Portland, March 1, 1802.
Such a frolic! Such a chain of adventures I never before met with, nay,
the page of romance never presented its equal. ’Tis now Monday,—but a
little more method, that I may be understood. I have just ended my
Assembly’s adventure, never got home till this morning. Thursday it
snowed violently, indeed for two days before it had been storming so
much that the snow drifts were very large; however, as it was the last
Assembly I could not resist the temptation of going, as I knew all the
world would be there. About 7 I went down-stairs and found young Charles
Coffin, the minister, in the parlor. After the usual enquiries were over
he stared awhile at my feathers and flowers, asked if I was going out,—I
told him I was going to the Assembly. “Think, Miss Southgate,” said he,
after a long pause, “think you would go out to _meeting_ in such a storm
as this?” Then assuming a tone of reproof, he entreated me to examine
well my feelings on such an occasion. I heard in silence, unwilling to
begin an argument that I was unable to support. The stopping of the
carriage roused me; I immediately slipt on my socks and coat, and met
Horatio and Mr. Motley in the entry. The snow was deep, but Mr. Motley
took me up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without difficulty. I
found a full assembly, many married ladies, and every one disposed to
end the winter in good spirits. At one we left dancing and went to the
cardroom to wait for a coach. It stormed dreadfully. The hacks were all
employed as soon as they returned, and we could not get one till 3
o’clock, for about two they left the house, determined not to return
again for the night. It was the most violent storm I ever knew. There
were now 20 in waiting, the gentlemen scolding and fretting, the ladies
murmuring and complaining. One hack returned; all flocked to the stairs
to engage a seat. So many crowded down that ’twas impossible to get
past; luckily I was one of the first. I stept in, found a young lady,
almost a stranger in town, who keeps at Mrs. Jordan’s, sitting in the
back-seat. She immediately caught hold of me and beg’d if I possibly
could accommodate her to take her home with me, as she had attempted to
go to Mrs. Jordan’s, but the drifts were so high, the horses could not
get through; that they were compelled to return to the hall, where she
had not a single acquaintance with whom she could go home. I was
distres’t, for I could not ask her home with me, for sister had so much
company that I was obliged to go home with Sally Weeks and give my
chamber to Parson Coffin. I told her this, and likewise that she should
be provided for if my endeavors could be of any service. None but ladies
were permitted to get into the carriage; it presently was stowed in so
full that the horses could not move; the door was burst open, for such a
clamor as the closing of it occasioned I never before heard. The
universal cry was—“a gentleman in the coach, let him come out!” We all
protested there was none, as it was too dark to distinguish; but the
little man soon raised his voice and bid the coachman proceed; a dozen
voices gave contrary orders. ’Twas a proper riot, I was really alarmed.
My gentleman, with avast deal of fashionable independence, swore no
power on earth should make him quit his seat; but a gentleman at the
door jump’t into the carriage, caught hold of him, and would have
dragged him out if we had not all entreated them to desist. He squeezed
again into his seat, inwardly exulting to think he should get safe home
from such rough creatures as the men, should pass for a lady, be secure
under their protection, for none would insult him before them, mean
creature!! The carriage at length started full of ladies, and not one
gentleman to protect us, except our lady man who had crept to us for
shelter. When we found ourselves in the street, the first thing was to
find out who was in the carriage and where we were all going, who first
must be left. Luckily two gentlemen had followed by the side of the
carriage, and when it stopt took out the ladies as they got to their
houses. Our sweet little, trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat
immovable whilst the two gentlemen that were obliged to walk thro’ all
the snow and storm carried all the ladies from the carriage. What could
be the motive of the little wretch for creeping in with us I know not: I
should have thought ’twas his great wish to serve the ladies, if he had
moved from the seat, but ’twas the most singular thing I ever heard of.
