From a painting by Woods
]
Scarborough, Tuesday Night.
Dear Mother:
We have got Miranda[15] all fix’t, only her clothes to be washed, or
rather ironed. You have undoubtedly got all things ready for her, or you
would not send for her immediately. I suppose we shall send her over in
the stage, as the riding is as yet too bad to go in a chaise; she wants
some pocket handkerchiefs and a pair of cotton gloves to wear to school;
she had 3 pairs of white mitts and I have given her another pair. I
think she must have another dimity skirt; her jaconet muslin we could
not fix, for it wants a new waist and sleeves and a hem put on the
bottom, and we could get no muslin to pattern it; you can buy a piece
and it can be sent over any time, she won’t need it immediately. Charles
says you told him I must send over to you for anything I needed. I want
nothing so much as some new linen and some English stockings; excepting
the two fine pairs I have none but homespun ones. I should like a half
dozen pair, 4 at least. If you see anything that would be light and
handsome for our summer gowns, I should like you would get them. Why
can’t you go and see McLellan’s lace shades? Perhaps he may let you have
one reasonably. I think there are some for 10, 6 and 12 shillings a
yard, at 18 they would not come to more than 9 or 10 dollars; you can
look at them at least. I should like one very much. Sally Weeks has
taken one of them. We do very well here, all goes on charmingly, only
Arixene loses her thimble, her needle and anything to avoid working.
Sally Leland has been here ever since Miranda returned, and you know
when they are together there must be romping,—however, Frederic has gone
to carry her home to-day. Miranda must have my little trunk. Octavia and
I both want little trunks, my old one is a good size. How is Sister?
give my love to her, kiss the children; I really miss them, and our own
don’t seem more natural than they did. The little _Isabella_[16] (so
they say it is) is Aunt Eliza’s darling. I love that little thing
dearly. I never loved an infant more in my life, Isabella says it is
because it has blue eyes; she _will_ make me selfish. I had a letter
from Martha yesterday, the third since you have been in Portland; she
mentions Uncle Rufus[17] and family in all of them. In her last but one
she says Aunt King[18] was confined; she had dined there the Sunday
before, and they requested her in a billet to bring yours and my
Father’s profiles,[19] which I gave her some time before she went away.
She carried them, and Uncle thought them good likenesses. She admires
Uncle Rufus; she says when he first called on her he stayed two hours,
but she could have talked with him _two_ days. In her last she says she
was to have been introduced at court, but Aunt King’s confinement
prevented; as soon as she gets out she is to be introduced. She says she
shall write by the Minerva and send the fashions to me. Mr. Smith the
Russian was here last week, bro’t me some letters. I am now writing to
Martha, to send by William Weeks; ’twill be a fine opportunity, and I
shall write as much as I can; he will probably see her. Mrs. Coffin will
be delighted with such an opportunity. Don’t hurry home until you have
staid as long as you wish, for I don’t know anything at present that
requires your presence. I think I make a very good manager, and tell
Sister Boyd I am astonished to find how I have improved in my housewife
talents this last winter. The children won’t allow me absolute rule
among them, but I have the worst of it; they do pretty well, considering
what a young gay mistress they have. I sometimes get up to dance and all
of them flock up to help me, and when I am tired I find it difficult to
still them, so as I set the example I am obliged to put up with it. I
have not been out of the yard since I came home till this afternoon. I
rode a mile or two on horseback just to smell the fresh air. I never was
more contented in my life; tho’ I have not seen anybody but Mr. Smith
these 3 weeks almost, I have not had an hour hang heavily on me; ’tis
charming to get home after being gone so long! I believe you will think
I am never going to leave off.
Your affectionate ELIZA.
To Mrs. Mary King Southgate, Portland.
Portland, March 18, 1801.
Thank you for being so particular in your description of your eastern
tour. I told you that Wiscassett would delight you; ease and sociability
you know always please you. By the bye, Jewett thought _Saco_ was the
land of milk and honey, such fine buxom girls! so easy and familiar.
Dorcas Stour charmed him much, her haughty forbidding manners
corresponded with the dignity of her sentiments, so he says, something
congenial in their dispositions I think. But he has made his
selection—Miss Weeks is handsome, censorious, animated, violent in her
prejudices, genteel, impatient of contradiction, speaks her sentiments
very freely, has many admirers and many enemies,—on the whole a pleasant
companion amongst friends.—How think they will do together? Jewett you
know.
