I shall anxiously await the arrival of the next mail after you receive this.

I suppose I ought to commence my letter with an humble apology, begging forgiveness for past offences and promising to do better in future, but no, I will only tell you that I have been so much engaged since I got home from Topsham that I could not write you. Martha tells us you were in Boston last Sunday. Mamma thinks, Octavia, you are there too much, we do not know how often, but we hear of you there very often indeed. I think, my dear sister, you ought to improve every moment of your time, which is short, very short to complete your education. In November terminates the period of your instruction. The last you will receive perhaps ever, only what you may gain by observation. You will never cease to learn I hope, the world is a volume of instruction, which will afford you continual employment,—peruse it with attention and candor and you will never think the time thus employed misspent. I think, Octavia, I would not leave my school again until you finally leave it. You may—you will think this is harsh; you will not always think so; remember those that wish it must know better what is proper than you possibly can. Horatio will come on for you as soon as your quarter is out. We anticipate the time with pleasure; employ your time in such a manner as to make your improvements conspicuous. A boarding-school, I know, my dear Sister, is not like home, but reflect a moment, is it not necessary, absolutely necessary to be more strict in the government of 20 or 30 young ladies, nearly of an age and different dispositions, than a private family? Your good sense will easily tell you it is. No task can be greater than the care of so many girls, it is impossible not to be partial, but we may conceal our partiality. I should have a poor opinion of any person that did not feel a love for merit, superior to what they can for the world in general. I should never approve of such general love. I say this not because I think you are discontented, far from it—your letters tell us quite the reverse and I believe it. Surely, Octavia, you must allow that no woman was ever better calculated to govern a school than Mrs. Rawson. She governs by the love with which she always inspires her scholars. You have been indulged, Octavia, so we have all. I was discontented when I first went from home. I dare say you have had some disagreeable sensations, yet your reason will convince you, you ought not to have had. You had no idea when you left home of any difference in your manner of living. I knew you would easily be reconciled to it and therefore said but little to you about it. Yesterday Miss Haskell’s letter, which I so much wished for and so highly prize, was sent me; tell her to trust no more letters to the politeness of Mr. Jewett,^[13] for he will forget to deliver them; he has been studying in the same office with Horatio ever since he returned and never told him he had a letter for me till I told Horatio to ask him. I did get it at last and will answer it as soon as I have an opportunity, which I expect soon, my letters are of too little consequence to send by Post. Tell Miss Haskell how highly I am obliged to her for every letter, and how much it gratifies me to have her write thus. My love and esteem ever awaits our good Mrs. Rawson, and hope she does not intend my last letter shall go unanswered. Susan Wyman is still remembered as the companion of my amusements in Medford. Irene joins me in love to her. Betsey Bloom my love to her likewise.—Family are all well, Octavia, Sister Boyd is here, been with us several days. Let us hear from you when you have an opportunity. I should like to know how many tunes you play, but you have never answered any of my enquiries of this kind, therefore I suppose I ought not to make them. Your

Tired, stupid, and sleepy, I feel that I can write nothing instructive or amusing. Oh these summer balls are not the thing, but it was much more comfortable than I expected. My ears were continually assailed with lamentations that you were not present. Mr. Kinsman would certainly have gone out for you (so he said) had he ever been at our house. He really asked one or two gentlemen to go. He is a frothy fellow. He rattles without a spark of fancy and stuns you with his volubility, as anything hollow or empty always makes the most noise. I told him I received a letter from you yesterday. He gave a pious ejaculation to heaven, turned gracefully on his heel and entreated in the most humble manner that I would grant him a sight of one line! I refused as I thought him too insignificant an animal to be so much honored. Col. Boyd arrived last night, I found him in the parlor when I went down to breakfast, he enquired for you. Mr. Derby and Mr. Coffin will leave town to-day or to-morrow for Boston, they undoubtedly will call and see you. ’Twill be a good opportunity to send me the money if Mamma pleases. Harriet will sail to-morrow or next day, she sends an abundance of love.

