FROM MRS. *******.

New-York, February 9, 1807.

At the sight of my writing you will exclaim—" She is unhappy, or she would not write to me." 'Tis not so, my dear friend; I am neither more nor less happy than when you left here. With every passing day I have resolved to inform you of my health, but from day to day it has been deferred, till I suppose my very existence is forgotten. Let me, then, awaken your recollection, by presenting to you the image of my thoughts, and retrace, however faintly, the impression I once flattered myself to have made on your memory.

Tell me how you do, and how you pass your time. Taking lessons of Wisdom from your Minerva? or flying after the Atalanta's of Virginia, more swift than their celebrated racers? or, more probably, poring over musty records; offering your time, your pleasures, your health, at the shrine of Fame; sacrificing your own good for that of the public; pursuing a chimera which ever has and ever will mock the grasp; for, however the end may be crowned with success, the motives will be questioned, and that justice which has been refused to a Regulus, a Brutus, a Publius, who can hope for?

I once admired for device a skyrocket, and for motto—Let me perish so I be exalted." I afterward changed my opinion, and preferred the glow-worm twinkling in a hedge. But I now reject them both. They strike for a moment, but neither of them are impressive; and it is thus, in changing, we pursue that something "which prompts, the eternal sigh," which never is, which never can be attained. These reflections arise continually on my reading the newspapers, where your actions are so freely canvassed and so illiberally censured. They often excite my wrath; but when I consider that my anger can no more check their calumnies than the splendour of your reputation be clouded by their impotent attempts, my indignation subsides, and I console myself by saying,

"Vain his attempt who strives to please them all."

Z.