Last evening I was out at Broads;[20] we had only 7 in our party—a very
pleasant one. Jewett, Horatio, William Weeks, and Charles Little were
our beaux. Miss Weeks, Miss Boardman (from Exeter), and myself, the
ladies. Mr. Little is engaged to Miss Boardman; he is an open, honest,
unaffected, plain, _clever_ fellow. She has a pleasant face, an open
guileless heart, plain unaffected manners, a clumsy shape, easy in
company—but it is rather the ease which a calm, even temper produces,
than that which is acquired in polite circles. I think they are as much
alike as possible and ’twill be a pleasant couple. We played cards,
talked and wrote crambo; after we had scribbled the backs of two packs
of cards, cut half of them up, and eat our supper, we set out for home,
about one o’clock. You say in your last that if reports are true, I am
on the highway to matrimony,—you know what I always said with regard to
these things; if they are true, well and good—if they are not, let them
take their course, they will be shortlived. I despise the conduct of
those girls who think that every man who pays them any attention is
seriously in love with them, and begin to bridle up, look conscious,
fearful lest every word the poor fellow utters should be a declaration
of love. I have no idea that every gentleman that has a particular
partiality for a lady thinks seriously of being connected with her, and
I think any lady puts herself in a most awkward situation to appear in
constant fear or expectation that the gentleman is going to make love to
her. I despise coquetry,—every lady says the same, you will say,—but if
I know myself at all—my heart readily assents to its truth—I think no
lady has a right to encourage hopes that she means never to gratify, but
I think she is much to blame if she considers these little attentions as
a proof of love; they often mean nothing, and should be treated as such.
The gentleman in question I own pays me more attention than any other
gentleman, yet I say sincerely, I don’t think he means any thing more
than to please his fancy for the present. I pride myself upon my
sincerity, and if I ever am engaged, I trust it will be to one whom I
shall not be ashamed to acknowledge. Our intimacy has been of long
standing. He and Enoch Jones were Martha’s most intimate acquaintance,
they were there almost every evening. Here comes Enoch and William
[Weeks], we used to say as soon as we heard the knocker in the evening.
I was always at the Doctor’s a great part of the time I spent in
Portland, I could not but be intimate with them. I liked them both, they
were pleasant companions, and I was always glad to see them come
in;—since that time, Enoch has been gone most of the time, and William
has been left alone;—true, he has this winter been more attentive to me
than usual; he lent me books, drawings, and music; he used often to be
my gallant home from parties if I walked, and if I rode help me to the
sleigh, yet every gentleman does the same,—all have a favorite, some for
a month, some a little longer. It seems like making you a confidant to
talk thus, but I say many things which would appear ridiculous if
communicated to a third person, and I know you would have too much
delicacy to communicate any thing which might hurt my feelings. I have
heard all these stories before, yet I must act and judge for myself. I
know better than any other person can, how far they are true, and I
candidly confess that he never said a word to me which I could possibly
construe into a declaration of love, not the most faint or distant. Then
think for a moment how ridiculous it would be for me to alter my conduct
towards him! No! while he treats me as a friend, I shall treat him as
such; and let the world say what they will, I will endeavor to act in a
manner that my conscience will justify,—to steer between the rocks of
prudery and coquetry, and take my own sense of propriety as a pilot that
will conduct me safe. I should not have been thus particular, but I felt
unwilling that you should be led into error that I could easily remove
from your mind; it would seem like giving a silent assent, as I confess
to write as I think to you, and to speak openly on all occasions, I felt
that I ought to say more to you on this affair than I ever have to any
other. Let the world still have it as they will. I confess it would be
more pleasing to me if my name was not so much[21] ... what Johnson says
of an author may apply ... is much known in the world. That his name
like ... must be beat backward and forward as it falls to the ground. I
recollect in a former letter you asked why I did not say more of
particular characters, and among my acquaintance select some and give
you a few characteristic sketches. The truth is—I felt afraid to, I did
not know but you might mention many things which would make me enemies.
I am always willing to speak my opinion without reserve on any
character, because I should take care that I spoke it before those who
would not abuse the frankness; but letters may be miscarried, may fall
into hands we know not of,—but I never think of these, or I am sure I
should burn this in a moment,—another thing that it requires a quiet
discernment, a correct judgment and a thorough knowledge of the world,
of human nature, to form a just character of any one that we are not
intimately acquainted with. However, we all of us form an opinion of
every person we see, and whatever I shall say and have said you must
recollect is only the opinion of one who is oftener wrong than right,
and you can form no correct idea of my character from what I say.
Scarborough, March, Sunday.
P. S.—Congratulate me, I am at home at last! Come and see us,—we expect
Miss Tappan to-morrow and Paulina Porter[22] and Miranda Southgate. I
wish much to see Miss T. I think I shall like her; tell her she does not
know what she lost last week,—a young gentleman came several miles out
of his way only to see her; she was not here and he returned to Portland
with a heavy heart. Jewett says she is rather shy.
I meant to have written more about Wiscassett, about Miss R.,[23] but I
must leave that for another letter. I have a great deal to say on that
head,—“exercise the same coolness and judgment as in choosing a horse!”