After a fortnight very pleasantly spent in Wiscassett I return to Bath. In my last I mentioned that Judge Lowell’s family were expected in Wiscassett; they came immediately after, and Eliza, the youngest, brought letters from Ellen Coffin, thus I very readily got acquainted with them. Judge Lowell appears to be one of the mildest, most amiable men I ever saw. Mrs. Lowell is a fine ladylike woman, yet her manners are such as would have been admired 50 years ago, there is too much appearance of whalebone and buckram to please the depraved taste of the present age. Nanny L., the oldest daughter, is animated, sensible, enthusiastic, and very easy and pleasing in her conversation and manners, you would be delighted with her conversation—’tis elegant and refined, she has no airs. Eliza is a little, charming, sweet creature, she is about 17 or 18, short, fat, and a blooming complexion, handsome blue eyes, light hair, beautiful dimples, artless and unaffected in her manners,—indeed I was delighted with her, she is so perfectly amiable in her appearance. I was much pleased at an acquaintance with them. At Wiscassett I was invited to accompany them to Bath, as they were going in a boat. I accepted with pleasure. In the morning, which was Monday, they called for me and I went with them as far as Tincham’s where they kept; at last, after a long debate, it was thought too hazardous to go by water while the wind blew so violently, ’twas determined to go by land. Mr. Lee took the two Miss Lowells and myself in his carriage, which holds 4 very charmingly. Judge Lowell and wife in a chaise with a boy to carry it back. Judge Bourne in a chair with a boy, and Mr. Merrill on horseback. About 5 miles on our way Mr. Lee took Mr. Merrill’s horse and he sat in with us, and he sang us a number of songs; we had a charming time. At the ferry Mr. Lee, Mr. Merrill, and the boys with the chaise left us; we then all got into a boat and landed at Uncle’s wharf; ’tis about 3 miles, a most charming sail, indeed we had a very pleasant time. They went directly to Page’s, and in the evening I went up to see them; left them at 8 and with real regret. I had passed several pleasant hours in their society. They set out in the morning for Portland. Only think of Eleanor going to be married; ’tis no more than I expected and believed at the moment I heard it. Poor Mrs. Sumner, what an afflicting loss she has met with, my heart bleeds while I think how very fond she was of the little creature, she was a lovely child. How do all do at home? I long to get home, I never wanted to see home more in my life, yet I am very happy here. I wish Mamma would send me two of my cotton shifts and my habit or great-coat to ride home in; send them by Uncle. Pray get the instrument tuned. If you see Moses^[14] soon tell him I think it impossible to find words to express my obligation to him for his many and long letters, yet I shall endeavour to convince him I have a due sense of them. I shall make all the return in my power. I was going up to Topsham this week. I wish to very much, but Mamma King and Uncle both going, Nanny would be quite alone, I must stay to comfort her. As to Aunt Porter I believe she will think I am never coming to Topsham. I begin to think so myself, but what am I to do? However I must. I shall go as soon as Uncle returns and stay till I return home. I want to see Aunt Porter very much. Write me soon and tell me what news you hear. Love to all. Is Pappa gone to Salem?

My most charming Cousin! Most kind and condescending friend—teach me how I may express the grateful sense I have of the obligations I owe you; your many and long letters have chased away the spleen, they have rendered me cheerful and happy, and I almost forgot I was so far from home.—O shame on you! Moses, you know I hate this formality among friends, you know how gladly I would throw all these fashionable forms from our correspondence; but you still oppose me, you adhere to them with as much scrupulosity as to the ten commandments, and for aught I know you believe them equally essential to the salvation of your soul. But, Eliza, you have not answered my last letter! True, and if I had not have answered it, would you never have written me again—and I confess that I believe you would not—yet I am mortified and displeased that you value my letters so little, that the exertions to continue the correspondence must all come from me, that if I relax my zeal in the smallest degree it may drop to the ground without your helping hand to raise it. I do think you are a charming fellow,—would not write because I am in debt, well, be it so, my ceremonious friend,—I submit, and though I transgress by sending a half sheet more than you ever did, yet I assure you ’twas to convince you of the violence of my anger which could induce me to forget the rules of politeness. I am at Wiscassett. I have seen Rebecca every day, she is handsome as ever, and we both of us were in constant expectation of seeing you for 2 or 3 days, you did not come and we were disappointed.