We at length arrived at the place of our destination. Miss Weeks asked
Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl’s name) to go home with her,
which she readily did. The gentlemen then proceeded to take us out. My
beau, unused to carrying such a weight of sin and folly, sank under its
pressure, and I was obliged to carry my mighty self through the snow
which almost buried me. Such a time, I never shall forget it! My
great-grandmother never told any of her youthful adventures to equal it.
The storm continued till Monday, and I was obliged to stay; but Monday I
insisted if there was any possibility of getting to Sister’s to set out.
The horse and sleigh were soon at the door, and again I sallied forth to
brave the tempestuous weather (for it still snowed) and surmount the
many obstacles I had to meet with. We rode on a few rods, when coming
directly upon a large drift, we stuck fast. We could neither get forward
nor turn round. After waiting till I was most frozen we got out, and
with the help of a truckman the sleigh was lifted up and turned towards
a cross street that led to Federal Street. We again went on; at the
corner we found it impossible to turn up or turn, but must go down and
begin where we first started, and take a new course; but suddenly
turning the corner we came full upon a pair of trucks, heavily laden;
the drift on one side was so large that it left a very narrow passage
between that and the corner house, indeed we were obliged to go so near
that the post grazed my bonnet. What was to be done? Our horses’ heads
touched before we saw them. I jump’t out, the sleigh was unfastened and
lifted round, and we again measured back our old steps. At length we
arrived at Sister Boyd’s door, and the drift before it was the greatest
we had met with; the horse was so exhausted that he sunk down, and we
really thought him dead. ’Twas some distance from the gate and no path.
The gentleman took me up in his arms and carried me till my weight
pressed him so far into the snow that he had no power to move his feet.
I rolled out of his arms and wallowed till I reached the gate; then
rising to shake off the snow, I turned and beheld my beau fixed and
immoveable; he could not get his feet out to take another step. At
length, making a great exertion to spring his whole length forward, he
made out to reach the poor horse, who lay in a worse condition than his
master. By this time all the family had gathered to the window, indeed
they saw the whole frolic; but ’twas not yet ended, for, unluckily, in
pulling off Miss Weeks’ bonnet to send to the sleigh to be carried back,
I pulled off my wig and left my head bare. I was perfectly convulsed
with laughter. Think what a ludicrous figure I must have been, still
standing at the gate, my bonnet halfway to the sleigh and my wig in my
hand. However, I hurried it on, for they were all laughing at the
window, and made the best of my way into the house. The horse was
unhitched and again set out, and left me to ponder on the incidents of
the morning. I have since heard of several events that took place that
Assembly night much more amusing than mine,—nay, Don Quixote’s most
ludicrous adventures compared with some of them will appear like the
common events of the day.
March 12, 1802.
William Weeks is going to Philipsburg[24] and thinks of returning by the
way of Scarborough; if so, will leave this at our house, otherwise can
return it to me. I have not yet seen Miss Jewett, but I hear she has
returned. Did your Saco party come as you expected? Give my love to Miss
Tappan, and tell her nothing but the fame of her beauty would carry this
young man so many miles out of his way. I found he was very desirous of
calling at our house, therefore wrote by him. Tell her she must answer
for the mischief done by leading young men astray from their path. I
will estimate the loss it will be to William:—he will ride 6 or 8 miles
further than necessary,—fatigue his horse,—wear out his sleigh runners,
and certainly be detained 3 hours. Now, as we know a gentleman’s time is
much more valuable than a lady’s, it must be a real loss to him. 3
dollars a day for posting books any common accountant would have; and
allowing him but just so much, his loss would certainly amount to 4–6 on
that score. I speak merely of the loss on the score of interest;—how
deeply it may affect him otherwise may better be imagined from the
ravages she has committed in Mr. Orr’s heart than from anything I can
say. This short visit may derange all his reasoning faculties, and give
a different hue to all his future prospects,—it may give him a disrelish
for all amusements, and make him sigh for the calm serenity of domestic
life,—to sum up all together—it may make him _in love_,—but I shall have
no time to say anything else, if I run on with this any further.
