Part 6

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.

ELIZA.

Cousin, I wish you would write a list of your mother’s children, names and ages, those that have died together with the others. We are going to send them out to Uncle Rufus, as he requested it some time since. By Martha it will be a fine opportunity,—as soon as convenient send them over.

Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.

Scarborough, August 6, 1801.

Hon. Rufus King.

Pardon, my dear Sir, the liberty I take in addressing you, and let my motives shield me from the imputation of presumption. Some time since, you requested a list of my Aunt Porter’s and our family. It has never been sent, and as we have now a very favorable opportunity, my father has requested me to make it out and enclose it to you. I tremble while I write, lest I should appear disrespectful in my manner of addressing you. Unused as I am to writing to any one so much superior in years, I cannot but feel embarrassed. A degree of confidence in ourselves is necessary in every undertaking to ensure success; as I feel at this moment destitute of that confidence, I likewise despair of succeeding in my wishes, yet I entreat you to attribute whatever may appear assuming rather to an incapacity of expressing myself as I wish than to a want of respect. When I consider you as a public character esteemed and respected by your country, I would willingly shrink from observation, lest my intruding myself on your attention should be thought impertinence. But when I think how nearly I am allied, I flatter myself I shall obtain that indulgence which I now earnestly solicit. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, by whom I shall send this, intend taking the tour of Europe after having taken that of the United States. Mrs. Derby is my particular friend, and as she is intimately acquainted in our family, can give you whatever information you wish respecting us. I say nothing to remind her, for I have too high an opinion of your discernment to suppose any recommendation necessary. My mother joins me in desiring you would make our respects acceptable to Mrs. King, and all the family unite in earnest wishes for the complete restoration of her health. Our family are all in good health.... My mother really looks young! My Aunt Porter [Pauline] is not wholly restored to her former health, but is much better than she has been for many years past.

[Illustration:

Mrs. RUFUS KING.

After a portrait by Trumbull.

ARTOTYPE. E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. ]

I cannot conclude this without earnestly intreating you to receive it with the candor of an Uncle rather than the severity of a critic. I feel I do not write as I ought to, yet I entreat you not to think me deficient in that respect and esteem with which I shall ever remain.

Your niece ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Scarborough, August 4, 1801.

Dr. Southgate to Rufus King in London.

You will receive this by Mr. Richard Derby, youngest son of the late H. Derby of Salem. His lady who accompanies him is the daughter of Dr. N. Coffin of Portland. The Doctor’s family and mine have ever been on terms of intimacy and friendship. Mrs. Derby in particular has ever been a favorite of my daughters Octavia and Eliza. They can give you all particulars about friends at home.

Bath, Sunday, Sept. 13.

There are some kinds of indisposition that instead of weakening the faculties of the mind, serve only to render them more vigorous and sprightly, and in proportion as the body is debilitated, the mind is strengthened. I have every reason to believe that the imagination never soars to such lofty heights as it sometimes does in sickness. But where am I! What about—Well may _you_ ask the question. Believe me, Cousin, I have attempted to finish this letter 4 times this day. I cannot account for my inability to write. It used to be the joy of my life, nothing delighted me so much as to steal into the chamber by myself and scribble an hour, but since I received your last I have often attempted to answer it, but in vain. I have a stubborn brain; it must be coaxed, not driven. I find there is nothing so tedious as to write when we are not in the mood for it. You may easily see that I am not in one at present. Now for Heaven’s sake see what I have written—find the chain that connects. When I began I meant to say I had been quite unwell ever since I left Portland, that some disorders only served to give vigor to the mind, &c., &c., but I _meant_ also to say mine was altogether of a different nature. But as I left that out, so I had better have done the other. Oh—’tis too, too bad! I’ll not write another till I think I can understand it after it is written. I am low-spirited, stupid and everything else.

Wednesday.

Now I shall really think I have no _soul_ if I find myself as destitute of ideas as I was on Sunday. I have just been viewing the most delightful prospect I have seen this long time, and if it has left no more impression on my mind than objects passing before a mirror, I shall think myself devoid of every quality that constitutes us rational beings. I think nature has done everything to render Bath pleasant: the window at which I now sit commands a most delightful water prospect; the river is about a mile in breadth at this place, the opposite banks are neither sublime nor beautiful. What if I for a moment should take a poet’s license, and by the force of imagination project steep and rugged rocks! bid them stoop with awful majesty to reflect their gloomy horrors in the wave! See you not that enormous precipice whose awful summit was ne’er profaned by human footsteps? Does not your blood freeze as it creeps along your veins? Behold again that barren waste, the axe nor the plough have never clothed it with a borrowed charm, or robbed it of those nature bestowed upon it; it still boasts its independence of the labor of man. But to leave fiction for reality, the surface of the water is a perfect mirror. I never saw it so perfectly smooth; at this moment there is a boat passing, rowed by two men—the reflection in the water is so distinct, so very clear, it looks like two boats. I admire to see a boat _rowed_; it seems to look like arms or wings, moving with graceful majesty, while the boat cuts the liquid bosom of the water, leaving as it recedes a widening track. There is always to me something very charming in the rowing of a boat. There is music in the motion; and what can be more graceful and majestic than the motion of a _ship under sail_? Yesterday there was a _brig_ passed by here—’twas within hearing—very near. I never was more forcibly struck than at the moment; I longed to prostrate myself in humble admiration—as she approached with a slow, commanding, _celestial_ air;—at the moment I am sure it gave me a better idea of the awful grandeur of a deity than anything I had ever seen. I saw Juno’s dignified gracefulness such as I had read of but could not conceive.

