Chapter III: Part 3

Women have more fancy, more lively imaginations than men. That is easily accounted for: a person of correct judgment and accurate discernment will never have that flow of ideas which one of a different character might,—every object has not the power to introduce into his mind such a variety of ideas, he rejects all but those closely connected with it. On the other hand, a person of small discernment will receive every idea that arises in the mind, making no distinction between those nearly related and those more distant, they are all equally welcome, and consequently such a mind abounds with fanciful, out-of-the-way ideas. Women have more imagination, more sprightliness, because they have less discernment. I never was of opinion that the pursuits of the sexes ought to be the same; on the contrary, I believe it would be destructive to happiness, there would a degree of rivalry exist, incompatible with the harmony we wish to establish. I have ever thought it necessary that each should have a separate sphere of action,—in such a case there could be no clashing unless one or the other should leap their respective bounds. Yet to cultivate the qualities with which we are endowed can never be called infringing the prerogatives of man. Why, my dear Cousin, were we furnished with such powers, unless the improvement of them would conduce to the happiness of society? Do you suppose the mind of woman the only work of God that was “made in vain.” The cultivation of the powers we possess, I have ever thought a privilege (or I may say duty) that belonged to the human species, and not man’s exclusive prerogative. Far from destroying the harmony that ought to subsist, it would fix it on a foundation that would not totter at every jar. Women would be under the same degree of subordination that they now are; enlighten and expand their minds, and they would perceive the necessity of such a regulation to preserve the order and happiness of society. Yet you require that their conduct should be always guided by that reason which you refuse them the power of exercising. I know it is generally thought that in such a case women would assume the right of commanding. But I see no foundation for such a supposition,—not a blind submission to the will of another which neither honor nor reason dictates. It would be criminal in such a case to submit, for we are under a prior engagement to conduct in all things according to the dictates of reason. I had rather be the meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon the wide world to suffer all the ills “that flesh is heir to,” than live a slave to the despotic will of another.

I am aware of the censure that will ever await the female that attempts the vindication of her sex, yet I dare to brave that censure that I know to be undeserved. It does not follow (O what a pen!) that every female who vindicates the capacity of the sex is a disciple of Mary Wolstoncraft. Though I allow her to have said many things which I cannot but approve, yet the very foundation on which she builds her work will be apt to prejudice us so against her that we will not allow her the merit she really deserves,—yet, prejudice set aside, I confess I admire many of her sentiments, notwithstanding I believe should any one adopt her principles, they would conduct in the same manner, and upon the whole her life is the best comment on her writings. Her style is nervous and commanding, her sentiments appear to carry conviction along with them, but they will not bear analyzing. I wish to say something on your _natural refinement_, but I shall only have room to touch upon it if I begin, “therefore I’ll leave it till another time.”

Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us; we had a fine “dish of conversation” served up with great taste, fine sentiments dressed with elegant language and seasoned with wit. He is really excellent company—a little enthusiastic or so—but that is no matter. In compassion I entreat you to come over here soon and make me some pens. I have got one that I have been whittling this hour and at last have got it to make a stroke (it liked to have given me the lie). I believe I must give up all pretension to _profundity_, for I am much more at home in my female character. This argumentative style is not congenial to my taste. I hate anything that requires order or connection. I never could do anything by rule,—when I get a subject I am incapable of reasoning upon, I play with it as with a rattle, for what else should I do with it? But I have kept along quite in a direct line; I caught myself “upon the wing” two or three times, but I had power to check my nonsense. I send you my sentiments on this subject as they really exist with me. I believe they are not the mere impulse of the moment, but founded on what I think truth. I could not help laughing at that part of your letter where you said the seal of my letter deprived you of some of the most interesting part of it. I declare positively I left a blank place on purpose for it, that you might not lose one precious word, and now you have the impudence to tell me that the most interesting part was the blank paper. It has provoked my ire to such a degree that I positively declare I never will send you any more blank paper than I possibly can avoid, to “spite you.”

E. S.

To Mr. Moses Porter.

Portland, July 17, 1801.

