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.