sleepy and stupid. Morning. O, how I hate this warm weather, it deprives me of the power of using any exertion, it clogs my ideas, and I ask no greater felicity than the pleasure of doing nothing. I intended to amuse you with some of the trifles of the day, but I shall scarcely do them justice this morning. Friday night we had a ball,—the hall was decorated with much taste. ’Twas filled up for the _masons_. At the head of the room there was a most romantic little bower, four large pillars formed of green and interspersed with flowers, supported a kind of canopy which was arched in front, with this inscription—“Here Peace and Silence reign,” filled with a parcel of girls whining sentiment, and silly fellows spouting love, it produced a most laughable scene. The deities to whom it was dedicated withdrew from the sacred retreat, which was so profaned, and noise and folly reigned supreme,—so sweet a place,—so fine an opportunity for making speeches—’twas irresistible, even _you_ would have caught a spark of inspiration from the surrounding glories,—and felt a degree of emulation at the flashes of genius that blazed from every quarter. Invention was on the rack, the stores of memory were exhausted and folly blushed to be so outdone. Mr. Symmes sat down to overwhelm me with a torrent of eloquence, yet his compassionate heart often prompted him to hesitate that I might recover myself. Such stores of learning did he display, such mines of wisdom did he open to my view, that I gazed with astonishment and awe and scarce believed “That one small head could carry all he knew.” Mr. Kinsman with a countenance that beamed with benevolence and compassion gazed on all around, while a benign smile played round his mouth and dimpled his polished cheek, the laughing loves peeped from his eyes and aimed their never-failing darts—rash girl—too, too near hast thou approached this divinity—the poisoned dart still rankles in thy heart,—“The lingering pang of hopeless love unpitied I endure,” and feel a wound within my heart which death alone can cure. Monday night—You will easily perceive that I am obliged to write when and where I can, I have not quite so much leisure as when at Scarborough, and though in the very place to _hear news_, I have no faculty of relating what I hear in a manner that could interest you. Last evening I spent in talking scandal (for which God forgive me) but was too tempting an occasion to be resisted. I wish you were acquainted with some of the Portland ladies, I would then tell you many things that might amuse. But I dare not introduce you to them, lest I should entirely mistake their character, and that when personally acquainted with them you would be confirmed in your opinion of my wanting penetration in studying characters. Yesterday I spent with Martha, I wish you were acquainted with her, she is truly an _original_. I never saw one that bore any resemblance to her. She despises flattery