I leave here for Bath next week. I have had a ranting time, and if I did not feel so offended, I would tell you more about it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I have been thinking on that part of your letter which interests me most, respecting the propriety of conduct, opinion of the world, etc., etc. I don’t exactly recollect what I wrote in my last, but I am positive you have mistaken my meaning, or at least have taken what I said on too large a scale;—as a general rule of conduct, in so extensive a sense as you talk about, such doctrine would indeed be pernicious. But whatever I said I meant to apply to this particular case, and perhaps did not express myself so clearly as I ought to have done. You have described principles which I have ever condemned—as those I now act upon. Perhaps I shall find it impossible fully to explain my sentiments on this subject—it is of a delicate nature; and many things I shall say will probably bear a misconstruction. However, I trust to your candor to judge with lenity, and to your knowledge of my heart, to believe I would not intentionally deviate from the laws of female delicacy and propriety. Reputation undoubtedly is of great importance to all, but to a female ’tis every thing,—once lost ’tis forever lost. Whatever I may have said, my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of that boasted independence of mind which can stand collected in its own worth, and let the censure and malice of the world pass by as the “idle wind which we regard not.” I have ever thought that to be conscious of doing right was insufficient; but that it must appear so to the world. How I could have blundered upon a sentiment which I despise, or how I could have written anything to bear such a construction as you have put upon a part of my letter, I know not. When I said that I should let these reports pass off without notice or pretending to vindicate myself, ’twas not because I despised the opinion of the world, but as the most effectual method to preserve it!—You say as well as myself, that whatever we say in vindication of ourselves, only makes the matter worse. When I said, that I meant not to alter my conduct while my conscience did not accuse me, I had no idea that you would suppose my conduct towards him had ever been of a kind that required an alteration, or any thing more pointed than to any other gentleman. I supposed you would infer from what I said that it was such as propriety and a regard for my reputation would sanction. I know not what you think it has been, but if I can judge of my own actions,—their motives I know I can, but I mean the outward appearance,—I have never treated him with any more distinction than any other gentleman, nor have appeared more pleased with his attentions than with another’s; believe me, I have kept constantly in view the opinion of the world, and if you knew every circumstance of my life, you would be convinced my feelings were “tremblingly alive” to all its slanders. But “something too much of this”; you, who know my disposition, may easily conceive how often I subject myself to the envenomed shafts of censure and malice, by that gaiety and high flow of spirits, which I sometimes think my greatest misfortune to possess,—sometimes I err in judgment—don’t always see the right path,—sometimes I see it, yet the warmth and ardor of my feelings force me out of it. Yet in this affair I feel confident I have acted from right principles,—there are a thousand trifling things which at times influenced my conduct, which you cannot know, and you may be surprised when I say that his attentions were of a kind that politeness obliged me to receive, nor should I ever have suspected they meant any thing more than gallantry and politeness, had not the babbles of the world put it into my head. You have been misinformed in many respects, I am convinced. You mentioned his constant visits at Sister Boyd’s. I declare to you he never was there a half dozen times the three months I was in Portland, excepting the morning after the assemblies, when the gentlemen all go to see their partners; neither was I his constant partner at assemblies. I never danced but two dances in an evening with him all winter, excepting once, and then there was a mistake,—this surely was nothing remarkable, for I always danced two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were at. I danced as much with one as the other. True, he was my partner at 2 parties at Broads. I at the time asked Horatio, when he mentioned the party, why he would not carry me; he said if I was asked by any other, to say I was going with my brother, would be considered as a tacit declaration that I had an aversion to going with him, therefore ’twould have been folly. You cannot judge unless you know a thousand customs and every ... which they have in Portland. But I declare to you, Cousin, I am much gratified that you told me what you thought—had you have locked it in your bosom, I should never have had an opportunity to vindicate myself. I beg of you always to write with freedom, always write with the same openness you did in your last—’tis one of the greatest advantages I expect to derive from our correspondence—I enjoin it upon you as you value my happiness. I told you I would show you some of Martha’s letters; I had one from her since I wrote you, in which she says I must on no condition whatever show her letters,—however, I will read you some passages in some of them. You shall see some parts; I will make my peace with—indeed I know she would not object. I love to show you her letters because you feel something as I do in reading them. You admire her or you should not be the friend of

