Part 7

Now at this moment imagine your friend Eliza half-double with the cold, two children teazing and playing round the table, sister and nurse talking all the time, and you will then be prepared to receive a letter abounding with sound reasoning, profound argument, elegant language, and a profusion of sublime ideas; but do not stare if I intersperse, by way of relieving your mind, a few little Jackey Horner stories which I am obliged to gabble out by wholesale to stop the children’s mouths. If I had not had a most retentive memory, I should have forgotten we were correspondents. I can put up with such a tardy, indifferent, reluctant correspondent when I myself set the example—but we ladies are so accustomed to attention from gentlemen that I can hardly bring myself to put up with your neglect. I have a thousand times determined to wait just as long before I answer your letters as you do before mine are noticed, and you have nothing to prevent—but, pshaw! I am only spending time to give you something to laugh at. I must honestly acknowledge, however, that your last letter was very _acceptable_, though I was piqued at your neglecting me so long. I wish I felt adequate to giving an opinion on your perfect character, but as I have told you before, I cannot _think_ when all is noise and confusion around me. But I have endeavored in vain to find fault with it. I am really sorry that your sentiments so perfectly coincide with my own, for you have said all I think on the subject and much more than I could have expressed, therefore I am compelled to assent to all you have said. I am very glad we do not agree on every subject, for our letters would (mine I mean) be very unentertaining, indeed they have no merit to part with. I do not mean to send your perfect character away without a more intimate acquaintance. When I feel in a proper mood for it I will take it up and examine every quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on my mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for ’tis up in my trunk and I feel no disposition to leave the fire; with your permission I will lay it by till another time. In the meantime let us descend from these important discussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With great satisfaction we at length behold the ground covered with snow, for we are almost freezing here; it has been impossible almost to obtain wood to keep us warm, and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay chimney—The bell rings—I must stop!—

Monday, Feb. 1, 1802, Portland.

The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt me in the midst of a very homely catalogue of blessings—’tis not worth finishing, and if it was I could not take up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it was begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, but I find I am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen firm in my hand, look this side and that side, yet still cannot think. Scarborough—desolate, dreary Scarborough is the only place from whence I can write with ease,—nothing present engages my attentions, and I then have leisure to turn over the rubbish which I have collected from home—ponder on things past and anticipate those to come: ’tis something like dreaming,—we are insensible to everything around us,—the imagination is unchecked by the operation of our senses, and soars beyond the boundaries of reality. Pray read over this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I feel, look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does not discover a something unlike my letters in general,—cold and studied—I will not—I cannot write, another post must pass and no letter, yet ’tis labor, ’tis pain to write thus.

Sunday, Feb. 8.

To see the dates of this sheet one would immediately conclude that my ideas flowed periodically and that I had stated periods to “unpack the heart,” but ’tis because I cannot take my pen and write at the moment I feel an inclination,—not to defer it till a more convenient time when I most probably should feel indifferent about it. Now I am aware what you are about to infer from such a dull studied letter as this is,—The “seven days twice run” has put something into your head that ought not to be there, and you are laughing in your sleeve at the discovery. Now, I am not after the manner of our sex going to protest it is false—that there is no foundation for such a report, and counterfeit anger that I don’t feel, for these things always are viewed as a modest confirmation of the truth, and frequently are considered the greatest proof that can be brought. It is folly to give importance to such stories by appearing to feel interested, and the only way to destroy them is to hear and let them pass with perfect indifference; time will certainly show what is true and what is not, and the only method is to let them take their course, they will sink to oblivion if not fed by our own folly. I own ’tis unpleasant to hear such things, but every girl must prepare herself for such vexations. It has one good effect—that of making us more circumspect in our conduct. I do not say I am not in love; if your penetration has not discovered that I _am_, neither will what I say convince you. How such a report came to you I do not know. I had hoped it would wither and die in the hotbed of scandal from whence it sprang. If you lived here you would not be surprised at any thing of the kind. I declare to you I don’t know the girl in town of whom the same is not said. The prevailing propensity this winter is _match-making_, and at the assemblies there is no other conversation,—such and such a one will make a match because they dance together,—another one is positively engaged because she does _not_ dance with him. If a lady does not attend the assembly constantly—’tis because her favorite swain is not a member,—if she does—’tis to meet him there: if she is silent, she is certainly in love; if she is gay and talks much, there must be a lover in the way. If a gentleman looks at you at meeting you are suspected, if he dances with you at the assembly it must be true, and if he _rides_ with you—’tis “confirmation strong as proof of holy writ.” I am vext to have spent so much time on this subject, but I care nothing about it. ’Tis well I have found something to fill my sheet, and had it not been for that lucky seven days twice over, I should not have finished it this month, and finishing now has been a _week’s_ work.

ELIZA.

To Mr. Moses Porter.

Sunday, Feb’y 14.

Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed thro’ town! I did not expect you so soon, altho’ you said you should return on Friday. I thought _something_ might detain you in Wiscassett longer than you expected; but you are one of those odd fellows which nothing can turn aside, no, not even the most sparkling pair of black eyes in the world could detain you a moment longer than you first intended,—what a philosopher in this age of gallantry to remain untainted! It will come at last, Moses. Belamy says there is as much a time for love as for death, and every one as surely one time or other will feel it. I expect to see you throw off the Philosopher and assume the man; one more trial and I will pronounce you invulnerable. For Miss T——, this one is reserved. I long to see how you will look when (to use a religious phrase) you are struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive this and tell me about your journey; don’t wait as long as you commonly do.

Adieu.

ELIZA.

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].

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Portland, May 23, 1802.