I hardly know what to say to you, Cousin, you have attacked my system
with a kind of fury that has entirely obscured your judgment, and
instead of being convinced of its impracticability, you appear to fear
its justness. You tell me of some excellent effects of my system, but
pardon me for thinking they are dictated by prejudice rather than
reason. I feel fully convinced in my own mind that no such effects could
be produced. You ask if this plan of education will render one a more
dutiful child, a more affectionate wife, &c, &c., surely it will,—those
virtues which now are merely practised from the momentary impulse of the
heart, will then be adhered to from principle, a sense of duty, and a
mind sufficiently strengthened not to yield implicitly to every impulse,
will give a degree of uniformity, of stability to the female character,
which it evidently at present does not possess. From having no fixed
guide for our conduct we have acquired a reputation for caprice, which
we justly deserve. I can hardly believe you serious when you say that
“the enlargement of the mind will inevitably produce superciliousness
and a desire of ascendancy,”—I should much sooner expect it from an
ignorant, uncultivated mind. We cannot enlarge and improve our minds
without perceiving our weakness, and wisdom is always modest and
unassuming,—on the contrary a mind that has never been exerted knows not
its deficiencies and presumes much more on its powers than it otherwise
would. You beg me to drop this crazy scheme and say no more about
enlarging the mind, as it is disagreeable, and you are too much
prejudiced ever to listen with composure to me when I write on the
subject. I quit it forever, nor will I again shock your ear with a plan
which you think has nothing for its foundation either just or durable,
which a girlish imagination gave birth to, and a presumptuous folly
cherished. I fear I have rather injured the cause than otherwise, and
what I have said may have more firmly established those sentiments in
you which I wished to destroy. Be it as it may, I believe it is a cause
that has been more injured by its friends than its enemies. I am sorry
that I have said so much, yet I said no more than I really thought, and
still think, just and true. I beg you to say no more to me on the
subject as I shall know ’twill be only a form of politeness which I will
dispense with. You undoubtedly think I am acting out of my sphere in
attempting to discuss this subject, and my presumption probably gave
rise to that idea, which you expressed in your last, that however
unqualified a woman might be she was always equipt for the discussion of
any subject and overwhelmed her hearers with her “clack.” On what
subjects shall I write you? I shall either fatigue and disgust you with
female trifles, or shock you by stepping beyond the limits you have
prescribed. As I cannot pursue a medium I fear I shall be obliged to
relinquish the hope of pleasing—of course of writing. Good night, I am
sleepy and stupid. Morning. O, how I hate this warm weather, it deprives
me of the power of using any exertion, it clogs my ideas, and I ask no
greater felicity than the pleasure of doing nothing. I intended to amuse
you with some of the trifles of the day, but I shall scarcely do them
justice this morning. Friday night we had a ball,—the hall was decorated
with much taste. ’Twas filled up for the _masons_. At the head of the
room there was a most romantic little bower, four large pillars formed
of green and interspersed with flowers, supported a kind of canopy which
was arched in front, with this inscription—“Here Peace and Silence
reign,” filled with a parcel of girls whining sentiment, and silly
fellows spouting love, it produced a most laughable scene. The deities
to whom it was dedicated withdrew from the sacred retreat, which was so
profaned, and noise and folly reigned supreme,—so sweet a place,—so fine
an opportunity for making speeches—’twas irresistible, even _you_ would
have caught a spark of inspiration from the surrounding glories,—and
felt a degree of emulation at the flashes of genius that blazed from
every quarter. Invention was on the rack, the stores of memory were
exhausted and folly blushed to be so outdone. Mr. Symmes sat down to
overwhelm me with a torrent of eloquence, yet his compassionate heart
often prompted him to hesitate that I might recover myself. Such stores
of learning did he display, such mines of wisdom did he open to my view,
that I gazed with astonishment and awe and scarce believed “That one
small head could carry all he knew.” Mr. Kinsman with a countenance that
beamed with benevolence and compassion gazed on all around, while a
benign smile played round his mouth and dimpled his polished cheek, the
laughing loves peeped from his eyes and aimed their never-failing
darts—rash girl—too, too near hast thou approached this divinity—the
poisoned dart still rankles in thy heart,—“The lingering pang of
hopeless love unpitied I endure,” and feel a wound within my heart which
death alone can cure. Monday night—You will easily perceive that I am
obliged to write when and where I can, I have not quite so much leisure
as when at Scarborough, and though in the very place to _hear news_, I
have no faculty of relating what I hear in a manner that could interest
you. Last evening I spent in talking scandal (for which God forgive me)
but was too tempting an occasion to be resisted. I wish you were
acquainted with some of the Portland ladies, I would then tell you many
things that might amuse. But I dare not introduce you to them, lest I
should entirely mistake their character, and that when personally
acquainted with them you would be confirmed in your opinion of my
wanting penetration in studying characters. Yesterday I spent with
Martha, I wish you were acquainted with her, she is truly an _original_.
I never saw one that bore any resemblance to her. She despises flattery
and is even above praise, beautiful without vanity, possessing a refined
understanding without pedantry, the most exquisite sensibility connected
with all the great and noble qualities of the mind. She knows that no
woman in America ever was more admired, she has received every attention
which could be paid and yet is exactly as before she left Portland. The
same condescension, the same elegance and unaffected simplicity of
manners, the same independent and noble sentiments. Perhaps I am blinded
to her faults, yet I think she deserves all I say of her, nay more, for
she “outstrips all praise and makes it halt behind her.” They have
determined to go to England, in two months at farthest they will leave
America, not to return for 2 years,—two years! how many, many events
will have taken place. Perhaps ere that I shall rest in the tomb of my
fathers forgotten and unknown!! Perhaps oppressed with care and borne
down with misfortune, I shall have lost all relish for life—all hopes of
pleasure may have ceased to exist and the grave of time closed over them
forever. I grow gloomy, I wish I could write anything, but I have never
felt a relish for writing since I have been in Portland,—at home it
supplies the place of _society_, but here I need no such substitute.