I almost at this moment wish myself in your situation, meeting old acquaintances, shaking hands with old friends and telling over with renewed pleasure your College frolicks. I can almost see you convulsed with laughter, hear you recount the adventures of the last year, while imagination brings every boyish frolic to your view, unimpaired by time. What a world of humour! what flashes of wit! what animated descriptions! O these social meetings! How they animate and inspire one! how they lighten the cares and multiply the joys of life! I wish you would write me about Commencement. I heard yesterday that Sam. Fay of Concord delivered an oration the 4th of July. I should admire to see it. I know it must be very fine; in my opinion he is a man of excellent talents, capable of writing on the occasion an oration that would reflect great honor. The sentiments must be noble and generous. He possesses so much feeling, there must be many glowing passages in it. If it is possible I beg you will get me a copy and I will confess myself very, very greatly obliged. Last night I attended the _Theater_,—“Speed the plough” was performed, and I assure you very _decently_; the characters in general were well supported. Villiers in Fannie Ashfield really outdid himself; he threw off the monkey and became a good honest clown, and did not, as he usually does, outstep the bounds of nature and all other bounds. Mrs. Powell as Miss Blandford delighted us all. How I admire that woman! She is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet there is no levity in her appearance; she has great energy, acts with spirit, with feeling, yet never rants; her private character we all know is unexceptionable. Mr. Donnee as a young buck is very pleasing, he has a most melodious voice in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish air,—good figure, tho’ small. As for Mrs. Harper she is my aversion—for, as Shakespeare says, she will “tear a passion to tatters, to very rags,” and she is too indecent ever to appear on the stage. Harper is a fine fellow; he appears best among the common herd of Players, and has as much judgment in supporting his part as any one I ever saw, and even in comic characters I think he excels Villiers. He has much greater resources within himself. Villiers gains applause by distorting his face and playing the monkey, while Harper adheres more strictly to nature. In Villiers we cannot help seeing the player thro’ the thin disguise,—_Villiers_, not the character he personates, is continually in our minds. S. Powell is contemptible as a player (and I believe as a man); he puffs and blows so incessantly that it is enough to put one into a fever to see him; he does not know in the least how to preserve a medium, but takes a certain pitch and there remains; he cannot gradually bring his passion to the height, but he thunders it out without any preparation, and the unvarying monotony of his voice is truly disgusting. I am sure, by his strutting and bellowing, Hamlet would think _he_ was made by one of “Nature’s journeymen.” But it is time to have done with players, for you will think my head turned indeed if I rant about them any longer; but it has served to fill up a part of my letter, and I assure you that alone was a sufficient reason why I should give them a place. Society, bustle, and noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot write anywhere but at home. I am ashamed that things of so little consequence should turn my head, but ’tis a melancholy truth. O you malicious fellow, don’t talk to me about my favorite topic “female education,” don’t tell me of your _philosophical indifference_! O Moses, you can’t leave the subject, every word that could any way dash at it is marked. I believe you do _itch_ to commence the attack. Well, rail on, you shall not say it is in compassion to me that you desist. God forbid that your greatest enemy should ever inflict so severe a punishment as to prohibit you from speaking of your “favorite topic.” I fancy you have forgotten that it _is_ such, _Mr. Indifference_. Your ironical letter has had a wonderful effect, but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not to confess myself contemptibly inferior to my antagonist. You ought to blush, but from a very different cause; but I had forgotten myself, and was taking the thing too seriously. I am not slow at taking the hint, perhaps my presumption merited the reproof. I receive it and will endeavor to profit by it; and pray, Cousin, how does Mr. Symmes’ coat suit you? His “haughty humility,” his “condescending pride.” You have assumed the habit, and I hope will ever clothe yourself with it when you meet your _superior antagonist_.

You have a fine imagination and have pictured a chain of delightful events which probably will exist there alone, yet I should have no objection to your being a true prophet. We all can plan delightful schemes, but they rarely ever become realities; but no matter, we enjoy them in imagination. I expect from you a particular account of yourself when you return. You will have many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you will take the trouble. I have just read your last and picture something in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. You say all you have said on the subject of education was merely the thought of the moment, “written not to be received but laughed at.” What shall I think?—That you think me too contemptible to know your real sentiments? I should be very unwilling to admit such a suspicion, yet what can you mean?—with the greatest apparent seriousness, you speak of the _sincerity_ with which you conduct this correspondence. Was that likewise meant to be laughed at? I had flattered myself, when I commenced this correspondence, to reap both instruction and amusement from an undisguised communication of sentiments. I had likewise hoped you would not think it too great a condescension to speak to me with that openness you would to a male friend. However, I shall begin to think it is contrary to the nature of things that a gentleman should speak his real sentiments to a lady, yet in our correspondence I wished and expected to step aside from the world, speak to each other in the plain language of sincerity. I have much to say on this subject, but unfortunately my ideas never begin to flow until I have filled up my paper. Do not imagine from what I have said that the most disagreeable truths will offend me. I promise not to feel hurt at any thing you write, if ’tis your real sentiment. But, Cousin, don’t trifle with me. Do not make me think so contemptibly of myself as you will by not allowing me your confidence; promise to speak as you think and I will never scold you again.

ELIZA.

