I almost at this moment wish myself in your situation, meeting old acquaintances, shaking hands with old friends and telling over with renewed pleasure your College frolicks. I can almost see you convulsed with laughter, hear you recount the adventures of the last year, while imagination brings every boyish frolic to your view, unimpaired by time. What a world of humour! what flashes of wit! what animated descriptions! O these social meetings! How they animate and inspire one! how they lighten the cares and multiply the joys of life! I wish you would write me about Commencement. I heard yesterday that Sam. Fay of Concord delivered an oration the 4th of July. I should admire to see it. I know it must be very fine; in my opinion he is a man of excellent talents, capable of writing on the occasion an oration that would reflect great honor. The sentiments must be noble and generous. He possesses so much feeling, there must be many glowing passages in it. If it is possible I beg you will get me a copy and I will confess myself very, very greatly obliged. Last night I attended the Theater,—“Speed the plough” was performed, and I assure you very decently; the characters in general were well supported. Villiers in Fannie Ashfield really outdid himself; he threw off the monkey and became a good honest clown, and did not, as he usually does, outstep the bounds of nature and all other bounds. Mrs. Powell as Miss Blandford delighted us all. How I admire that woman! She is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet there is no levity in her appearance; she has great energy, acts with spirit, with feeling, yet never rants; her private character we all know is unexceptionable. Mr. Donnee as a young buck is very pleasing, he has a most melodious voice in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish air,—good figure, tho’ small. As for Mrs. Harper she is my aversion—for, as Shakespeare says, she will “tear a passion to tatters, to very rags,” and she is too indecent ever to appear on the stage. Harper is a fine fellow; he appears best among the common herd of Players, and has as much judgment in supporting his part as any one I ever saw, and even in comic characters I think he excels Villiers. He has much greater resources within himself. Villiers gains applause by distorting his face and playing the monkey, while Harper adheres more strictly to nature. In Villiers we cannot help seeing the player thro’ the thin disguise,—Villiers, not the character he personates, is continually in our minds. S. Powell is contemptible as a player (and I believe as a man); he puffs and blows so incessantly that it is enough to put one into a fever to see him; he does not know in the least how to preserve a medium, but takes a certain pitch and there remains; he cannot gradually bring his passion to the height, but he thunders it out without any preparation, and the unvarying monotony of his voice is truly disgusting. I am sure, by his strutting and bellowing, Hamlet would think he was made by one of “Nature’s journeymen.” But it is time to have done with players, for you will think my head turned indeed if I rant about them any longer; but it has served to fill up a part of my letter, and I assure you that alone was a sufficient reason why I should give them a place. Society, bustle, and noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot write anywhere but at home. I am ashamed that things of so little consequence should turn my head, but ’tis a melancholy truth. O you malicious fellow, don’t talk to me about my favorite topic “female education,” don’t tell me of your philosophical indifference! O Moses, you can’t leave the subject, every word that could any way dash at it is marked. I believe you do itch to commence the attack. Well, rail on, you shall not say it is in compassion to me that you desist. God forbid that your greatest enemy should ever inflict so severe a punishment as to prohibit you from speaking of your “favorite topic.” I fancy you have forgotten that it is such, Mr. Indifference. Your ironical letter has had a wonderful effect, but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not to confess myself contemptibly inferior to my antagonist. You ought to blush, but from a very different cause; but I had forgotten myself, and was taking the thing too seriously. I am not slow at taking the hint, perhaps my presumption merited the reproof. I receive it and will endeavor to profit by it; and pray, Cousin, how does Mr. Symmes’ coat suit you? His “haughty humility,” his “condescending pride.” You have assumed the habit, and I hope will ever clothe yourself with it when you meet your superior antagonist.

