This new state is free to hold slaves; all the new states have not this privilege.  Mr. Touchandgo has bought some, and they are building him a villa.  Mr. Touchandgo is in a thriving way, but he is not happy here:  he longs for parties and concerts, and a seat in Congress.  He thinks it very hard that he cannot buy one with his own coinage, as he used to do in England.  Besides, he is afraid of the Regulators, who, if they do not like a man’s character, wait upon him and flog him, doubling the dose at stated intervals, till he takes himself off.  He does not like this system of administering justice:  though I think he has nothing to fear from it.  He has the character of having money, which is the best of all characters here, as at home.  He lets his old English prejudices influence his opinions of his new neighbours; but I assure you they have many virtues.  Though they do keep slaves, they are all ready to fight for their own liberty; and I should not like to be an enemy within reach of one of their rifles.  When I say enemy, I include bailiff in the term.  One was shot not long ago.  There was a trial; the jury gave two dollars damages; the judge said they must find guilty or not guilty, but the counsel for the defendant (they would not call him prisoner) offered to fight the judge upon the point; and as this was said literally, not metaphorically, and the counsel was a stout fellow, the judge gave in.  The two dollars damages were not paid after all; for the defendant challenged the foreman to box for double or quits, and the foreman was beaten.  The folks in New York made a great outcry about it, but here it was considered all as it should be.  So you see, Miss, justice, liberty, and every thing else of that kind, are different in different places, just as suits the convenience of those who have the sword in their own hands.  Hoping to hear of your health and happiness, I remain,

Dear Miss, your dutiful servant,

RODERICK ROBTHETILL.

Miss Touchandgo replied as follows, to the first of these letters:—­

My dear Father,—­I am sure you have the best of hearts, and I have no doubt you have acted with the best intentions.  My lover, or I should rather say, my fortune’s lover, has indeed forsaken me.  I cannot say I did not feel it; indeed, I cried very much; and the altered looks of people who used to be so delighted to see me, really annoyed me so, that I determined to change the scene altogether.  I have come into Wales, and am boarding with a farmer and his wife.  Their stock of English is very small; but I managed to agree with them; and they have four of the sweetest children I ever saw, to whom I teach all I know, and I manage to pick up some Welsh.  I have puzzled out a little song, which I think very pretty; I have translated it into English, and I send it to you, with the original air.  You shall play it on your flute at eight o’clock every Saturday evening, and I will play and sing it at the same time, and I will fancy that I hear my dear papa accompanying me.