Cousin, I wish you would write a list of your mother’s children, names and ages, those that have died together with the others. We are going to send them out to Uncle Rufus, as he requested it some time since. By Martha it will be a fine opportunity,—as soon as convenient send them over.

Mr. Moses Porter,
Biddeford.

Scarborough, August 6, 1801.

Hon. Rufus King.

Pardon, my dear Sir, the liberty I take in addressing you, and let my motives shield me from the imputation of presumption. Some time since, you requested a list of my Aunt Porter’s and our family. It has never been sent, and as we have now a very favorable opportunity, my father has requested me to make it out and enclose it to you. I tremble while I write, lest I should appear disrespectful in my manner of addressing you. Unused as I am to writing to any one so much superior in years, I cannot but feel embarrassed. A degree of confidence in ourselves is necessary in every undertaking to ensure success; as I feel at this moment destitute of that confidence, I likewise despair of succeeding in my wishes, yet I entreat you to attribute whatever may appear assuming rather to an incapacity of expressing myself as I wish than to a want of respect. When I consider you as a public character esteemed and respected by your country, I would willingly shrink from observation, lest my intruding myself on your attention should be thought impertinence. But when I think how nearly I am allied, I flatter myself I shall obtain that indulgence which I now earnestly solicit. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, by whom I shall send this, intend taking the tour of Europe after having taken that of the United States. Mrs. Derby is my particular friend, and as she is intimately acquainted in our family, can give you whatever information you wish respecting us. I say nothing to remind her, for I have too high an opinion of your discernment to suppose any recommendation necessary. My mother joins me in desiring you would make our respects acceptable to Mrs. King, and all the family unite in earnest wishes for the complete restoration of her health. Our family are all in good health.... My mother really looks young! My Aunt Porter [Pauline] is not wholly restored to her former health, but is much better than she has been for many years past.

Mrs. RUFUS KING.

After a portrait by Trumbull.

ARTOTYPE. E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.
]

I cannot conclude this without earnestly intreating you to receive it with the candor of an Uncle rather than the severity of a critic. I feel I do not write as I ought to, yet I entreat you not to think me deficient in that respect and esteem with which I shall ever remain.

Your niece ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Scarborough, August 4, 1801.

Dr. Southgate to Rufus King in London.

You will receive this by Mr. Richard Derby, youngest son of the late H. Derby of Salem. His lady who accompanies him is the daughter of Dr. N. Coffin of Portland. The Doctor’s family and mine have ever been on terms of intimacy and friendship. Mrs. Derby in particular has ever been a favorite of my daughters Octavia and Eliza. They can give you all particulars about friends at home.

Bath, Sunday, Sept. 13.

There are some kinds of indisposition that instead of weakening the faculties of the mind, serve only to render them more vigorous and sprightly, and in proportion as the body is debilitated, the mind is strengthened. I have every reason to believe that the imagination never soars to such lofty heights as it sometimes does in sickness. But where am I! What about—Well may _you_ ask the question. Believe me, Cousin, I have attempted to finish this letter 4 times this day. I cannot account for my inability to write. It used to be the joy of my life, nothing delighted me so much as to steal into the chamber by myself and scribble an hour, but since I received your last I have often attempted to answer it, but in vain. I have a stubborn brain; it must be coaxed, not driven. I find there is nothing so tedious as to write when we are not in the mood for it. You may easily see that I am not in one at present. Now for Heaven’s sake see what I have written—find the chain that connects. When I began I meant to say I had been quite unwell ever since I left Portland, that some disorders only served to give vigor to the mind, &c., &c., but I _meant_ also to say mine was altogether of a different nature. But as I left that out, so I had better have done the other. Oh—’tis too, too bad! I’ll not write another till I think I can understand it after it is written. I am low-spirited, stupid and everything else.

Wednesday.