You have a fine imagination and have pictured a chain of delightful events which probably will exist there alone, yet I should have no objection to your being a true prophet. We all can plan delightful schemes, but they rarely ever become realities; but no matter, we enjoy them in imagination. I expect from you a particular account of yourself when you return. You will have many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you will take the trouble. I have just read your last and picture something in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. You say all you have said on the subject of education was merely the thought of the moment, “written not to be received but laughed at.” What shall I think?—That you think me too contemptible to know your real sentiments? I should be very unwilling to admit such a suspicion, yet what can you mean?—with the greatest apparent seriousness, you speak of the sincerity with which you conduct this correspondence. Was that likewise meant to be laughed at? I had flattered myself, when I commenced this correspondence, to reap both instruction and amusement from an undisguised communication of sentiments. I had likewise hoped you would not think it too great a condescension to speak to me with that openness you would to a male friend. However, I shall begin to think it is contrary to the nature of things that a gentleman should speak his real sentiments to a lady, yet in our correspondence I wished and expected to step aside from the world, speak to each other in the plain language of sincerity. I have much to say on this subject, but unfortunately my ideas never begin to flow until I have filled up my paper. Do not imagine from what I have said that the most disagreeable truths will offend me. I promise not to feel hurt at any thing you write, if ’tis your real sentiment. But, Cousin, don’t trifle with me. Do not make me think so contemptibly of myself as you will by not allowing me your confidence; promise to speak as you think and I will never scold you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford.

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

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

Mr. Kinsman has been down to Wiscassett. He attended the courts, as he says, to acquire a better knowledge of the law; but I should imagine he mistook the ladies for the law, as he makes them his constant study. But I leave so dangerous a subject, lest my feelings should deprive me of the power to finish this sheet. I shall probably return home the beginning of next month. If I have a letter due from you, according to your new arrangement, I beg you to forward it as soon as possible; however, I have not the vanity to suppose there is more than a dozen lines as yet; perhaps when I have written half a dozen more letters I may be richly rewarded with one from you. Where is Maria? How does she do? Rebecca wrote her while I was in Wiscassett, and told her undoubtedly she is expected to spend the winter there. I must finish: Uncle calls.

I believe it is about the 10th day of October.

Ellen Coffin is going to be married to a widower and 3 children, think of that, sir!!! I had a letter from her last week. She is not coming home till she leaves Portland as Mrs. Derby.

Why, you unaccountable wretch! you obstinate fellow! you malicious, you vain, you—Oh, I am run out, I will e’en call in the assistance of Sir John Fallstaff to help me exclaim against you—provoking creature! With one scratch of your pen to banish such delightful thoughts! I was applauding myself for my condescension in writing so often without answers. I exulted in the thought of your shame and confusion at the proofs of my superiority,—so much above the little forms that narrowed your own heart. How did I see you hanging your head with penitence and sorrow, while your face glowed with conscious shame! Oh, ’twas delicious! Every day I reflected on it with renewed pleasure. I felt assured nothing prevented your writing but an aversion to acknowledging how humble, how little you felt,—yet the letter at length arrived, my heart trembled with delight, a glow of triumph flushed my face. I saw the humiliation so grateful to my vanity, (I was at the Lieu table)—I hurried the letter into my pocket, I had no wish to read it—I knew (I tho’t I did) what it must contain. I could scarcely breathe; vanity, exultation, revenge (sweet sensation) gave me unusual spirits. I stood and called 5— I was sure of a Palm-flush! ’twas impossible anything could go wrong,—’twas a frail hope—I got nothing, was lieued; never mind it, thought I, the letter is enough. I played wrong, discarded the wrong card, knocked over the candlestick, spilt my wine; positively, if it had been a love-letter, a first declaration, it would not put me in a worse flustration; but ah! ’twas so different,—I did not blush, look down, tremble, fear to raise my eyes; my heart did not dissolve away in melting tenderness—hey-day! I had no notion of telling you what I did not do—but what I did. Well then—I sat so upright, I was a foot taller, I looked at every body for applause. I wondered I did not hear them exclaim: Oh, generous, excellent girl! I demanded it with my eyes—’twas all in vain, I heard nothing but—“Eliza, you must follow suit. Why do you play that card? You will certainly be lieued!” I was vexed; I thought of the letter, all was sunshine again. I am called—dinner; oh, this eating seems to clog all my faculties, I never write with half so much ease as when I’m half starved. I believe it is true that poets ought not to live well.