I heard a gentleman make really the same observation, and yet that very
gentleman is raving, distractedly in love,—he is a little calmer now,
but he was a madman. He, like you, always talks of his insensibility,
his coldness and discretion, and he, like you, is always upon extremes,
extravagant beyond all bounds. More hereafter.
Mr. Moses Porter.
Thursday, April 8th.
I have been thinking on that part of your letter which interests me
most, respecting the propriety of conduct, opinion of the world, etc.,
etc. I don’t exactly recollect what I wrote in my last, but I am
positive you have mistaken my meaning, or at least have taken what I
said on too large a scale;—as a general rule of conduct, in so extensive
a sense as you talk about, such doctrine would indeed be pernicious. But
whatever I said I meant to apply to this particular case, and perhaps
did not express myself so clearly as I ought to have done. You have
described principles which I have ever condemned—as those I now act
upon. Perhaps I shall find it impossible fully to explain my sentiments
on this subject—it is of a delicate nature; and many things I shall say
will probably bear a misconstruction. However, I trust to your candor to
judge with lenity, and to your knowledge of my heart, to believe I would
not intentionally deviate from the laws of female delicacy and
propriety. Reputation undoubtedly is of great importance to all, but to
a female ’tis every thing,—once lost ’tis _forever_ lost. Whatever I may
have said, my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of that boasted
independence of mind which can stand collected in its own worth, and let
the censure and malice of the world pass by as the “idle wind which we
regard not.” I have ever thought that to be conscious of doing right was
insufficient; but that it must appear so to the world. How I could have
blundered upon a sentiment which I despise, or how I could have written
anything to bear such a construction as you have put upon a part of my
letter, I know not. When I said that I should let these reports pass off
without notice or pretending to vindicate myself, ’twas not because I
despised the opinion of the world, but as the most effectual method to
preserve it!—_You_ say as well as myself, that whatever we say in
vindication of ourselves, only makes the matter worse. When I said, that
I meant not to alter my conduct while my conscience did not accuse me, I
had no idea that you would suppose my conduct towards him had ever been
of a kind that required an alteration, or any thing more pointed than to
any other gentleman. I supposed you would infer from what I said that it
was such as propriety and a regard for my reputation would sanction. I
know not what you think it has been, but if I can judge of my own
actions,—their motives I know I can, but I mean the outward
appearance,—I have never treated him with any more distinction than any
other gentleman, nor have appeared more pleased with his attentions than
with another’s; believe me, I have kept constantly in view the opinion
of the world, and if you knew every circumstance of my life, you would
be convinced my feelings were “tremblingly alive” to all its slanders.
But “something too much of this”; you, who know my disposition, may
easily conceive how often I subject myself to the envenomed shafts of
censure and malice, by that gaiety and high flow of spirits, which I
sometimes think my greatest misfortune to possess,—sometimes I err in
judgment—don’t always see the right path,—sometimes I see it, yet the
warmth and ardor of my feelings force me out of it. Yet in this affair I
feel confident I have acted from right principles,—there are a thousand
trifling things which at times influenced my conduct, which you cannot
know, and you may be surprised when I say that his attentions were of a
kind that politeness obliged me to receive, nor should I ever have
suspected they meant any thing more than gallantry and politeness, had
not the babbles of the world put it into my head. You have been
misinformed in many respects, I am convinced. You mentioned his constant
visits at Sister Boyd’s. I declare to you he never was there a half
dozen times the three months I was in Portland, excepting the morning
after the assemblies, when the gentlemen all go to see their partners;
neither was I his constant partner at assemblies. I never danced but two
dances in an evening with him all winter, excepting once, and then there
was a mistake,—this surely was nothing remarkable, for I always danced
two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were at. I danced as much with
one as the other. True, he was my partner at 2 parties at Broads. I at
the time asked Horatio, when he mentioned the party, why he would not
carry me; he said if I was asked by any other, to say I was going with
my brother, would be considered as a tacit declaration that I had an
aversion to going with him, therefore ’twould have been folly. You
cannot judge unless you know a thousand customs and every ... which they
have in Portland. But I declare to you, Cousin, I am much gratified that
you told me what you thought—had you have locked it in your bosom, I
should never have had an opportunity to vindicate myself. I beg of you
always to write with freedom, always write with the same openness you
did in your last—’tis one of the greatest advantages I expect to derive
from our correspondence—I enjoin it upon you as you value my happiness.
I told you I would show you some of Martha’s letters; I had one from her
since I wrote you, in which she says I must on no condition whatever
show her letters,—however, I will read you some passages in some of
them. You _shall_ see some parts; I will make my peace with—indeed I
know she would not object. I love to show you her letters because you
feel something as I do in reading them. You admire her or you should not
be the friend of