barter Health, and Peace, and Happiness, for Riches?—The Man you propose to me, I know, you would never have thought on but for his immense Wealth, for he has nothing else to recommend him: And I, who can live upon a little; I, who at present have no Canker in my Heart, and am happy in the Company of my dear Papa and Mamma, can never think of giving up this Peace and Tranquility, and of throwing myself at the Mercy of a Brute, that I detest, for the sake of being thought worth a large Sum of Money that I don’t want, and can make no Use of.
These are Truths that I am afraid will be disagreeable to you, and therefore ’tis with Pain I write them; but, my dear Papa, what Pain would it give you to see me made for ever miserable! I know what would shorten my Days, would put an end to yours, so great is your Affection for me. The Sense of that Affection, and my own Love and Gratitude to you, the best of Parents, will make me submit to anything. Do by me as you please, but pray think of the Consequences; and believe me to be,
Honoured Sir, your most dutiful, affectionate, and obedient Daughter.
From a Daughter to Her Father: Dutifully Resisting an Old Man’s Proposal
Politeness thinly veils desperation as a young woman explains why she cannot possibly wed a man far older than herself. Will reason prevail over fortune?
Honoured Sir,
Though your Injunctions should diametrically oppose my own secret Inclinations, yet I am not insensible that the Duty which I owe you binds me to comply with them. Besides, I should be very ungrateful, should I presume, in any Point whatever, considering your numberless Acts of parental Indulgence towards me, to contest your Will and Pleasure.
Though the Consequence thereof should prove never so fatal, I am determined to be all Obedience, in case what I have to offer in my own Defence should have no Influence over you, or be thought an insufficient Plea for my Aversion to a Match, which, unhappily for me, you seem to approve of. ‘Tis very possible, Sir, the Gentleman you recommended to my Choice may be possessed of all that Substance, and all those good Qualities, that bias you so strongly in his Favour; but be not angry, dear Sir, when I remind you, that there is a vast Disproportion in our Years. A Lady of more Experience, and of a more advanced Age, should, in my humble Opinion, be a much fitter Help Mate for him.
To be ingenuous, (permit me, good Sir, to speak the Sentiments of my Heart without Reserve for once) a Man, almost in his grand Climacteric, can never be an agreeable Companion for me; nor can the natural Gaiety of my Temper, which has hitherto been indulged by yourself in every innocent Amusement, be ever agreeable to him.
Though his Fondness at first may connive at the little Freedoms I shall be apt to take, yet as soon as the Edge of his Appetite shall be abated, he’ll grow jealous, and for ever torment me without a Cause. I shall be debarred of every Diversion suitable to my Years, though never so harmless and inoffensive; permitted to see no Company; hurried down perhaps to some melancholy rural Recess; and there, like my Lady Grace in the Play, sit pensive and alone, under a Green Tree.
Your long-experienced Goodness, and that tender Regard which you have always expressed for my Ease and Satisfaction, encourage me thus freely to expostulate with you on an Affair of so great an Importance. If, however, after all, you shall judge the Inequality of our Age an insufficient Plea in my Favour, and that Want of Affection for a Husband is but a Trifle, where there is a large Fortune, and a Coach and Six to throw into the Scale; if, in short, you shall lay your peremptory Commands upon me to resign up all my real Happiness and Peace of Mind for the Vanity of living in Pomp and Grandeur, I am ready to submit to your superior Judgment.
Give me leave, however, to observe, that ’tis impossible for me ever to love the Man into whose Arms I am to be thrown; and that my Compliance with so detested a Proposition is nothing more than the Result of the most inviolable Duty to a Father, who never made the least Attempt before to thwart the Inclinations of—
His ever obedient Daughter.
From a Young Lady to Her Unwanted Suitor, Begging Him to Refuse Her
In a chillingly honest letter, a woman who has been forced to accept a man’s courtship pleads with him to release her. She warns that she will never love him—and that her only solace in the match would be his eventual death.
SIR,
It is a very ill Return which I make to the Respect you have for me, when I acknowledge to you, that though the Day of our Marriage is appointed, I am incapable of loving you.