P. S. I wrote this letter last night intending to keep it by me to send whenever I please; all the family were absent, left me reading,—I read your letter, the house was silent, and I was entirely alone. I knew I should not have another opportunity as convenient for giving you my sentiments—no fear of intrusion—and I therefore took my pen and scribbled what I now send you, but I believe I must adopt your plan and send it immediately to the office,—but I repent and burn it, and I find on reading it that I have said not half I meant to; but I will send it away immediately. I am almost ashamed to answer yours so soon, ’tis so unlike the example you set me that I suppose you will say ’tis a tacit disapprobation of your conduct.

When one commences an action with a full conviction they shall not acquit themselves with honor, they are sure not to succeed; imprest with this idea I write you. I positively declare I have felt a great reluctance ever since we concluded on the plan. I am aware of the construction you may put on this, but call it affectation or what you will, I assure you it proceeds from different motives. When I first proposed this correspondence, I thought only of the amusement and instruction it would afford me. I almost forgot that I should have any part to perform. Since, however, I have reflected on the scheme as it was about to be carried into execution, I have felt a degree of diffidence which has almost induced me to hope you would forget the engagement. Fully convinced of my inability to afford pleasure or instruction to an enlarged mind, I rely wholly on your candor and generosity to pardon the errors which will cloud my best efforts. When I reflect on the severity of your criticisms in general, I shrink at the idea of exposing to you what will never stand the test. Yet did I not imagine you would throw aside the critic and assume the friend, I should never dare, with all my vanity (and I am not deficient), give you so fine an opportunity to exercise your favorite propensity. I know you will laugh at all this, and I must confess it appears rather a folly, first to request your correspondence and then with so much diffidence and false delicacy, apparently to extort a compliment, talk about my inability and the like. You will not think I intend a compliment when I say I have ever felt a disagreeable restraint when conversing before you. Often, when with all the confidence I possess I have brought forward an opinion, said all my imagination could suggest in support of it, and viewed with pleasure the little fabric, which I imagined to be founded on truth and justice, with one word you would crush to the ground that which had cost me so many to erect. These things I think in time will humble my vanity, I wish sincerely that they may.

