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.