You may have observed, in the long Conversation we have had at those Times that we were left together, that some Secret hung upon my Mind. I was obliged to an ambiguous Behaviour, and durst not reveal myself further, because my Mother, from a Closet near the Place where we sat, could both hear and see our Conversation.
I have strict Commands from both my Parents to receive you, and am undone for ever, except you will be so kind and generous as to refuse me.
Consider, Sir, the Misery of bestowing yourself upon one who can have no Prospect of Happiness but from your Death.
This is a Confession made perhaps with an offensive Sincerity; but that Conduct is much to be preferred to a secret Dislike, which could not but pall all the Sweets of Life, by imposing on you a Companion that dotes on, and languishes for, another.
I will not go so far as to say my Passion for the Gentleman, whose Wife I am by Promise, would lead me to anything criminal against your Honour. I know it is dreadful enough to a Man of your Sense to expect nothing but forced Civilities in Return for the tenderest Endearments, and cold Esteem for undeserved Love.
If you will on this Occasion let Reason take place of Passion, I doubt not but Fate has in Store for you some worthier Object of your Affection, in Recompense of your Goodness to the only Woman that could be insensible of your Merit.
I am, Sir, your most humble Servant,
M. H.
Lucidamia’s Letter to Her Mother: A Gothic Masterpiece of Despair
A young woman, locked away from the world, learns that she is to be forced into marriage—not for love, not even for money, but out of revenge. She begs her mother for intervention, swearing she would rather be exiled to a land of tigers than endure the embrace of Andrugio…
Most dear and honoured Madam,
As on a thousand Occasions I have experienced your Indulgence, I impute rather to your Compliance with my Father’s Request than your own Inclination, that I have been denied the Happiness of an Answer to any of those very many Letters I have sent since my Confinement in this solitary Recess; and am therefore emboldened once more to pour out the Fulness of my Soul before you—to beseech you to have Compassion on my forlorn Condition—nay, even to conjure you, by the tender Name of Mother, and all the Ties of Nature and Affection, to vouchsafe me your Assistance in this distracting Exigence—this terrible Dilemma, that, wheresoever way I turn, affords nothing but the Prospect of eternal Ruin.
My Aunt has just now shown me a Letter she received from my Father, wherein he desires her to prepare for our Return to London; but, O Heaven—to what End!—to be the wretched Bride, the Victim of a Man I can have no Taste for as a Husband—a Man who, were my Heart entirely free from all Attachment to another, I never could be brought to love!
How can I assume a Tenderness it is not in my Power to feel! To be sincere in all my Words and Actions was the first Precept of my early Youth; I have ever since held it sacred, and I cannot, and am certain you would not wish me to forget it.
But I am now told that Reason ought to guide Inclination, that the softer Passions should give way to the Considerations of Interest and the World’s Esteem, and that these plead strongly in favour of Andrugio. Alas, how different are my Thoughts! What are his Titles to me? What all the Honours his late Success has gained? Mere Shadows to attract the distant Eye, but afford no real Charms upon a near Approach.
Can his Wealth purchase for me the least Moment’s Peace of Mind? Or outward Grandeur compensate for inward Discontent? No—where Hearts are not linked by a secret Sympathy, an invisible, undiscernible Attraction that binds them to each other, Heaven never intended a Union of Hands, nor will vouchsafe a Blessing.
Thus, Madam, I have heard you say you argued with yourself, when you refused a Coronet for my Father. Your Parents indeed did not oppose your Inclination, but left you free to make your Choice between Love and Greatness—that, alas! is not my unhappy Case. Yet do I not complain, much less presume to expect you should sacrifice your Resentment to comply with the Tenderness of my Heart.
As I am torn from what I had once your Leave to think would form my greatest Happiness, I only entreat I may not be forced to what I know will be the most extreme Wretchedness that can be inflicted on me.
Celia has given me some Hints which I believe she had from my Aunt, that it is more out of Hatred to Seraphino, than Good Will to Andrugio, that my Father has taken this cruel Resolution, and, merely to prevent my disposing of myself against his Consent, intends to dispose of me so contrary to my own.
Ah, Madam! if it be so, I beseech you to assure him, as you safely may, that there is nothing (not even this dreadful Marriage) which more shocks my Imagination, than being guilty of so rash, so unpardonable a Violation of my Duty.
