I have never told you all about my visit to Salem. I passed my time as you may imagine very charmingly, and had I your pen or your talent at description I would endeavor to give you some ideas of the house, the gardens, and the farm; but it is _Impossible_. _The Hermitage_ more than answered my expectations. It is everything which we see described in novels, and which I thought was not to be found in reality. The garden beyond description beautiful, does indeed exceed anything of the kind I ever saw. Ten thousand different kinds of flowers from all quarters of the globe. Fruit of every kind in abundance. A delightful Summer house in the middle of the garden, furnished quite in the rural style; and from the chamber where they sometimes drink tea is the most beautiful prospect you can imagine. M. COFFIN. [Illustration: Mrs. RICHARD DERBY. (Martha Coffin) From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs. Peabody of Boston ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. ] Salem, July 14, 1802. Dear Mother: I have just received my trunk with the letter and key. I perceive you have not received my letter by Mr. Jewett. Fear not, my dear Mother, tho’ gay and volatile in my disposition, I feel that I shall return home with the same sentiments with which I left it. True, I was in the midst of gaiety and splendor such as I never before witnessed, yet a something within whispers true happiness resides not here,—in this family all is calm contentment and peaceful pleasure. Mr. Derby is everything his best friends can wish him, and the whole family consider him as every thing good and benevolent; he truly is so, and appears one of the finest men I ever knew. How is Uncle Porter’s family? I cannot even now reconcile myself to the idea of leaving them so unexpectedly and so immediately, yet I know not how it could be avoided. I am in the midst of amusements and pleasure, they drive all melancholy reflection from my mind, but when alone, my feelings warmly pay a tribute to the merit of _our departed Moses_; yet I cannot,—do not realize, every thing contributes to make me think it a delusion, a mere dream; how is it possible I can realize it? Yet sometimes I feel it is, it must be true. How soon do we reconcile ourselves to the loss of the dearest friends; what would most distract us in anticipation we meet with calmness when it approaches; strange, unaccountable. I surely loved Moses with sincerity. I knew of no person so distantly connected whom I felt so interested in,—yet he is dead,—he is gone, and I can speak of it without emotion, and I am called. Adieu, I will write soon. ELIZA. JOURNAL. Saturday, July 11, 1802.