CAROLINE LITTLETON.
To Miss CAROLINE LITTLETON.
Salem.
DEAR CAROLINE,
I received yours with those lively sensations of pleasure which your favors always afford. As I was perusing it, my papa came into the room. He took it out of my hand and read it; then returning it with the smile of approbation, I think, said he, that your correspondent has played the critic very well. Has she played it justly, Sir? said I. Why, it is a long time, said he, since I read the Marchioness de Sevigne’s letters. I am not, therefore, judge of their merit. But with regard to Pope, I blame not the sex for retaliating upon him; for he always treated them satirically. I believe revenge was no part of my friend’s plan, said I. She is far superior to so malignant a passion, though, were she capable of seeking it, it would be in behalf of her sex.
Company now coming in, the conversation shifted.
I have often smiled at the pitiful wit of those satirists and essayists, who lavish abundant eloquence on trifling foibles, the mere whims of a day; and of no consequence to the body natural, moral, or political. The extension of a hoop, the contraction of the waist, or the elevation of the head-dress, frequently afford matter for pages of elaborate discussion. These reformers, too, always aim at the good of our sex! I think it a great pity they do not lop off some of their own exuberant follies; though perhaps they wish us to exchange labours; and in return for their benevolent exertions, that we endeavor to expose and correct their errors. I have sometimes thought their satire to be tinctured with malice; and that the cause of their disaffection may generally be found in personal resentment. Had Pope and his coadjutors been favourites with the ladies, I doubt not but they would have found more excellencies in them than they have ever yet allowed.
I have lately been reading the generous and polite Fitzorsborne’s letters; and I need not tell you how much I was pleased and charmed with them.
The justness of his sentiments, and the ease and elegance of his diction, are at once interesting and improving. His letter and ode to his wife on the anniversary of their marriage, surpass any thing of the kind I have ever read. I verily think, that, had I the offer of a heart capable of dictating such manly tenderness of expression, and such pathetic energy of generous love, I should be willing to give my hand in return, and assent to those solemn words, “love, honor, and—(I had almost said) obey.” Adieu.
CLEORA PARTRIDGE.