I agree to renounce Seraphino forever—utterly to abjure him—to see him no more, and as little as possible to think of him. I will put it out of my Power to listen to any Dictates my fond Heart must suggest in his Favour, by the most sacred Obligations that Words can form, or Incredulity exact from me.
But if all this should be thought too weak to atone for my failing in that implicit Obedience which is expected from me, reverse at least my Sentence—punish me by any other Kind of Means provoked Authority can invent—condemn me to pass the whole Remainder of my Days in lonely Solitude—shut me from all Society, or banish me where only Lions and Tigers dwell.
Fate cannot reach me in any Shape so horrid as the Embraces of Andrugio.
Pardon, I beseech you, Madam, the Wildness of these Expressions, which nothing but the most poignant Anguish of the last Despair could have forced from me; and be assured, that, though I have said much more than you may think I ought to have done, I have said little in comparison of what is felt by,
Madam,
Your unhappy, but obedient Daughter,
LUCIDAMIA
Love, Betrayal, and Retaliation
Promises of love are easily broken, as these letters prove. Here, we see the suspicions, accusations, and icy retaliations of lovers scorned.
From a Young Lady to a Gentleman She Suspects of Infidelity
After witnessing her suitor’s suspicious attentions toward another woman, a young lady writes a letter that demands an explanation—or a confession.
SIR,
The Freedom and Sincerity with which I have at all Times laid open my Heart to you, ought to have some Weight in my Claim to a Return of the same Confidence: But I have Reason to fear, that the best Men do not always act as they ought. I write to you what it would be impossible to speak; but before I see you, I desire you will either explain your Conduct last Night, or confess that you have used me not as I have deserved of you.
It is in vain to deny that you took Pains to recommend yourself to Miss Peacock; your Earnestness of Discourse also showed me that you were no Stranger to her. I desire to know, Sir, what Sort of Acquaintance you can wish to have with another Person of Character, after making me believe that you wish to be married to me.
I write very plainly to you, because I expect a plain Answer. I am not apt to be suspicious, but this was too particular; and I must be either blind or indifferent to overlook it. Sir, I am neither; though perhaps it would be better for me if I were one or the other.
Yours, &c.
From a Lady to Her Lover, Responding to His Accusation of Disloyalty
A woman, falsely accused, reminds her lover that jealousy is a flaw not easily forgiven. The fate of their relationship teeters on the edge.
SIR,
If I did not make all the Allowances you desire in the End of your Letter, I should not answer you at all. But although I am really unhappy to find you are so, and the more to find myself to be the Occasion, I can hardly impute the Unkindness and Incivility of your Letter to the single Cause you would have me.
However, as I would not be suspected of anything that should justify such Treatment from you, I think it necessary to inform you, that what you have heard has no more Foundation than what you have seen: However, I wonder that other Eyes should not be as easily alarmed as yours; for, instead of being blind, believe me, Sir, you see more than there is. Perhaps, however, their Sight may be as much sharpened by unprovoked Malice, as yours by undeserved Suspicion.
Whatever may be the End of this Dispute, for I do not think so lightly of Lovers’ Quarrels as many do, I think it proper to inform you, that I never have thought favourably of any one but yourself; and I shall add, that if the Fault of your Temper, which I once little suspected, should make me fear you too much to marry, you will not see me in that State with any other, nor courted by any Man in the World.
I did not know that the Gaiety of my Temper gave you Uneasiness; and you ought to have told me of it with less Severity. If I am particular in it, I am afraid it is a Fault in my natural Disposition; but I would have taken some Pains to get the better of that, if I had known it was disagreeable to you.
I ought to resent this Treatment more than I do, but do not insult my Weakness on that Head; for a Fault of that Kind would want the Excuse this has for my Pardon, and might not be so easily overlooked, though I should wish to do it. I should say, I will not see you Today, but you have an Advocate that pleads for you much better than you do for yourself.
I desire you will first look carefully over this Letter, for my whole Heart is in it, and then come to me.
Yours, &c.
