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. Mr. Moses Porter. Thursday, April 8th. 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