Now I shall really think I have no _soul_ if I find myself as destitute of ideas as I was on Sunday. I have just been viewing the most delightful prospect I have seen this long time, and if it has left no more impression on my mind than objects passing before a mirror, I shall think myself devoid of every quality that constitutes us rational beings. I think nature has done everything to render Bath pleasant: the window at which I now sit commands a most delightful water prospect; the river is about a mile in breadth at this place, the opposite banks are neither sublime nor beautiful. What if I for a moment should take a poet’s license, and by the force of imagination project steep and rugged rocks! bid them stoop with awful majesty to reflect their gloomy horrors in the wave! See you not that enormous precipice whose awful summit was ne’er profaned by human footsteps? Does not your blood freeze as it creeps along your veins? Behold again that barren waste, the axe nor the plough have never clothed it with a borrowed charm, or robbed it of those nature bestowed upon it; it still boasts its independence of the labor of man. But to leave fiction for reality, the surface of the water is a perfect mirror. I never saw it so perfectly smooth; at this moment there is a boat passing, rowed by two men—the reflection in the water is so distinct, so very clear, it looks like two boats. I admire to see a boat _rowed_; it seems to look like arms or wings, moving with graceful majesty, while the boat cuts the liquid bosom of the water, leaving as it recedes a widening track. There is always to me something very charming in the rowing of a boat. There is music in the motion; and what can be more graceful and majestic than the motion of a _ship under sail_? Yesterday there was a _brig_ passed by here—’twas within hearing—very near. I never was more forcibly struck than at the moment; I longed to prostrate myself in humble admiration—as she approached with a slow, commanding, _celestial_ air;—at the moment I am sure it gave me a better idea of the awful grandeur of a deity than anything I had ever seen. I saw Juno’s dignified gracefulness such as I had read of but could not conceive.

I have often in reading been disagreeably struck by the epithets used for the motions of the gods. Sometimes they make them _glide_ thro’ the air, sometimes approach with a solemn _step_, and many other words I do not recollect; nor do I at present think of any words that would answer better—yet _to glide_ seems stealing along—to move rapidly and imperceptibly;—a bird glides thro’ the air, yet there is nothing celestial in the flight of a bird. It seems to me properly applied to _fairies_; something light and airy should glide,—that a fairy should glide along seems right,—just as I have an idea of them. And then for a god _to step_—that seems too grovelling, too like us mortals,—yet that in my opinion is better than the other.

The place on which this house stands seems to project in a small degree toward the water. I believe there is not a window in the house that does not command a view of the water. In front there is a kind of cove the water makes in several rods; the river is broad and straight, the land rises gradually from it a half mile;—but I think it is to be regretted that the inhabitants have built under the _hill_, or rather that they did not prefer climbing a little higher; however, I think it must have a fine appearance from the water. Last year I recollect sailing along in front of the settlement and remarked how much more compact it looked than it really is, the houses rising one above the other in such a manner that every one was seen distinctly. I think nothing can be more beautiful than a town built on a sloping ground ascending from so fine a river as this branch of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging to the different ports on this river above Bath, passes directly by here, and several times I have seen 12 or 14 at a time. To one who has been brought up amidst salt marsh and flats, this large fine river affords much novelty and amusement, and I cannot confess but the sensations I feel in viewing it are more pleasing than those produced by a stagnant water in a Scarborough salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet without saying a word of your letter, indeed I have forgotten what was in it—at the time you gave it me I know I received it with much pleasure, as it robbed me of some painful moments. After Horatio’s recovery I sat down one evening to write you, but I had only written the day of the month, when a most violent clap of thunder (the same that struck Mrs. Horper’s house) shook the pen from my hand and my desk from my lap. I do not imagine even by this omen that I offend the strictest laws of virtue and propriety by continuing to write you, therefore should something equally powerful wrest the pen from my hand, depend upon it I will seize it with renewed vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, &c., &c.

ELIZA.

I shall go to Wiscassett on Monday; expect to hear from me after I return to Bath; while there I shall have no time. I expect to have important communications to forward—a certain pair of sparkling eyes, which are far more eloquent than her tongue! Now I have half a mind to be affronted. I know at this time, as soon as you have read this you are tumbling it into your pocket as waste paper to ponder on the brilliancy of said eyes. Is it true? Well, I shall see them soon and shall be tempted to ask some atonement for the damages I may suffer. Write me often while I am here, it is your _duty_.

Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.

By Mrs. King.

To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford.

I want to write, yet I don’t want to write to you, my _ceremonious_ Cousin, but at this time I can think of nobody else and am _compelled_ to address you. My last was dated from Bath, so is this; since then I have made a visit to Wiscassett. Oh I believe—yes I did write a few lines from there by Uncle Thatcher—I had forgotten that I wrote any more than the letter I finished before I left Bath. I wish I could give you an account of my spending my fortnight at Wiscasset, which would amuse you as much as the reality did me, but that is impossible. I have seen so many new faces—(I was going to say new characters, but they were generally such as we see every day), so many handsome ladies, so many fine men, indeed I have seen a little of everything. Mr. Wild and Mr. Davis (of Portland) kept at Mrs. Lee’s. Mr. Wild is a most charming man, and sensible and genteel, apparently has one of the mildest and most amiable dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis you know. There was a Miss P—— spent 2 or 3 days at Mrs. Lee’s. She was—was—I can’t tell you what; you may have heard of her, celebrated for her wit, lost a lover by exercising it rather too severely; poor soul! it was a sad affair; she has at length become sensible of the impropriety of her conduct, and now hopes to atone for it by flattering every gentleman she sees—time will show whether this plan will succeed. She talks incessantly, laughs always at what she says herself. At table, when the judges, lawyers, and a dozen gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss P—— engrossed all the conversation. I defy any person to be in the room with her and not be compelled to converse with her, not by the irresistible force of her charms, they are rather in the wane. If you look at her she asks what you were going to say—“I know you were going to speak by your looks.” Of course my gentleman walks up, how can he help it? In this manner she draws a whole swarm around her; the poor souls rattle out their outrageous compliments, trembling with fear, for the moment their ardor to please appears to abate, she rouses them to a sense of their duty by a lash of her tongue.