From an Anonymous Lady to a Gentleman: A Bold Declaration of Love
A woman, after secretly adoring a man for over a year, finally gathers the courage to write him. She does not sign her name but leaves a cryptic instruction: if he wishes to meet her, he will find her at two o’clock in the park…
SIR,
My only Hope of Redress is in your Goodness. I now labour under Misfortunes—but oh! with what Words shall I declare a Passion which I blush to own?
It is now a Year and a Half since I first saw, and (must I say?) loved you, and so long I have striven to forget you; but frequent Sights of what I could not but admire, have made my Endeavours prove vain. I dare not subscribe to this Letter, lest it should fall into Hands that may possibly expose it; but if you, Sir, have any Curiosity or Desire to know who I am, I shall be in the Park Tomorrow exactly at two o’clock.
I cannot but be under Apprehensions, lest you should come more out of Curiosity than Compassion; but, however, that you may have some Notion of me, if you do come, I will give you a short Description of my Person, which is tall and slender, my Eyes and Hair dark; perhaps you will think me vain, when I tell you that my Person altogether is what the flattering World calls handsome; and as to my Fortune, I believe you will have no Reason to find fault with it.
I doubt you will think such a Declaration as this, from a Woman, ridiculous; but, if you will consider, ’tis Custom, not Nature, that makes it so. My Hand trembles so, while I write, that I believe you can hardly read it.
The Lady’s Retaliation: A Scathing Denunciation
Rather than respond with kindness, the gentleman exposes the woman’s letter for public ridicule. But she is not done yet.
One of the most vicious rejections ever penned. Having suffered his ridicule, the woman now holds nothing back—accusing the gentleman of cruelty, vanity, and an “incurable defect of understanding.” She ensures the world knows him for the coxcomb he truly is.
SIR,
You will the more easily pardon this second Trouble from a slighted Correspondent, when I assure you it shall be the last.
A Passion like mine, violent enough to break through customary Decorums, cannot be supposed to grow calm at once; but I hope I shall undergo no severer Trials, or Censures, than what I have done by taking this Opportunity of discharging the Remains of a Tenderness, which I have too unfortunately and imprudently indulged.
I would not complain of your Unkindness and Want of Generosity in exposing my Letter, because the Man, that is so unworthy of a Woman’s Love, is too inconsiderable for her Resentment; but I can’t forbear asking you, what could induce you to publish my Letter, and so cruelly to sport with the Misery of a Person whom you know nothing worse of, than that she had entertained too good, too fond an Opinion of you?
For your own Sake, I am loath to speak it, but such Conduct cannot be accounted for, but from Cruelty of Mind, a Vanity of Temper, and an incurable Defect of Understanding; but whatsoever be the Reason, amidst all my Disappointments, I cannot but think myself happy in not subscribing my Name; for you might perhaps have thought my Name a fine Trophy to grace your Triumph after the Conquest; and how great my Confusion must have been, to be exposed to the Scorn, or at least to the Pity of the World, I may guess from the Mortifications I now feel from seeing my Declarations and Professions returned without Success, and in being convinced, by the rash Experiment I have made, that my Affections have been placed without Discretion.
How ungenerous your Behaviour hath been, I had rather you were told by the Gentlemen (who I hear universally condemn it) than force myself to say anything severe; but although their kind Sense of the Affair must yield me some Satisfaction under my present Uneasiness, yet it furnishes me with a fresh Evidence of my own Weakness in lavishing my Esteem upon the Person that least deserved it.
I hope the Event will give me Reason not only to forgive, but to thank you for this ill Usage. That pretty Face, which I have so often viewed with a mistaken Admiration, I believe I shall be able to look on with an absolute Indifference; and Time, I am sensible, will abundantly convince me that your Features are all the poor Amends which Nature hath made you for your Want of Understanding, and teach me to consider them only as a decent Cover for the Emptiness and Deformity within.
To cut off all Hopes of your Discovery who I am, if you do not yet know, I have taken care to convey this by a different Hand from the former Letter, for which I am obliged to a Friend on whose Goodness and Fidelity I can safely rely. And it is my last Request that you would make this Letter as public as you have done the former: If you don’t, there are other Copies ready to be dispersed; for though I utterly despair of ever showing it to yourself, yet I am very sure of making it plain to everyone else, that you are a Coxcomb.