To-morrow I expect to go to Gorham,—return the same evening or Sunday
morning. I am still at Mrs. Coffin’s, but shall return to Sister when I
come from Gorham. We have had a number of pleasant parties this
week,—Tuesday Mrs. Robert Boyd had a charming one. Wednesday had a large
one here, and to-day all going to Capt. Robinson’s, where we expect to
dance. To-morrow I go to Gorham. I wrote to Mamma requesting money to
buy a lace shade,—I called to look at them again and the shopkeeper told
me he was mistaken in the price, for it was 21 per yard instead of the
whole pattern, which makes a vast difference. I, of course, think no
more of lace shades, but I still think of some money, I have but 4 cents
in the world, not enough to pay the postage of a letter, pray send me a
little immediately. I shall send you a description of the Assembly—which
I believe you may read to my Mother if you wish, ’twill amuse her I
know. I wish you would look in the old desk among my papers and get a
little Drawing book,—directions for drawing printed in a pamphlet, and
give to William to bring over. I hope the snow will last till Mamma
comes over and I return home, ’tis delightful weather. How do the
daisies and jelly flowers? Mrs. Parker is going to give me some flower
seeds. I hear frequent enquiries for you—when are you coming in town?
Tell Miss Tappan I had the honor of dancing a voluntary dance with Mr.
Orr at the last assembly,—he attracted much attention by his irregular
expression—“The floor was very _unyielding_,” &c., &c. I did not tell
you any one’s adventures but my own on that eventful night. Poor Mr.
Orr, impatient to get home, plunged into the snow without waiting for a
carriage, and unfortunately turning up street instead of down, got most
to Mr. Vaughn’s before he discovered his mistake, and was obliged to
turn round and worry his way back again, he was half dead when he got to
his lodgings. Eunice Deering was tumbled over and when Mr. Little took
her from the carriage[25].
* * * * *
Portland, May 23, 1802.
I receive your apology and am satisfied—’tis not the manner of making
apologies I think most of, but that long dissertation on the subject
continually obtrudes itself on your mind whenever you feel conscious an
apology is necessary, but while I am convinced nothing but the fear of
appearing inconsistent prevents your making these said apologies, I will
not complain—let them come “edgeways” or any other way—so long as I am
convinced you feel their necessity. But I have been pondering on your
new plan of life, yet I confess it does not appear to me so delightful
as to you, it sounds well,—tickles the fancy,—cuts a pretty figure on
paper and would form a delightful chapter for a novel. Our novelists
have worn the pleasures of rural life threadbare, every lovesick swain
imagines that with the mistress of his heart he could leave the noisy
tumultuous scenes of life and in the shades of rural retirement feel all
the delightful serenity and peace ascribed to the golden age. The
Philosopher and the Poet fly to this imaginary heaven with as much
enthusiasm as the lover. Here, say they, we can contemplate the beauty
and sublimity of nature free from interruption; here the reflecting mind
can find endless subjects for contemplation! here all is peace and love!