Sunday.—Now I can’t bear to be hurried, and I must submit to be or not send this by Mamma King. Last night when I began this, I felt quite disposed to throw away an hour (for my letters to you are thrown away as you won’t take the trouble to answer them) without consulting anything but my feelings. I began, and soon found, to my mortification, that I ought to have consulted my candle, for as if piqued at my neglect, it took French leave to doze. I broke off my description of Miss P—— in the most _striking_ part. I do not resume the subject, ’twould be a profanation of this day to scandalize a frail sister; my mind is full of charity and Christian love. I hope I shall not stumble against some unlucky thought that may derange its present peaceful state. Now, Cousin, don’t you think it unpardonable, don’t you think it a violation of all the laws of politeness, that you should neglect writing me merely because I owed a letter? I should not be surprised if you counted the words in yours and my letters and settled the account by some rule in Arithmetic. But let me entreat you not to estimate mine by the _weight_, but the _number_; in that case I am equal to anybody; but if, unhappily for me, you should weigh them with critical exactness, ’twill take many of them to repay you for one of yours. I feel assured you must have adopted this method, and sincerely ask your pardon for doubting a moment that this was the true cause. What prevented your coming to Wiscassett? I tho’t you had determined upon it. Rebecca and I used to expect you every day; believe me I was asked a dozen times if you were not absolutely engaged to Miss Rice. How such things will get about. I told every body that asked me that I was your confidant, of course must keep your attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive your thanks.

Mr. Kinsman has been down to Wiscassett. He attended the courts, as he says, to acquire a better knowledge of the law; but I should imagine he mistook the _ladies_ for the _law_, as he makes them his constant study. But I leave so dangerous a subject, lest my feelings should deprive me of the power to finish this sheet. I shall probably return home the beginning of next month. If I have a letter due from you, according to your new arrangement, I beg you to forward it as soon as possible; however, I have not the vanity to suppose there is more than a dozen lines as yet; perhaps when I have written half a dozen more letters I may be _richly_ rewarded with _one_ from you. Where is Maria? How does she do? Rebecca wrote her while I was in Wiscassett, and told her undoubtedly she is expected to spend the winter there. I must finish: Uncle calls.

ELIZA.

I believe it is about the 10th day of October.

E.

Ellen Coffin is going to be married to a widower and 3 children, think of that, sir!!! I had a letter from her last week. She is not coming home till she leaves Portland as Mrs. Derby.

Topsham, Oct. 29, 1801.

Why, you unaccountable wretch! you obstinate fellow! you malicious, you vain, you—Oh, I am run out, I will e’en call in the assistance of Sir John Fallstaff to help me exclaim against you—provoking creature! With one scratch of your pen to banish such delightful thoughts! I was applauding myself for my _condescension_ in writing so often without answers. I exulted in the thought of your shame and confusion at the proofs of my superiority,—so much above the little forms that narrowed your own heart. How did I see you hanging your head with penitence and sorrow, while your face glowed with conscious shame! Oh, ’twas delicious! Every day I reflected on it with renewed pleasure. I felt assured nothing prevented your writing but an aversion to acknowledging how humble, how little you felt,—yet the letter at length arrived, my heart trembled with delight, a glow of triumph flushed my face. I saw the humiliation so grateful to my vanity, (I was at the _Lieu_ table)—I hurried the letter into my pocket, I had no wish to read it—I knew (I tho’t I did) what it _must_ contain. I could scarcely breathe; vanity, exultation, revenge (sweet sensation) gave me unusual spirits. I stood and called 5— I was sure of a Palm-flush! ’twas impossible anything could go wrong,—’twas a frail hope—I got nothing, was lieued; never mind it, thought I, the letter is enough. I played wrong, discarded the wrong card, knocked over the candlestick, spilt my wine; positively, if it had been a love-letter, a first declaration, it would not put me in a worse flustration; but ah! ’twas so different,—I did not blush, look down, tremble, fear to raise my eyes; my heart did not dissolve away in melting tenderness—hey-day! I had no notion of telling you what I did _not_ do—but what I _did_. Well then—I sat so upright, I was a foot taller, I looked at every body for applause. I wondered I did not hear them exclaim: Oh, generous, excellent girl! I demanded it with my eyes—’twas all in vain, I heard nothing but—“Eliza, you must follow suit. Why do you play that card? You will certainly be lieued!” I was vexed; I thought of the letter, all was sunshine again. I am called—dinner; oh, this eating seems to clog all my faculties, I never write with half so much ease as when I’m half starved. I believe it is true that poets ought not to live well.