Adieu.
A Satirical Exchange on Marriage
Lydia to Harriot: A Mocking Letter to a Newly Married Friend
My dear Harriot,
If thou art she, but oh! how fallen, how changed, what an Apostate! how lost to all that’s gay and agreeable!
To be married, I find, is to be buried alive. I can’t conceive it more dismal to be shut up in a Vault to converse with the Shades of my Ancestors, than to be carried down to an old Manor-House in the Country, and confined to the Conversation of a sober Husband and an awkward Chambermaid.
For Variety, I suppose, you may entertain yourself with Madam in her Grogram Gown, the Spouse of your Parish Vicar, who has by this Time, I am sure, well furnished you with Receipts for making Salves and Possets, distilling Cordial Waters, making Syrups, and applying Poultices.
Bless’d Solitude! I wish thee Joy, my Dear, of thy loved Retirement, which indeed you would persuade me is very agreeable, and different enough from what I have here described: But, Child, I am afraid thy Brains are a little disordered with Romances and Novels.
After six Months’ Marriage, to hear thee talk of Love, and paint the Country Scenes so softly, is a little extravagant; one would think you lived the Lives of the Sylvan Deities, or roved among the Walks of Paradise, like the first happy Pair. But pr’ythee leave these Whimsies, and come to Town, in order to live and talk like other Mortals.
However, as I am extremely interested in your Reputation, I would willingly give you a little good Advice, at your first Appearance under the Character of a married Woman: ‘Tis a little insolent in me, perhaps, to advise a Matron; but I am so afraid you’ll make so silly a Figure as a fond Wife, that I cannot help warning you not to appear in any public Place with your Husband, and never to saunter about St. James’s Park together.
If you presume to enter the Ring at Hyde Park together, you are ruined for ever; nor must you take the least Notice of one another at the Playhouse, or Opera, unless you would be laughed at for a very loving Couple most happily paired in the Yoke of Wedlock.
I would recommend the Example of an Acquaintance of ours to your Imitation; she is the most negligent and fashionable Wife in the World; she is hardly ever seen in the same Place with her Husband, and if they happen to meet, you would think them perfect Strangers. She never was heard to name him in his Absence, and takes care he shall not be the Subject of any Discourse that she has a Share in.
I hope you’ll propose this Lady as a Pattern, though I am very much afraid you’ll be so silly to think Portia, Sabine, &c., Roman Wives, much brighter Examples. I wish it may never come into your Head to imitate those antiquated Creatures so far, as to come into public in the Habit, as well as Air, of a Roman Matron.
You make already the Entertainment of Mrs. Modish’s Tea-Table. She says, she always thought you a discreet Person, and qualified to manage a Family with admirable Prudence. She dies to see what demure and serious Airs Wedlock has given to you; but she says she shall never forgive your Choice of so gallant a Man as Bellamour, to transform him to a mere sober Husband; ’twas unpardonable.
You see, my Dear, we all envy your Happiness, and no Person more than
Your humble Servant,
LYDIA.
Harriot’s Response: A Defense of Wedded Bliss
BE not in Pain, good Madam, for my Appearance in Town;
I shall frequent no public Places, or make any Visits where the Character of a modest Wife is ridiculous.
As for your wild Raillery on Matrimony, ’tis all Hypocrisy; you, and all the handsome young Women of your Acquaintance, show themselves to no other Purpose, than to gain a Conquest over some Man of Worth, in order to bestow your Charms and Fortune on him.
There’s no Indecency in the Confession; the Design is modest and honourable, and all your Affectation can’t disguise it.
I am married, and have no other Concern but to please the Man I love; he’s the End of every Care I have; if I dress, ’tis for him; if I read a Poem or Play, ’tis to qualify myself for a Conversation agreeable to his Taste: He’s almost the End of my Devotion; half my Prayers are for his Happiness.
I love to talk of him, and never hear him named but with Pleasure and Emotion.
I am your Friend, and wish you Happiness; but am sorry to see, by the Air of your Letter, that there are a Set of Women who are got into the Common-Place Raillery of everything that is sober, decent, and proper. Matrimony and the Clergy are the Topics of People of little Wit and no Understanding.