Yet I believe I possess decent talents and should have been quite another being had they been properly cultivated. But as it is, I can never get over some little prejudices which I have imbibed long since, and which warp all the faculties of my mind. I was pushed on to the stage of action without one principle to guide my actions,—the impulse of the moment was the only incitement. I have never committed any grossly imprudent action, yet I have been folly’s darling child. I trust they were rather errors of the head than the heart, for we have all a kind of inherent power to distinguish between right and wrong, and if before the heart becomes contaminated by the maxims of society it is left to act from impulse though it have no fixt principle, yet it will not materially err. Possessing a gay lively disposition, I pursued pleasure with ardor. I wished for admiration, and took the means which would be most likely to obtain it. I found the mind of a female, if such a thing existed, was thought not worth cultivating. I disliked the trouble of thinking for myself and therefore adopted the sentiments of others—fully convinced to adorn my person and acquire a few little accomplishments was sufficient to secure me the admiration of the society I frequented. I cared but little about the mind. I learned to flutter about with a thoughtless gaiety—a mere feather which every breath had power to move. I left school with a head full of something, tumbled in without order or connection. I returned home with a determination to put it in more order; I set about the great work of culling the best part to make a few sentiments out of—to serve as a little ready change in my commerce with the world. But I soon lost all patience (a virtue I do not possess in an eminent degree), for the greater part of my ideas I was obliged to throw away without knowing where I got them or what I should do with them; what remained I pieced as ingeniously as I could into a few patchwork opinions,—they are now almost worn threadbare, and as I am about quilting a few more, I beg you will send me any spare ideas you may chance to have that will answer my turn. By this time I suppose you have found out what you have a right to expect from this correspondence, and probably at this moment lay down the letter with a long sage-like face to ponder on my egotism.—’Tis a delightful employment, I will leave you to enjoy it while I eat my dinner: And what is the result, Cousin? I suppose a few exclamations on the girl’s vanity to think no subject could interest me but where herself was concerned, or the barrenness of her head that could write on no other subject. But she is a female, say you, with a manly contempt. Oh you Lords of the world, what are you that your unhallowed lips should dare profane the fairest part of creation! But honestly I wish to say something by way of apology, but don’t seem to know what,—it is true I have a kind of natural affection for myself, I find no one more ready to pardon my faults or find excuses for my failings—it is natural to love our friends.

I have positively not said one single thing which I intended when I sat down; my motive was to answer your letter, and I have not mentioned my not having received it?—Your opinion of Story’s Poems I think very unjust; as to the man, I cannot say, for I know nothing of him, but I think you are too severe upon him; a man who had not a “fibre of refinement in his composition” could never have written some passages in that poem. What is refinement? I thought it was a delicacy of taste which might be acquired, if not any thing in our nature,—true, there are some so organized that they are incapable of receiving a delicate impression, but we won’t say any thing of such beings. I just begin to feel in a mood for answering your letter. What you say of Miss Rice—I hardly know how to refuse the challenge; she possesses no quality above mediocrity, and yet is just what a female ought to be. Now what I would give for a little Logic, or for a little skill to support an argument. But I give it up, for tho’ you might not convince me, you would confound me with so many learned observations that my vanity would oblige me to say I was convinced to prevent the mortification of saying I did not understand you. How did you like Mr. Coffin? Write soon and tell me. We expect you to go to the fishing party with us on Tuesday. Mr. Coffin told us you would all come. You must be here by 9 o’clock (not before) (in the morning). My love to the girls, and tell them—no! I’ll tell them myself.

As to the qualities of mind peculiar to each sex, I agree with you that sprightliness is in favor of females and profundity of males. Their education, their pursuits would create such a quality even tho’ nature had not implanted it. The business and pursuits of men require deep thinking, judgment, and moderation, while, on the other hand, females are under no necessity of dipping deep, but merely “skim the surface,” and we too commonly spare ourselves the exertion which deep researches require, unless they are absolutely necessary to our pursuits in life. We rarely find one giving themselves up to profound investigation for amusement merely. Necessity is the nurse of all the great qualities of the mind; it explores all the hidden treasures and by its stimulating power they are “polished into brightness.” Women who have no such incentives to action suffer all the strong energetic qualities of the mind to sleep in obscurity; sometimes a ray of genius gleams through the thick clouds with which it is enveloped, and irradiates for a moment the darkness of mental night; yet, like a comet that shoots wildly from its sphere, it excites our wonder, and we place it among the phenomenons of nature, without searching for a natural cause. Thus it is the qualities with which nature has endowed us, as a support amid the misfortunes of life and a shield from the allurements of vice, are left to moulder in ruin. In this dormant state they become enervated and impaired, and at last die for want of exercise. The little airy qualities which produce sprightliness are left to flutter about like feathers in the wind, the sport of every breeze.

