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On looking again at the signature, I am inclined to
doubt it. She usually signs her name Juliet, but here
is her name at length--and then, the whole is obliterated,
and her initials put over it. Indeed, I am sure, on examining
it, that the name first written, was not Gracie
What it was, I know not---some trick, I suppose; and I
shall give myself no further trouble about it.

Tell Juliet, however, that we may meet again, after
all; and, on much more comfortable terms, than we have
lately expected. I have good reason to believe that the
estate is not so desperate as we feared. O, I must not
forget to tell you of a new freak, that has got possession
of me. I have taken up my drawing again; and I mean
to continue it. There is a man here, no great things I
imagine, who advertises, at the tavern, to teach drawing;
and some of his sketches, that were obtained for me, are
singularly spirited; yet they have not the air of an experienced
or confident hand. At any rate, I shall be entertained;
for, his appearance is rather favourable, and
his manner much above that of the people about us. In
such a place, so barren of incident, you cannot imagine
what a bustle the appearance of a stranger will create.
That, which I caused, has not yet entirely subsided; and
now, his arrival, though he has been expected, it seems,
for a long while, from some of the viliages lower down
the river, Hallowell or Augusta, has electrified the whole
population. All the girls here, and there are multitudes,
indeed, are devoutly engaged in the subject He teaches
writing, too, in some short hand way, by machinery,
perhaps---(for some of the yankees teach grammar by a

machine; and others, by a map;---I have seen them both,
and they are truly wonderful and useful contrivances.)
Do you remember an invention, about the size of a dumb
Betty, that was in New-York, once; the inventor of
which, called it the Pedagogue;—a child of five years old
could work it, by turning a crank;—it would keep a
large school in order—whip the boys, rule the books,
and mend the pens. The principle, I think, was Lancasterian.
But enough of this nonsense. I have begun
the study of chymistry—taken up my Italian, and Botany
again; and thus, by a fair division of time, between them,
and this drawing master—O, I forgot to tell you that he
takes likenesses in Indian ink—I shall be continually employed.
Send me any books that you can, anything new;
you know what I want, by mail. Tear off the covers,
and they travel as pamphlets. I learnt this secret from
an author.

The drawing master has just left me. There is something
in his appearance that reminds me of somebody, I
can't, for my life, tell whom. His name is Randolph.
He converses well, but with the most astonishing rapidity.
I foresee a good deal of entertainment in his company;
and he seems very anxious for my favourable
opinion. At least, I judge so, from some little trepidation
that he manifested, as I took off my eyes, after looking
at him steadily, just now, for some moments. I love
to look into people's faces, when they are talking:—it
appears to me that I can read their hearts, then, in their
eyes. Another symptom that I discovered—O, the vanity
of women!—was that, look up when I would, from
my work, for I was drawing when he came, I always
found his eyes rivetted upon mine. There was a strange,
troubled, wild expression in them I thought; but it soon
passed off; and, before he left me, we were on the pleasantest
terms in the world. But, let me try to describe
them. They are, as I have told you before, strange eyes.
I do not know another word in our language, that will
express anything like what I mean. They are not wild
—nor beautiful—nor very bright—nor awful—nor melancholy;—but,
on the whole, are so altogether unlike

any that I have ever seen, as to deserve exactly, I think,
to be called strange eyes. Under the lashes, which are
neither heavy nor dark, there is a continual shadow and
ripple—alternations of light and darkness, of exceeding
vivacity and suddenness—just as you may have seen—
bless me! how extravagant I am getting!—I shall forfeit
my New-England character, forever—just, for all the
world, like the shadow of a willow-tree, over deep water;
shifting, incessantly, from exceeding brightness to a death
like dimness—and then, instantly, all its depth illuminated
again, so that you can see the population swarming
about, and all the clouds of heaven passing, and repassing
therein! In short, there is “a bright blue, rippling
glitter,” (as Milman has it, when speaking of heavenly
armour,) continually issuing from under his droll-looking
eye-lashes, when he is much excited. Don't tell Juliet
this; or, if you do, please to add the antidote;—he has an
ugly profile, and a sad pale face; and—and, I do not
think him exactly the most fashionable young man in
the world. They say that he is from Boston. He looked
at my drawing;---and, as I confess I expected, for
you know that I am a little vain in that matter, and
particularly of my colouring, since what Signor Petutti
said to me---he appeared a good deal astonished. Yet, he
made no scruple to point out the faults. Thought I, to
myself—young man, let me have a peep at yours; and
see if I be not a match for you, in criticism. Good bye.
He is certainly intelligent—and, when he is talking, rather
handsome, I think; at least, his face is animated,
and incessantly changing.

Love to Juliet. Tell her to write to me, immediately,
without grace; and, as for you, at your peril, keep me
informed of all that is going on between Grenville and
her.