I own to you, I have learned of the Vicar’s Wife all you tax me with: She is a discreet, ingenious, pleasant, pious Woman; I wish she had the handling of you and Mrs. Modish; you would find, if you were too free with her, she would make you blush as much as if you had never been fine Ladies.
The Vicar, Madam, is so kind as to visit my Husband, and his agreeable Conversation has brought him to enjoy many sober happy Hours when even I am shut out, and my dear Husband is entertained only with his own Thoughts.
These Things, dear Madam, will be lasting Satisfactions, when the fine Ladies, and the Coxcombs by whom they form themselves, are irreparably ridiculous, ridiculous even in Old Age.
I am, Madam,
Your most humble Servant.
Harriot.
A Widow’s Warning and a Mother’s “I Told You So”
To a Widow Lady, to dissuade her from a Second Marriage, from an elderly Lady, her Relation.
Experience speaks in these letters—sometimes with wisdom, sometimes with sharp-edged scorn.
A Widow’s Warning to a Friend Considering Remarriage
“You are happy now. Do you know how rare that is?” A widow, experienced in marriage, urges her friend to reconsider a second match. A husband, she warns, is more often a burden than a blessing.
Dear Cousin,
I was accidentally in Company the other Day, where you were mentioned with great Respect; but it was said that you were about to marry again. I may be impertinent in what I have to say on this Subject, because the Observations may come too late: Yet I think that can hardly be the case, because this is the first Time I have heard of your designing it, and then but casually. I know how ready the World is to interpret the slightest Acquaintances into Courtships; and I think, had this been anything more, I should have heard of it earlier, and with more Certainty; nay, I will not believe but you would have written to me of it yourself.
As I will persuade myself from these Reasons that you have not gone so far in this Matter, if you have made any Step in it, as to have made it too late to go back, I shall, with all that Freedom which our Acquaintance and Affinity support me in using, give you my Reasons why I think you do wrong.
You are very happy at present, and those who do not know when they are well commonly change for the worse. It is a Maxim among the Gamesters, that nobody ought to play but those who have nothing to lose; and I think it ought to hold as good with those who marry after they are Thirty.
When there is a Bloom of Youth upon a Face, a Man may be tempted to do a great many Things to purchase it; but when that is gone, I should be always afraid that the Desire of winning the Bet might go farther than the Love of Play. If that is the Matter, wretched is she who is caught, for the Winner will be as ready in this Case, as the Losers in the other, to break the Tables.
But to talk in plain Words, and argue the Matter like People of this World, I should imagine that any Woman that had been married a dozen Years, let it have been ever so happily, would have seen enough of the Condition not to be in a Humour to enter upon it again when the best Season of it was over.
I talk very freely to you, Cousin; but I love you, and you know it: You will therefore excuse me; nay, I believe you will thank me. I advise you against Marriage, but I do not know who you are going to marry.
There is one Test of Affection, and there is but one, and if your Lover’s Affairs will bear that, why, I shall give up half of my Objections. The Man who has nothing may deceive you when he says he loves you, whether you have nothing, or have a Fortune; for in the one Case he may just like you enough for a Month’s living together, and, as it is all one to him where he lives, he may resolve upon bidding Good-bye to you afterwards: In the other, he may very reasonably be in love with your Fortune, and may think no Incumbrance of your Person too much for the Advantage.
But if the Lover has a Fortune more than equal to your own, take it for granted he is in earnest, and give yourself no Trouble but about his Constancy. It would not be worth while to marry a Man you were sure liked you Today, but who, it was fifty to one, might change his Mind Tomorrow: and as to him, who it was impossible to know whether he liked you or no, you, who will be too wise to fall into absolute Green-Sickness Love, would be distracted to venture upon.
Which of these, or whether either of these Descriptions, belongs to your present Admirer, I am entirely ignorant. You see I am a great Enemy to your marrying at all; but I have told you there is a Sort of Man that I think you may venture upon: She will have good Luck, however, that finds him.
It would be easy to be grave upon this Subject; but, dear Cousin, it is not easy to be grave without being dull; and I have not a mind you shall throw away my Letter without reading it.