But begging your pardon for leaving you so in the lurch, I had forgotten that the letter was as yet unopened in my pocket. Well then, we did not break up till late; after I retired to bed out came the letter. I was sleepy and had a great mind not to open it till morning; however I thought I would, to have the satisfaction of the confirmation of my hopes, not once thinking of the stroke that should annihilate them. It came. How shall I tell you my consternation!—“description falters at the threshold;” yet I did not rave, I did not tear my hair with a frenzy of passion. I did not stand in mute despair,—no; I collected all my dignity and stood fixed and immovable. I was convinced ’twas obstinacy alone, ’twas envy, ’twas a something that prevented you from giving me what you knew I deserved. I am called again.

Portland, Nov. 10, 1801.

I had almost determined to light the fire with this scrawl!—but upon second thoughts I withdrew my hand from the devouring flames and saved it from the fate it so justly merits. Yet we have such a partiality for our own offspring we rarely ever treat them with the severity they deserve. But I ought to tell you where I am,—but this letter has nothing like method in it—but never mind—I began it immediately after I received your last. I wrote while the first impressions it made were on me; unluckily I was called from the pleasing task while in the midst of it, and as I never feel the same two hours together, I was unable to continue as I began: ’twould have been cold and studied; so I left it. I threw it into my trunk, determining not to have anything more to do with it. I had grown amazingly wise; I wondered how I could suffer myself to write such nonsense. To-day I have received an invitation to the _second_ wedding of Capt. Stephenson. I shall go. I thought I would write you a line to let you know I was still in existence and on my way home. I could not find any paper and was compelled to tumble over my trunk to find this. I have a world of news to tell you, but I don’t know that you would care a farthing about any of it. Mary has been at Boston. Capt. Stephenson told me all about it. Tell her I hear she has a heap of fine things, at which, together with her ladyship, I hope to have a peep. I have something of vast importance to say to _her_ likewise, a thing on which depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. “Oh, Mary! who would have thought cruelty one of the failings of your heart.” But I shall out with this secret to you before I am aware of it. Now I have a great mind to turn this into a letter to Mary. I have as much again to say to her as I have to you, but she would not know what to make of some of it. I expect to be at home on Saturday next; bring Mary on Sunday,—mind, and don’t disobey. Horatio will be with me. I am in a monstrous hurry. I must send more blank paper than I ever did before, for which you will thank me, as I think you once told me that the blank paper in my letters always afforded you the most pleasure,—not exactly so—but something like it. Adieu.

ELIZA.

Mr. Moses Porter.

Scarborough, Dec. 4th, 1801.

