Part 8

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.

ELIZA.

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.

ELIZA.

Write by the post if you have no other opportunity, the players will commence acting next Wednesday.

I believe it is the 28th.

Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.

This letter is the last one written by Miss Southgate to her cousin Moses Porter. The following one from Dr. Southgate to his brother-in-law, Rufus King, who was then living in England, tells of the untimely death of his nephew, and its sad cause, July 26th, 1802.

Our brother and sister Porter of Biddeford have lost their eldest son Moses. He dyed (sic) about fifteen days since of the yellow fever. He had a ship arrived from the West Indies. On her passage the _cook boy_ dyed suddenly—the rest of the crew were none of them sick, but of those persons who went on board, five or six were taken with the yellow fever in about four days—none of whom lived more than four or five days. Moses is much lamented by his family and acquaintance—this month would have completed his law education. His talents, generous and amiable disposition formed a pleasing prospect etc. etc. Mrs. Porter’s health is _better_, better than I ever expected she would have enjoyed tho’ she is now only a feeble woman.

R. SOUTHGATE.

JOURNAL.

Tuesday, July 6th, 1802.

Arrived in Salem, met Mrs. Derby at the door who received us joyfully. At tea-time saw the children, fine boys, very fond of Ellen and are managed by their Father with great judgment. How few understand the true art of managing children, and how often is the important task of forming young minds left to the discretion of servants who caress or reprove as the impulse of the moment compels them. Here are we convinced of the great necessity that Mothers, or all ladies should have cultivated minds, as the first rudiments of education are always received from them, and at that early period of life when the mind is open to every new impression and ready to receive the seeds which must form the future principles of the character. At that time how important is it to be judicious in your conduct towards them! In the evening Mr. Hasket Derby came in on his return from New York; he is a fine, majestic-looking man, tho’ he strikes you rather heavy and unwieldy on his first appearance; he says little, yet does not appear absent,—has travelled much, and in his manners has an easy unassuming politeness that is not the acquirement of a day.—Wednesday morning had an agreeable tete-a-tete with Ellen, talked over all our affairs: in the afternoon rode out to Hersey Derby’s[27] farm, about 3 miles from Salem; a most delightful place! The gardens superior to any I have ever seen of the kind; cherries in perfection! We really feasted! There are 3 divisions in the gardens, and you pass from the lower one to the upper thro’ several arches rising one above the other. From the lower gate you have a fine perspective view of the whole range, rising gradually until the sight is terminated by a hermitage. The summer house in the center has an arch thro’ it with 3 doors on each side which open into little apartments, and one of them opens to a staircase by which you ascend into a square room the whole size of the building; it has a fine airy appearance and commands a view of the whole garden; two large chestnut trees on each side almost shade it from the view when seen from the sides; the air from the windows is always pure and cool, and the eye wanders with delight and admiration over the extensive landscape below, so beautifully variegated with the charms of nature. Imagination luxuriates with delight, and as it plays o’er the beauties of an opening flower, imperceptibly wanders to the first principles of nature, its wonderful and surprising operation; its harmony and beauty. The room is ornamented with some Chinese figures and seems calculated for serenity and peace. ’Tis like the pavilion of Caroline, and I almost looked around me for the music of the Guitar and books; but I heard not the tramplings of Lindorf’s horse, nor did I sing to hear the echo of his voice,—“Listen to love, and thou shalt know indifference or bless the foe;” certain it is, however, I thought of Caroline the moment I entered. We descended, and passing thro’ the arch, proceeded to the hermitage, which terminated the garden. It was scarcely perceptible at a distance. A large weeping-willow swept the roof with its branches and bespoke the melancholy inhabitant. We caught a view of the little hut as we advanced thro’ the opening of the trees; it was covered with bark,—a small low door, slightly latched, immediately opened at our touch. A venerable old man was seated in the centre with a prayer-book in one hand, while the other supported his cheek, and rested on an old table, which, like the hermit, seemed moulding to decay; a broken pitcher, a plate and tea-pot sat before him, and his tea-kettle sat by the chimney; a tattered coverlit was spread over a bed of straw, which tho’ hard might be softened by resignation and content. I left him impressed with veneration and fear which the mystery of his situation seemed to create. We returned to the house, which was neat and handsome, and from thence visited the Greenhouse, where we saw oranges and lemons in perfection,—in one orange tree there were green ones, ripe ones and blossoms. Every plant and shrub which was beautiful and rare was collected here, and I looked around with astonishment and delight; at the upper end of the garden there was a beautiful arbour formed of a mound of turf, which we ascended by several steps formed likewise of turf, and ’twas surrounded by a thick row of poplar trees which branched out quite to the bottom and so close together that you could not see through,—’twas a most charming place, and I know not how long we should have remained to admire if they had not summoned us to tea. We returned home, and Mr. Hasket Derby asked if we should not like to walk over to his house and see the garden,—we readily consented, as I had heard much of the house. The evening was calm and delightful, the moon shone in its greatest splendor. We entered the house, and the door opened into a spacious entry; on each side were large white marble images. We passed on by doors on each side opening into the drawing-room, dining-room, parlor, etc., etc., and at the farther part of the entry a door opened into a large, magnificent oval room; and another door opposite the one we entered was thrown open and gave us a full view of the garden below. The moon shone with uncommon splendor. The large marble _vases_, the images, the mirrors to correspond with the windows, gave it so uniform and finished an appearance, that I could not think it possible I viewed objects that were real, every thing appeared like enchantment,—the stillness of the hour, the imperfect light of the moon, the novelty of the scene, filled my mind with sensations I never felt before. I could not realize every thing and expected every moment that the wand of the fairy would sweep all from before my eyes and leave me to stare and wonder what it meant. You can scarcely conceive any thing more superb. We descended into the garden, which is laid out with exquisite taste, an airy irregularity seems to characterize the whole. At the foot of the garden there was a summer house, and a row of tall poplar trees which hid every thing beyond from the sight, and formed a kind of walk. I arrived there and to my astonishment found thro’ the opening of the trees that there was a beautiful terrace the whole width of the garden; ’twas twenty feet from the street, and gravelled on the top, with a white balustrade round; ’twas almost level, and the poplar trees so close that we could only occasionally catch a glimpse of the house. The moon shone full upon it, and I really think this side is the most beautiful, tho’ ’tis the back one. A large dome swells quite to the chamber-windows and is railed round on top and forms a delightful walk,—the magnificent pillars which support it fill the mind with pleasure. We returned into the house; and on passing the mirrors I involuntarily started back at seeing so much company in the other room. We entered the drawing-room which is superb, furnished with blue and wood color. There was the Grand Piano, the most charming Instrument I ever heard. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, Mr. Hasket D., Frank Coffin and myself were the party, and I was requested to play, and took my seat at the Instrument, and had just begun playing, when a slight noise in the entry made me turn my head. A gentleman entered and was introduced as Mr. Grey; made a most graceful bow, took his seat, and I resumed my playing. We rose to depart, and Mr. G. accompanied us home. I was delighted with his conversation, which was sensible, unassuming, and agreeable. I scarcely saw his face, as there was no light.