You have a great many Years probably to come, and you have a Right to be happy in them. You have the Means in your own Hands, and in the Name of Wisdom keep them there.
You have Relations who will want your Money when you can make no more Use of it; and why should you rob them of it in Favour of a Stranger? Besides, I have that true Affection for you, that I should be unhappy to see you in Difficulties.
Consider all these Things, for you have Gratitude and Generosity; and consider yourself, for you have Prudence. You may be happy in yourself, and a Blessing to others, these forty Years; or you may be miserable and a Burden to your Relations: This is the Chance; and, I protest, I believe the Choice is now before you.
Dear Cousin, farewell; I only repeat it to you, consider.
Yours most affectionately.
A Mother to Her Married Daughter: “I Told You So”
After marrying against her mother’s wishes, a young wife now finds herself miserable. Her husband is a drunkard, a gambler, and a libertine. She writes home, seeking comfort. Her mother’s response is as cold as it is truthful.
Dear Mother,
You were right to tell me that I should repent of my Marriage, by suffering myself to be too easily seduced by the Appearances of Good-Nature and Behaviour in my Husband, during the Time I enjoyed my dear Liberty; for having followed the Motions of my own capricious Fancy, I suffer all that can be imagined from a Husband who spends his Time in a continued Scene of Rioting and Debauchery.
His Health, which he exhausts and destroys in a Way to lay him soon in his Grave, affects me infinitely more than the Expenses he is at.
In this melancholy Situation I have Recourse to you, dear Mother, to beg you would write to him. I know, as he has a particular Respect for your Person, he will pay a great Deference to anything you shall say to him.
Do not refuse me this Favour, for my Comfort.
I beg also you would be persuaded that I am, with all the Tenderness and Obedience I am capable of,
Your most dutiful Daughter.
Dear Daughter,
If your Marriage makes you uneasy, you have no Reason to complain, because you would marry, contrary to my Inclination, a young Man too well known for his ill Conduct.
I always thought that you would pass your Time very uncomfortably, and that you would not have that Satisfaction with him you imagined.
I have written to him, to let him know, that if he persists in his debauched Course of Life, I will certainly send for you home.
I hope my Letter will have its wished-for Effect: Torment yourself no longer.
On your Side, endeavour as much as possible to reclaim him with Kindness. The Way of Patience is the surest to induce him to a Reformation.
Send me an Account of all that may happen, and believe that I am, from my Heart,
Your most affectionate and tender Mother.
Parting Words: Beauty, Worth, and What Remains
Beauty fades, but character endures. In this final letter, a woman who has lost her looks receives wise counsel on where true worth resides.
My dear Ophelia,
I received yours, and rejoice too much in your Recovery to be able to condole with you on any Alteration your late Illness has made in you; and, indeed, how great soever it may be, am far from thinking it deserves to be mentioned with that Concern you express.
You have encountered Death, and foiled him at one of his sharpest Weapons; and if you have received some Scars, ought to look upon them rather as Trophies of Victory than Blemishes.
What if your Complexion has lost some Part of its fair Enamel, and your Features are not altogether so delicate? The less Charms your Glass presents you with, the more you will find in your Closet; and, deprived of vain Pleasure in contemplating the Graces of your outward Form, you will have the greater Leisure to improve and embellish those which are not so easily impaired.
Let us pretend what we will, it is the Ambition of attracting Admirers that renders Beauty of so much Value to all the Young and Gay; but, if we consider seriously, we shall find that it is Virtue, Good Sense, Sweetness of Disposition, and Complacence, of which the Girdle of Cytheria should be composed.
The finest Face in the World, without them, will not long maintain its Empire over the Heart of a Man of Understanding, as the Poet truly says,
“Beauty soon grows familiar to the Eye;
“Virtue alone has Charms that never die.”
Do not think, however, that I am glad to find you are more on Level than before this Accident with the greatest Part of our Sex.
I confess, the Beauties of the Person greatly contribute to set off and render those of the Mind conspicuous, and for that Reason should lament extremely any Defect in the one, if I were not certain you had enough of the other to engross the whole Attention of as many as know you; and that they may every Day increase in the Lustre of true Dignity, is the sincere Wish of,
My dear Ophelia,
Yours, SOPHRONIA.