“I give you thanks,” as Parson Fletcher says, for your dissertation upon apologies and old sayings. You have stored up enough to fill a volume, if I should take your last as a specimen of the quantity. However, they are things I trouble myself but little about, and I should rather be inclined to join in railing against them than in enumerating their good effects. I perceive that you were much more inclined to be their advocate after supper than you were before. You had just laid down your pen after venting all your spleen and ill-nature (occasioned by your impatience for roast-beef) upon these poor harmless old sayings. You return, with an entire new set of sentiments on the subject. You commence their advocate with more vehemence than is usual with you, and conclude by making them the very foundation of every virtue. Now I have endeavored to find some natural cause for this sudden change, but cannot. Was it that you heard one trickle from the lips of some favorite fair with eloquence too powerful to be resisted? Or was it a bumper of wine which proved so warm a friend to them? Or was it the good-natured effects of the roast-beef, which exhilarating your spirits, made you look with an eye of pity and compassion on these poor neglected things, and endeavor by rubbing off the rust and polishing them anew, to compensate for your malicious endeavors to lessen their merit? But after all I must confess myself a great enemy to them, in conversation particularly. I never knew a person who made frequent use of them, but I pitied them for the scanty portion of ideas which must have driven them to such a paltry theft; and moreover, if I must steal the idea, I would clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray me. I dislike them because they are in every body’s mouth, the greatest fool on earth has sense enough to use them with as much propriety as any other, and you will find every old beggar has his wallet stuffed full of them, ready to launch out on every occasion. I don’t know, however, but you are perfectly right in what you say in their defence. I am inclined to believe what you say is just, but I have so often seen instances of their meaning being perverted to answer some vicious purpose that I am compelled to believe the balance is against them. “So much for old sayings.”—But now as to apologies, I must with _due reverence_ beg leave to differ from you in my opinion of them. I am by no means inclined to think they are never used but when we know ourselves in fault, and that we ought always to suspect the sincerity of any one who makes them. You certainly must have known instances when they were essentially necessary, and not to have made them would have proved an obstinacy of disposition quite as disagreeable as insincerity. I hate this parade and nonsense about _independence_, which every gentleman of _ton_ puts on; it always proves that the reality is small, when such a fuss is made for the appearance. I know some gentlemen who boast of never having made an apology, yet at the same time would say and do a thousand things much more derogatory to their dear independence than fifty apologies, such as any man of sense might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentlemen more careful in avoiding anything that would require an apology, and not like cowards skulk behind their flimsy shield of independence for defence or security. I have as great an aversion to cringing apologies, made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, and should always suspect the sincerity of them.—If this class are the greater part of them,—still I can conceive, nay I _have known_ instances when an apology has heightened my opinion of a person instead of lessening it. If we are in fault, ought we not to confess it? If we are _not_ in fault, ought we not to exculpate ourselves? I should think a person valued my approbation very little, if he knew I had any reason to censure him and yet would not by a single word convince me I had been deceived. However, I did not mean to dip so far into this _weighty_ subject, ’twould have been better to have just touched the edges and away. Now really, Moses, I write in pain if I am not good-natured; you must attribute it all to the cold which makes my fingers tingle; I can’t write below, there is such a gabbling. ’Tis a cold, comfortless night; the rain patters against the window and the wind whistles round the house, it sounds like December,—oh! that was an unlucky word! I feel gloomy at the sight of it. The storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for shelter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that I would not walk ten steps to do good to any one. Our old windows here clatter so that I can hear nothing else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and that I hear the groans of distress between the blasts of wind, which sound hollow and dreary; even now the shadow of my pen on the wall looked like a man’s arm, and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories! we never get rid of them. I sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are asleep in the house, get my imagination so roused, that I look in fearful expectation that the tall martial ghost of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop down chimney.—Ghosts, what a looking word that is!!—nonsense!—what was I going to say, something about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I declare this shall be the last letter I will write from the fire,—December, and writing in the chamber without fire. Oh—monstrous! But here am I at the end without saying several things I meant to. I never, when I sit down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to when I began. You found my letter, you say—’twas not worth the finding, as it was too late to answer the purpose I wish. Write me often. I have been entertained with Johnson’s life. We are alone, so write me often.

E. S.

A man of your gallantry, cousin, surely might make a small exertion to confer an obligation on two of the fair. Octavia and myself are very anxious that Miss Tappan should make us a visit. My father will bring Miranda home; but our chaise is broken so much that ’tis impossible to use it in its present state; none to be hired or borrowed. Why can’t you take a chaise and bring over Pauline and Betsey Tappan? Besides gratifying me with their company, I would be very glad to see you—no coaxing Eliza! But I am in earnest; come and see. Do come and bring them if possible. I will show you some of Martha’s letters from London, Bath. I will tell you everything I can think of and perhaps invent something if all this won’t do. Lord bless me! I should not have to urge every one so hard to come and see me. I am sure I should be discouraged; but seriously, I wish you to come _very_ much, but if you think it _impossible_, or rather very bad—don’t mind what I say; however, I expect you.

ELIZA.

To Mr. Moses Porter.

Portland, Jan. 24, 1802.

Now at this moment imagine your friend Eliza half-double with the cold, two children teazing and playing round the table, sister and nurse talking all the time, and you will then be prepared to receive a letter abounding with sound reasoning, profound argument, elegant language, and a profusion of sublime ideas; but do not stare if I intersperse, by way of relieving your mind, a few little Jackey Horner stories which I am obliged to gabble out by wholesale to stop the children’s mouths. If I had not had a most retentive memory, I should have forgotten we were correspondents. I can put up with such a tardy, indifferent, reluctant correspondent when I myself set the example—but we ladies are so accustomed to attention from gentlemen that I can hardly bring myself to put up with your neglect. I have a thousand times determined to wait just as long before I answer your letters as you do before mine are noticed, and you have nothing to prevent—but, pshaw! I am only spending time to give you something to laugh at. I must honestly acknowledge, however, that your last letter was very _acceptable_, though I was piqued at your neglecting me so long. I wish I felt adequate to giving an opinion on your perfect character, but as I have told you before, I cannot _think_ when all is noise and confusion around me. But I have endeavored in vain to find fault with it. I am really sorry that your sentiments so perfectly coincide with my own, for you have said all I think on the subject and much more than I could have expressed, therefore I am compelled to assent to all you have said. I am very glad we do not agree on every subject, for our letters would (mine I mean) be very unentertaining, indeed they have no merit to part with. I do not mean to send your perfect character away without a more intimate acquaintance. When I feel in a proper mood for it I will take it up and examine every quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on my mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for ’tis up in my trunk and I feel no disposition to leave the fire; with your permission I will lay it by till another time. In the meantime let us descend from these important discussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With great satisfaction we at length behold the ground covered with snow, for we are almost freezing here; it has been impossible almost to obtain wood to keep us warm, and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay chimney—The bell rings—I must stop!—

