ment which bears no resemblance to the interchange of virtuous friendship. (Fortunately an imperious domestic call has interrupted this inexhaustible subject, and I will endeavor to make some reply to your interesting letter.). . .

As to Mrs. you can tell me nothing new of her; she always had a false estimation among people whom I should have thought had more penetration and good sense than to be pleased with her. I have no doubt, if she live to old age, she will die a fool, simply from want of exercise of body and mind,— which always keep pace with each other. But if she should have a family of children, it may be the means of preventing it; for that is a continual stimulus to exertion.

My poor, old heart has been terribly shattered lately, and I am not sure that the influence has not reached my head. I mention this by way of apology for this letter, which I can find time neither to copy nor alter; but trust it is consigned exclusively to the judgment of friendship. You know I have parted for ever with Abby. I hope you will just sce the beautiful creature. Her husband is rather a contrast in appearance, but very intelligent and good. He has, in his selection of a wife, given me an infallible proof of his wisdom; and, I am sure, the more he knows of her the more he will idolize her. I ought to be glad she is taken from me, for I loved her a great deal too well, and became too much attached to her society to wish for any other.

I hope by this time your Aunt P. has recovered; remember me to her, and accept of my best love. I

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wish you and Mary Pickard could come and spend the summer with me; we would go to Brattleboro' and to Springfield, and have a grand time, I assure you.

To Mrs. Greene, Northampton, Aug. 4, 1821.

MY DEAR ABBY,-... I have experienced a great variety since you left me, but not enough to drive from my thoughts the idea of my beloved child. I console myself with some of Byron's extravagant reflections in trouble. "Existence may be borne, and the deep root of life and sufferance makes its firm abode in bare and desolate bosoms." I did for the first few days feel as if mine was bare and desolated, but the sympathy and kindness which surrounded me, which appeared perfectly to appreciate and participate my feelings, soon taught me that it was to be borne, and was only one of the minor evils of life; as every evil is, which does not spring from vice or death. . . .

I suppose you would like to know what has been going on here since you left. Everybody had a pleasant Fourth of July, I believe, with the exception of myself. There was a great deal of company from Boston, on the occasion. Miss Sarah Dwight from Springfield came up and passed a week, and a Mr. Lowell, from Boston, eldest brother of Edward, a very fine young man altogether. He spent the most of four days with us; read "Yamoyden" with great pleasure to me, and left us quite in love with him. We had hardly time to collect our scattered wits after Sarah D.'s and L.'s visit, when July the

15th Mrs. Brooks, her daughters, and the Misses Gray came and made us a short visit on their way to Niagara, accompanied by Mr. Henshaw. Your Uncle, Mary, Jane, and myself, went with them to Albany, and from thence we visited Dwight, at Troy, and then took him with us to the Saratoga Springs, where we spent four days, on the whole pleasantly. There is much there to admire, and to excite disgust; but if one goes in good humor with one's self and with the world, pleasure will prevail. At the house where we stayed, were more than two hundred. The first effect of seeing such a variety of human faces, with the interest you cannot fail to take in their various histories, is exceedingly exciting or over-stimulating to the imagination, and till you are familiarized to it, fatigues. But it is the world in miniature; none but a dissipated mind could enjoy the scene long. We found Mr. Lowell there, and Mr. and Mrs. B. and daughter; which served for entertainment for Mary and Jane. The great Mr. Wirt, with an interesting family, was there from Washington, which was a source of much enjoyment to me. Mrs. Wirt was not a lady of great mental attainments; but of much delicacy and refinement, and good judgment, and of many showy accomplishments. Although the mother of twelve children, she looked young and handsome, and played elegantly on the piano; and played battledore with the agility of fifteen, for hours together. Her eldest daughter, who was with her, resembled her in character, except that she had more reserve. I should hardly dare to attempt a description of him, except in

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the most general terms. His appearance is magnificent in an unusual degree, and everything he does exhibits a moral grandeur, in perfect conformity to that appearance. There is something so imposing in his look, that you feel it to be a condescension, if he pays you any attention.

At Ballstown we had the satisfaction of looking at Joseph Bonaparte, who calls himself Count Servillier; his appearance is that of a John Bull much more than of a Frenchman,- very fat, and easy, with a most benevolent expression of face: his suite requires twelve rooms.

To Mrs. Greene, Sept. 1, 1821.

Miss Bancroft has just returned from the Springs. I have been so constantly engaged in sewing, in order to prepare Sam for his departure, that I have scarcely had time to think of anything that did not relate to that particular operation, except when I was interrupted by some of those thousands of travellers which traverse the carth in the fruitless search after happiness. Some of them I have been pleased to see; others have wearied me. I believe I described Mr. Wirt (the Attorney-General) to you in my last, and his very interesting family. Since I met them at the Springs they have been here, and young John Lowell, the brother of Edward. He received his early education under Mrs. Grant, in one of the first seminaries for boys in Scotland, and I have rarely met with so fine a young man. James Robbins has just left me, after a visit of a fortnight, which was very delightful to

me; for I rarely meet with any one who has so uniformly the power to be agreeable and rationally entertaining, and, at the same time, has so much fun in their composition. . . .

You are daily our subject of thought and conversation, amid all the variety which surrounds us. Mary has read a good deal this summer aloud to me. The last number of the "North American" was very good, but I do not think you had better have it until the next volume commences, which will be in the winter. Mary has just been reading to me "The Judgment," a poem by Hillhouse. It is really very good for American poetry. It is a vision; describing our Saviour sitting in judgment on old patriarchs first, and then upon the world in general. It certainly is venturing on sacred ground to attempt such a thing; and it is deserving of some praise that the author did not make himself ridiculous. The same author wrote "Percy's Masque," which I never have read. Anne Robbins is now making me a visit which, of course, engrosses much of my time. ...

To Miss Forbes, Nov. 17, 1821.

MY DEAR EMMA,- This you know is a busy scason for heads of families, who wish to see their children warmly clad for the approaching season. You can have, my dear Emma, but a weak impression of the subjects which must occupy the minds of such everyday people as myself. It is altogether probable that when I am contemplating the figure of a garment, and considering its construction as it regards warmth