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. ELIZA. Mr. Moses Porter. Scarborough, Dec. 4th, 1801.