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. Portland, Nov. 10, 1801.