mean to send your perfect character away without a more intimate acquaintance. When I feel in a proper mood for it I will take it up and examine every quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on my mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for ’tis up in my trunk and I feel no disposition to leave the fire; with your permission I will lay it by till another time. In the meantime let us descend from these important discussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With great satisfaction we at length behold the ground covered with snow, for we are almost freezing here; it has been impossible almost to obtain wood to keep us warm, and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay chimney—The bell rings—I must stop!— Monday, Feb. 1, 1802, Portland. The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt me in the midst of a very homely catalogue of blessings—’tis not worth finishing, and if it was I could not take up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it was begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, but I find I am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen firm in my hand, look this side and that side, yet still cannot think. Scarborough—desolate, dreary Scarborough is the only place from whence I can write with ease,—nothing present engages my attentions, and I then have leisure to turn over the rubbish which I have collected from home—ponder on things past and anticipate those to come: ’tis something like dreaming,—we are insensible to everything around us,—the imagination is unchecked by the operation of our senses, and soars beyond the boundaries of reality. Pray read over this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I feel, look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does not discover a something unlike my letters in general,—cold and studied—I will not—I cannot write, another post must pass and no letter, yet ’tis labor, ’tis pain to write thus. Sunday, Feb. 8.