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. ELIZA. I believe it is about the 10th day of October. E. 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. Topsham, Oct. 29, 1801. 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