no discord can find a place among these innocent and happy beings,—they
live but to promote the happiness of each other and their every action
teems with benevolence and love. Yet let us judge for ourselves,—we all
have seen what the pleasures of rural life are, and whatever Poets may
have ascribed to it, we must know there is as much depravity and
consequently as much discontent in the inhabitants of a country village
as in the most populous city. They are generally ignorant, illiterate,
without knowledge to discover the real blessings they enjoy by comparing
them with others, continually looking to those above them with envy and
discontent and imagine their share of happiness is proportioned to their
rank and power. I am convinced that a country life is more calculated to
produce that security and happiness we are all in pursuit of than any
other, but those who have ever been accustomed to it have no relish for
its pleasures, and those who quit the busy scenes of life, disgusted by
the duplicity or ingratitude of the world, or oppressed by the weight of
accumulated misfortune—carry with them feelings and sentiments which
cannot be reciprocated. Solitary happiness I have no idea of, ’tis only
in the delightful sympathies of friendship, similarity of sentiments,
that genuine happiness can be enjoyed. Your mind is cultivated and
enlarged, your sentiments delicate and refined, you could not expect to
find many with whom you could converse on a perfect equality,—or rather
many whose sentiments could assimilate with yours. Were I a man, I
should think it cowardly to bury myself in solitude,—nay, I should be
unwilling to confess I felt myself unable to preserve my virtue where
there were temptations to destroy it, there is no merit in being
virtuous when there is no struggle to preserve that virtue. ’Tis in the
midst of temptations and allurements that the active and generous
virtues must be exerted in their full force. One virtuous action where
there were temptations and delusions to surmount would give more delight
to my own heart, more real satisfaction than a whole life spent in more
negative goodness, he must be base indeed who can voluntarily act wrong
when no allurement draws him from the path of virtue. You say you never
dip’t much into the pleasures of _high life_ and therefore should have
but little to regret on that score. In the choice of life one ought to
consult their own dispositions and inclinations, their own powers and
talents. We all have a preference to some particular mode of life, and
we surely ought to endeavor to arrive at that which will more probably
ensure us most happiness. I have often thought what profession I should
choose were I a man. I might then think very differently from what I do
now, yet I have always thought if I felt conscious of possessing
brilliant talents, the _law_ would be my choice. Then I might hope to
arrive at an eminence which would be gratifying to my feelings. I should
then hope to be a public character, respected and admired,—but unless I
was convinced I possessed the talents which would distinguish me as a
speaker I would be anything rather than a lawyer;—from the dry sameness
of such employments as the business of an office all my feelings would
revolt, but to be an eloquent speaker would be the delight of my heart.
I thank Heaven I was _born_ a woman. I have now only patiently to wait
till some clever fellow shall take a fancy to me and place me in a
situation, I am determined to make the best of it, let it be what it
will. We ladies, you know, possess that “sweet pliability of temper”
that disposes us to enjoy any situation, and we must have no choice in
these things till we find what is to be our destiny, then we must
consider it the best in the world. But remember, I desire to be thankful
I am not a man. I should not be content with moderate abilities—nay, I
should not be content with mediocrity in any thing, but as a woman I am
equal to the generality of my sex, and I do not feel that great desire
of fame I think I should if I was a man. Should you hereafter become an
inhabitant of Boyford I make no doubt you will be very happy, because
you will weigh all the advantages and disadvantages. Yet I do not think
you qualified for the laborious life farmers generally lead, and it
requires a little fortune to live an independent farmer without labor.
Rebecca would do charmingly, I know you are imagining her the partner of
all your joys and cares,—of all your harmony and content, when you charm
yourself with your description of rural happiness. With her you imagined
you could quit the world and almost live happy in a desert. So may it
be,—I know none but a lover could paint the sweets of retirement with
such enthusiasm. ’Tis _my_ turn now to rail a little,—the world also has
linked _you_ to a certain person, as firmly—nay, _more_ so than it ever
did me; however I will not press so closely on this subject. I shall not
expect that candid confession I made you,—as your feelings and mine are,
I believe, entirely different on the two subjects. I want to ask you a
question which you may possibly think improper, but if so, do not answer
it.—Is Mary[26] really engaged to Mr. Coffin? I hear so from so many
persons and in so decided a manner I cannot doubt. I would ask her, but
in these things there is so much deception, there is no finding out,—but
however, I think I should never deny such a thing when I once was
engaged,—however, enough of this. I am now in Portland, shall return
to-morrow to Scarborough where I shall be very happy to see you and
Mary, so I depend on your bringing her over very soon. Adieu—dinner is
ready and I have nothing to say worth losing it for, write me often—I
shall be at home alone these two months to come,—remember you have it in
your power to amuse and gratify.