But begging your pardon for leaving you so in the lurch, I had forgotten that the letter was as yet unopened in my pocket. Well then, we did not break up till late; after I retired to bed out came the letter. I was sleepy and had a great mind not to open it till morning; however I thought I would, to have the satisfaction of the confirmation of my hopes, not once thinking of the stroke that should annihilate them. It came. How shall I tell you my consternation!—“description falters at the threshold;” yet I did not rave, I did not tear my hair with a frenzy of passion. I did not stand in mute despair,—no; I collected all my dignity and stood fixed and immovable. I was convinced ’twas obstinacy alone, ’twas envy, ’twas a something that prevented you from giving me what you knew I deserved. I am called again.

I had almost determined to light the fire with this scrawl!—but upon second thoughts I withdrew my hand from the devouring flames and saved it from the fate it so justly merits. Yet we have such a partiality for our own offspring we rarely ever treat them with the severity they deserve. But I ought to tell you where I am,—but this letter has nothing like method in it—but never mind—I began it immediately after I received your last. I wrote while the first impressions it made were on me; unluckily I was called from the pleasing task while in the midst of it, and as I never feel the same two hours together, I was unable to continue as I began: ’twould have been cold and studied; so I left it. I threw it into my trunk, determining not to have anything more to do with it. I had grown amazingly wise; I wondered how I could suffer myself to write such nonsense. To-day I have received an invitation to the second wedding of Capt. Stephenson. I shall go. I thought I would write you a line to let you know I was still in existence and on my way home. I could not find any paper and was compelled to tumble over my trunk to find this. I have a world of news to tell you, but I don’t know that you would care a farthing about any of it. Mary has been at Boston. Capt. Stephenson told me all about it. Tell her I hear she has a heap of fine things, at which, together with her ladyship, I hope to have a peep. I have something of vast importance to say to her likewise, a thing on which depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. “Oh, Mary! who would have thought cruelty one of the failings of your heart.” But I shall out with this secret to you before I am aware of it. Now I have a great mind to turn this into a letter to Mary. I have as much again to say to her as I have to you, but she would not know what to make of some of it. I expect to be at home on Saturday next; bring Mary on Sunday,—mind, and don’t disobey. Horatio will be with me. I am in a monstrous hurry. I must send more blank paper than I ever did before, for which you will thank me, as I think you once told me that the blank paper in my letters always afforded you the most pleasure,—not exactly so—but something like it. Adieu.

