The records that have come down to us are, after all, only a few out of the great mass written. Many, perhaps equally interesting, have in some garret fallen a prey to mould, decay, and the book-lizard; or have found their way to the fireplace, impelled thither by some family iconoclast possessed with a rage for clearing up; or, still more ignoble fate, have been torn up for curl-papers! A narrator of veracity tells how a bevy of gay young girls, gathered together in the roomy old Hopkinson house in Bordentown, appropriated some letters found in the garret to this purpose, and lighting on some interesting passages, amused themselves by reading them aloud at what Macaulay names the “curling hour.” Reports of these nocturnal revels being carried down-stairs, a member of the family interested herself in the preservation of the letters, which proved an historical treasure-trove. Such treasure-troves will be less likely to be discovered as the years go on, and those who would find love-letters like Esther Wynn’s, under the cellar stairs, had better set about looking for them before mould and dampness have utterly obliterated the characters traced in the long-ago. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [1] Letters of Mrs. John Adams, p. 253. [Illustration: _The Meschianza_] “_Mars, conquest plumed, the Cyprian queen disarms: And victors, vanquished, yield to Beauty’s charms. Here then the laurel, here the palm we yield, And all the trophies of the tilted field; Here Whites and Blacks, with blended homage, pay To each device the honors of the day. Hard were the task and impious to decide, Where all are fairest, which the fairer side. Enough for us if by such sports we strove To grace this feast of military love And, joining in the wish of every heart, Honor’d the friend and leader ere we part._” _From the Gentleman’s Magazine of 1778._