Monday, Feb. 1, 1802, Portland.

The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt me in the midst of a very homely catalogue of blessings—’tis not worth finishing, and if it was I could not take up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it was begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, but I find I am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen firm in my hand, look this side and that side, yet still cannot think. Scarborough—desolate, dreary Scarborough is the only place from whence I can write with ease,—nothing present engages my attentions, and I then have leisure to turn over the rubbish which I have collected from home—ponder on things past and anticipate those to come: ’tis something like dreaming,—we are insensible to everything around us,—the imagination is unchecked by the operation of our senses, and soars beyond the boundaries of reality. Pray read over this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I feel, look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does not discover a something unlike my letters in general,—cold and studied—I will not—I cannot write, another post must pass and no letter, yet ’tis labor, ’tis pain to write thus.

Sunday, Feb. 8.

To see the dates of this sheet one would immediately conclude that my ideas flowed periodically and that I had stated periods to “unpack the heart,” but ’tis because I cannot take my pen and write at the moment I feel an inclination,—not to defer it till a more convenient time when I most probably should feel indifferent about it. Now I am aware what you are about to infer from such a dull studied letter as this is,—The “seven days twice run” has put something into your head that ought not to be there, and you are laughing in your sleeve at the discovery. Now, I am not after the manner of our sex going to protest it is false—that there is no foundation for such a report, and counterfeit anger that I don’t feel, for these things always are viewed as a modest confirmation of the truth, and frequently are considered the greatest proof that can be brought. It is folly to give importance to such stories by appearing to feel interested, and the only way to destroy them is to hear and let them pass with perfect indifference; time will certainly show what is true and what is not, and the only method is to let them take their course, they will sink to oblivion if not fed by our own folly. I own ’tis unpleasant to hear such things, but every girl must prepare herself for such vexations. It has one good effect—that of making us more circumspect in our conduct. I do not say I am not in love; if your penetration has not discovered that I _am_, neither will what I say convince you. How such a report came to you I do not know. I had hoped it would wither and die in the hotbed of scandal from whence it sprang. If you lived here you would not be surprised at any thing of the kind. I declare to you I don’t know the girl in town of whom the same is not said. The prevailing propensity this winter is _match-making_, and at the assemblies there is no other conversation,—such and such a one will make a match because they dance together,—another one is positively engaged because she does _not_ dance with him. If a lady does not attend the assembly constantly—’tis because her favorite swain is not a member,—if she does—’tis to meet him there: if she is silent, she is certainly in love; if she is gay and talks much, there must be a lover in the way. If a gentleman looks at you at meeting you are suspected, if he dances with you at the assembly it must be true, and if he _rides_ with you—’tis “confirmation strong as proof of holy writ.” I am vext to have spent so much time on this subject, but I care nothing about it. ’Tis well I have found something to fill my sheet, and had it not been for that lucky seven days twice over, I should not have finished it this month, and finishing now has been a _week’s_ work.

ELIZA.

To Mr. Moses Porter.

Sunday, Feb’y 14.

Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed thro’ town! I did not expect you so soon, altho’ you said you should return on Friday. I thought _something_ might detain you in Wiscassett longer than you expected; but you are one of those odd fellows which nothing can turn aside, no, not even the most sparkling pair of black eyes in the world could detain you a moment longer than you first intended,—what a philosopher in this age of gallantry to remain untainted! It will come at last, Moses. Belamy says there is as much a time for love as for death, and every one as surely one time or other will feel it. I expect to see you throw off the Philosopher and assume the man; one more trial and I will pronounce you invulnerable. For Miss T——, this one is reserved. I long to see how you will look when (to use a religious phrase) you are struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive this and tell me about your journey; don’t wait as long as you commonly do.

Adieu.

ELIZA.

Portland, March 1, 1802.