“I give you thanks,” as Parson Fletcher says, for your dissertation upon apologies and old sayings. You have stored up enough to fill a volume, if I should take your last as a specimen of the quantity. However, they are things I trouble myself but little about, and I should rather be inclined to join in railing against them than in enumerating their good effects. I perceive that you were much more inclined to be their advocate after supper than you were before. You had just laid down your pen after venting all your spleen and ill-nature (occasioned by your impatience for roast-beef) upon these poor harmless old sayings. You return, with an entire new set of sentiments on the subject. You commence their advocate with more vehemence than is usual with you, and conclude by making them the very foundation of every virtue. Now I have endeavored to find some natural cause for this sudden change, but cannot. Was it that you heard one trickle from the lips of some favorite fair with eloquence too powerful to be resisted? Or was it a bumper of wine which proved so warm a friend to them? Or was it the good-natured effects of the roast-beef, which exhilarating your spirits, made you look with an eye of pity and compassion on these poor neglected things, and endeavor by rubbing off the rust and polishing them anew, to compensate for your malicious endeavors to lessen their merit? But after all I must confess myself a great enemy to them, in conversation particularly. I never knew a person who made frequent use of them, but I pitied them for the scanty portion of ideas which must have driven them to such a paltry theft; and moreover, if I must steal the idea, I would clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray me. I dislike them because they are in every body’s mouth, the greatest fool on earth has sense enough to use them with as much propriety as any other, and you will find every old beggar has his wallet stuffed full of them, ready to launch out on every occasion. I don’t know, however, but you are perfectly right in what you say in their defence. I am inclined to believe what you say is just, but I have so often seen instances of their meaning being perverted to answer some vicious purpose that I am compelled to believe the balance is against them. “So much for old sayings.”—But now as to apologies, I must with due reverence beg leave to differ from you in my opinion of them. I am by no means inclined to think they are never used but when we know ourselves in fault, and that we ought always to suspect the sincerity of any one who makes them. You certainly must have known instances when they were essentially necessary, and not to have made them would have proved an obstinacy of disposition quite as disagreeable as insincerity. I hate this parade and nonsense about independence, which every gentleman of ton puts on; it always proves that the reality is small, when such a fuss is made for the appearance. I know some gentlemen who boast of never having made an apology, yet at the same time would say and do a thousand things much more derogatory to their dear independence than fifty apologies, such as any man of sense might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentlemen more careful in avoiding anything that would require an apology, and not like cowards skulk behind their flimsy shield of independence for defence or security. I have as great an aversion to cringing apologies, made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, and should always suspect the sincerity of them.—If this class are the greater part of them,—still I can conceive, nay I have known instances when an apology has heightened my opinion of a person instead of lessening it. If we are in fault, ought we not to confess it? If we are not in fault, ought we not to exculpate ourselves? I should think a person valued my approbation very little, if he knew I had any reason to censure him and yet would not by a single word convince me I had been deceived. However, I did not mean to dip so far into this weighty subject, ’twould have been better to have just touched the edges and away. Now really, Moses, I write in pain if I am not good-natured; you must attribute it all to the cold which makes my fingers tingle; I can’t write below, there is such a gabbling. ’Tis a cold, comfortless night; the rain patters against the window and the wind whistles round the house, it sounds like December,—oh! that was an unlucky word! I feel gloomy at the sight of it. The storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for shelter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that I would not walk ten steps to do good to any one. Our old windows here clatter so that I can hear nothing else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and that I hear the groans of distress between the blasts of wind, which sound hollow and dreary; even now the shadow of my pen on the wall looked like a man’s arm, and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories! we never get rid of them. I sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are asleep in the house, get my imagination so roused, that I look in fearful expectation that the tall martial ghost of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop down chimney.—Ghosts, what a looking word that is!!—nonsense!—what was I going to say, something about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I declare this shall be the last letter I will write from the fire,—December, and writing in the chamber without fire. Oh—monstrous! But here am I at the end without saying several things I meant to. I never, when I sit down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to when I began. You found my letter, you say—’twas not worth the finding, as it was too late to answer the purpose I wish. Write me often. I have been entertained with Johnson’s life. We are alone, so write me often.

A man of your gallantry, cousin, surely might make a small exertion to confer an obligation on two of the fair. Octavia and myself are very anxious that Miss Tappan should make us a visit. My father will bring Miranda home; but our chaise is broken so much that ’tis impossible to use it in its present state; none to be hired or borrowed. Why can’t you take a chaise and bring over Pauline and Betsey Tappan? Besides gratifying me with their company, I would be very glad to see you—no coaxing Eliza! But I am in earnest; come and see. Do come and bring them if possible. I will show you some of Martha’s letters from London, Bath. I will tell you everything I can think of and perhaps invent something if all this won’t do. Lord bless me! I should not have to urge every one so hard to come and see me. I am sure I should be discouraged; but seriously, I wish you to come very much, but if you think it impossible, or rather very bad—don’t mind what I say; however, I expect you.

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!—

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.

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.

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.

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.