I have often in reading been disagreeably struck by the epithets used for the motions of the gods. Sometimes they make them _glide_ thro’ the air, sometimes approach with a solemn _step_, and many other words I do not recollect; nor do I at present think of any words that would answer better—yet _to glide_ seems stealing along—to move rapidly and imperceptibly;—a bird glides thro’ the air, yet there is nothing celestial in the flight of a bird. It seems to me properly applied to _fairies_; something light and airy should glide,—that a fairy should glide along seems right,—just as I have an idea of them. And then for a god _to step_—that seems too grovelling, too like us mortals,—yet that in my opinion is better than the other.

The place on which this house stands seems to project in a small degree toward the water. I believe there is not a window in the house that does not command a view of the water. In front there is a kind of cove the water makes in several rods; the river is broad and straight, the land rises gradually from it a half mile;—but I think it is to be regretted that the inhabitants have built under the _hill_, or rather that they did not prefer climbing a little higher; however, I think it must have a fine appearance from the water. Last year I recollect sailing along in front of the settlement and remarked how much more compact it looked than it really is, the houses rising one above the other in such a manner that every one was seen distinctly. I think nothing can be more beautiful than a town built on a sloping ground ascending from so fine a river as this branch of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging to the different ports on this river above Bath, passes directly by here, and several times I have seen 12 or 14 at a time. To one who has been brought up amidst salt marsh and flats, this large fine river affords much novelty and amusement, and I cannot confess but the sensations I feel in viewing it are more pleasing than those produced by a stagnant water in a Scarborough salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet without saying a word of your letter, indeed I have forgotten what was in it—at the time you gave it me I know I received it with much pleasure, as it robbed me of some painful moments. After Horatio’s recovery I sat down one evening to write you, but I had only written the day of the month, when a most violent clap of thunder (the same that struck Mrs. Horper’s house) shook the pen from my hand and my desk from my lap. I do not imagine even by this omen that I offend the strictest laws of virtue and propriety by continuing to write you, therefore should something equally powerful wrest the pen from my hand, depend upon it I will seize it with renewed vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, &c., &c.

ELIZA.

I shall go to Wiscassett on Monday; expect to hear from me after I return to Bath; while there I shall have no time. I expect to have important communications to forward—a certain pair of sparkling eyes, which are far more eloquent than her tongue! Now I have half a mind to be affronted. I know at this time, as soon as you have read this you are tumbling it into your pocket as waste paper to ponder on the brilliancy of said eyes. Is it true? Well, I shall see them soon and shall be tempted to ask some atonement for the damages I may suffer. Write me often while I am here, it is your _duty_.

Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.

By Mrs. King.

To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford.

I want to write, yet I don’t want to write to you, my _ceremonious_ Cousin, but at this time I can think of nobody else and am _compelled_ to address you. My last was dated from Bath, so is this; since then I have made a visit to Wiscassett. Oh I believe—yes I did write a few lines from there by Uncle Thatcher—I had forgotten that I wrote any more than the letter I finished before I left Bath. I wish I could give you an account of my spending my fortnight at Wiscasset, which would amuse you as much as the reality did me, but that is impossible. I have seen so many new faces—(I was going to say new characters, but they were generally such as we see every day), so many handsome ladies, so many fine men, indeed I have seen a little of everything. Mr. Wild and Mr. Davis (of Portland) kept at Mrs. Lee’s. Mr. Wild is a most charming man, and sensible and genteel, apparently has one of the mildest and most amiable dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis you know. There was a Miss P—— spent 2 or 3 days at Mrs. Lee’s. She was—was—I can’t tell you what; you may have heard of her, celebrated for her wit, lost a lover by exercising it rather too severely; poor soul! it was a sad affair; she has at length become sensible of the impropriety of her conduct, and now hopes to atone for it by flattering every gentleman she sees—time will show whether this plan will succeed. She talks incessantly, laughs always at what she says herself. At table, when the judges, lawyers, and a dozen gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss P—— engrossed all the conversation. I defy any person to be in the room with her and not be compelled to converse with her, not by the irresistible force of her charms, they are rather in the wane. If you look at her she asks what you were going to say—“I know you were going to speak by your looks.” Of course my gentleman walks up, how can he help it? In this manner she draws a whole swarm around her; the poor souls rattle out their outrageous compliments, trembling with fear, for the moment their ardor to please appears to abate, she rouses them to a sense of their duty by a lash of her tongue.

Sunday.—Now I can’t bear to be hurried, and I must submit to be or not send this by Mamma King. Last night when I began this, I felt quite disposed to throw away an hour (for my letters to you are thrown away as you won’t take the trouble to answer them) without consulting anything but my feelings. I began, and soon found, to my mortification, that I ought to have consulted my candle, for as if piqued at my neglect, it took French leave to doze. I broke off my description of Miss P—— in the most _striking_ part. I do not resume the subject, ’twould be a profanation of this day to scandalize a frail sister; my mind is full of charity and Christian love. I hope I shall not stumble against some unlucky thought that may derange its present peaceful state. Now, Cousin, don’t you think it unpardonable, don’t you think it a violation of all the laws of politeness, that you should neglect writing me merely because I owed a letter? I should not be surprised if you counted the words in yours and my letters and settled the account by some rule in Arithmetic. But let me entreat you not to estimate mine by the _weight_, but the _number_; in that case I am equal to anybody; but if, unhappily for me, you should weigh them with critical exactness, ’twill take many of them to repay you for one of yours. I feel assured you must have adopted this method, and sincerely ask your pardon for doubting a moment that this was the true cause. What prevented your coming to Wiscassett? I tho’t you had determined upon it. Rebecca and I used to expect you every day; believe me I was asked a dozen times if you were not absolutely engaged to Miss Rice. How such things will get about. I told every body that asked me that I was your confidant, of course must keep your attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive your thanks.