Part 4

As I look around me I am surprised at the happiness which is so generally enjoyed in families, and that marriages which have not love for a foundation on more than one side at most, should produce so much apparent harmony. I may be censured for declaring it as my opinion that not one woman in a hundred marries for love. A woman of taste and sentiment will surely see but a very few whom she could love, and it is altogether uncertain whether either of them will particularly distinguish her. If they should, surely she is very fortunate, but it would be one of fortune’s random favors and such as we have no right to expect. The female mind I believe is of a very pliable texture; if it were not we should be wretched indeed. Admitting as a known truth that few women marry those whom they would prefer to all the world if they could be viewed by them with equal affection, or rather that there are often others whom they could have preferred if they had felt that affection for them which would have induced them to offer themselves,—admitting this as a truth not to be disputed,—is it not a subject of astonishment that happiness is not almost banished from this connexion? Gratitude is undoubtedly the foundation of the esteem we commonly feel for a husband. One that has preferred us to all the world, one that has thought us possessed of every quality to render him happy, surely merits our gratitude. If his character is good—if he is not displeasing in his person or manners—what objection can we make that will not be thought frivolous by the greater part of the world?—yet I think there are many other things necessary for happiness, and the world should never compel me to marry a man because I could not give satisfactory reasons for not liking him. I do not esteem marriage absolutely essential to happiness, and that it does not always bring happiness we must every day witness in our acquaintance. A single life is considered too generally as a reproach; but let me ask you, which is the most despicable—she who marries a man she scarcely thinks _well_ of—to avoid the reputation of an old maid—or she, who with more delicacy, than marry one she could not highly esteem, preferred to live single all her life, and had wisdom enough to despise so mean a sacrifice, to the opinion of the rabble, as the woman who marries a man she has not much love for—must make. I wish not to alter the laws of nature—neither will I quarrel with the rules which custom has established and rendered indispensably necessary to the harmony of society. But every being who has contemplated human nature on a large scale will certainly justify me when I declare that the inequality of privilege between the sexes is very sensibly felt by us females, and in no instance is it greater than in the liberty of choosing a partner in marriage; true, we have the liberty of refusing those we don’t like, but not of selecting those we do. This is undoubtedly as it should be. But let me ask you, what must be that love which is altogether voluntary, which we can withhold or give, which sleeps in dulness and apathy till it is requested to brighten into life? Is it not a cold, lifeless dictate of the head,—do we not weigh all the conveniences and inconveniences which will attend it? And after a long calculation, in which the heart never was consulted, we determine whether it is most prudent to love or not.

How I should despise a soul so sordid, so mean! How I abhor the heart which is regulated by mechanical rules, which can say “thus far will I go and no farther,” whose feelings can keep pace with their convenience, and be awakened at stated periods,—a mere piece of clockwork which always moves right! How far less valuable than that being who has a soul to govern her actions, and though she may not always be coldly prudent, yet she will sometimes be generous and noble, and that the other never can be. After all, I must own that a woman of delicacy never will suffer her esteem to ripen into love unless she is convinced of a return. Though our first approaches to love may be involuntary, yet I should be sorry if we had no power of controlling them if occasion required. There is a happy conformity or pliability in the female mind which seems to have been a gift of nature to enable them to be happy with so few privileges,—and another thing, they have more gratitude in their dispositions than men, and there is a something particularly gratifying to the heart in being beloved, if the object is worthy; it produces a something like, and “Pity melts the heart to love.” Added to these there is a self-love which does more than all the rest. Our vanity (’tis an ugly word but I can’t find a better) is gratified by the distinguished preference given us. There must be an essential difference in the dispositions of men and women. I am astonished when I think of it—yet—But I have written myself into sunshine—’tis always my way when anything oppresses me, when any chain of thoughts particularly occupies my mind, and I feel dissatisfied at anything which I have not the power to alter,—to sit down and unburthen them on paper; it never fails to alleviate me, and I generally give full scope to the feelings of the moment, and as I write all disagreeable thoughts evaporate, and I end contented that things shall remain as they are. When I began this it absolutely appeared to me that no woman, or rather not one in a hundred, married the man she should prefer to all the world—not that I ever could suppose that at the time she married him she did not prefer him to all others,—but that she would have preferred another if he had professed to love her as well as the one she married. Indeed, I believe no woman of delicacy suffers herself to think she could love any one before she had discovered an affection for her. For my part I should never ask the question of myself—do I love such a one, if I had reason to think he loved me—and I believe there are many who love that never confessed it to themselves. My Pride, my delicacy, would all be hurt if I discovered such _unasked_ for love, even in my own bosom. I would strain every nerve and rouse every faculty to quell the first appearance of it. There is no danger, however. I could never love without being beloved, and I am confident in my own mind that no person whom I could love would ever think me sufficiently worthy to love me. But I congratulate myself that I am at liberty to refuse those I don’t like, and that I have firmness enough to brave the sneers of the world and live an old maid, if I never find one I can love.

[Illustration:

RUFUS KING

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.