Women have more fancy, more lively imaginations than men. That is easily accounted for: a person of correct judgment and accurate discernment will never have that flow of ideas which one of a different character might,—every object has not the power to introduce into his mind such a variety of ideas, he rejects all but those closely connected with it. On the other hand, a person of small discernment will receive every idea that arises in the mind, making no distinction between those nearly related and those more distant, they are all equally welcome, and consequently such a mind abounds with fanciful, out-of-the-way ideas. Women have more imagination, more sprightliness, because they have less discernment. I never was of opinion that the pursuits of the sexes ought to be the same; on the contrary, I believe it would be destructive to happiness, there would a degree of rivalry exist, incompatible with the harmony we wish to establish. I have ever thought it necessary that each should have a separate sphere of action,—in such a case there could be no clashing unless one or the other should leap their respective bounds. Yet to cultivate the qualities with which we are endowed can never be called infringing the prerogatives of man. Why, my dear Cousin, were we furnished with such powers, unless the improvement of them would conduce to the happiness of society? Do you suppose the mind of woman the only work of God that was “made in vain.” The cultivation of the powers we possess, I have ever thought a privilege (or I may say duty) that belonged to the human species, and not man’s exclusive prerogative. Far from destroying the harmony that ought to subsist, it would fix it on a foundation that would not totter at every jar. Women would be under the same degree of subordination that they now are; enlighten and expand their minds, and they would perceive the necessity of such a regulation to preserve the order and happiness of society. Yet you require that their conduct should be always guided by that reason which you refuse them the power of exercising. I know it is generally thought that in such a case women would assume the right of commanding. But I see no foundation for such a supposition,—not a blind submission to the will of another which neither honor nor reason dictates. It would be criminal in such a case to submit, for we are under a prior engagement to conduct in all things according to the dictates of reason. I had rather be the meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon the wide world to suffer all the ills “that flesh is heir to,” than live a slave to the despotic will of another.

I am aware of the censure that will ever await the female that attempts the vindication of her sex, yet I dare to brave that censure that I know to be undeserved. It does not follow (O what a pen!) that every female who vindicates the capacity of the sex is a disciple of Mary Wolstoncraft. Though I allow her to have said many things which I cannot but approve, yet the very foundation on which she builds her work will be apt to prejudice us so against her that we will not allow her the merit she really deserves,—yet, prejudice set aside, I confess I admire many of her sentiments, notwithstanding I believe should any one adopt her principles, they would conduct in the same manner, and upon the whole her life is the best comment on her writings. Her style is nervous and commanding, her sentiments appear to carry conviction along with them, but they will not bear analyzing. I wish to say something on your natural refinement, but I shall only have room to touch upon it if I begin, “therefore I’ll leave it till another time.”

Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us; we had a fine “dish of conversation” served up with great taste, fine sentiments dressed with elegant language and seasoned with wit. He is really excellent company—a little enthusiastic or so—but that is no matter. In compassion I entreat you to come over here soon and make me some pens. I have got one that I have been whittling this hour and at last have got it to make a stroke (it liked to have given me the lie). I believe I must give up all pretension to profundity, for I am much more at home in my female character. This argumentative style is not congenial to my taste. I hate anything that requires order or connection. I never could do anything by rule,—when I get a subject I am incapable of reasoning upon, I play with it as with a rattle, for what else should I do with it? But I have kept along quite in a direct line; I caught myself “upon the wing” two or three times, but I had power to check my nonsense. I send you my sentiments on this subject as they really exist with me. I believe they are not the mere impulse of the moment, but founded on what I think truth. I could not help laughing at that part of your letter where you said the seal of my letter deprived you of some of the most interesting part of it. I declare positively I left a blank place on purpose for it, that you might not lose one precious word, and now you have the impudence to tell me that the most interesting part was the blank paper. It has provoked my ire to such a degree that I positively declare I never will send you any more blank paper than I possibly can avoid, to “spite you.”