er a
fence! Very unladylike, I know, but I am not a lady.

In the fall of 1837 Mrs. Payson moved again. The incident deserves
mention, as it brought Lizzy into daily intercourse with the Rev. Mr.
French and his wife. Mr. French was rector of the Episcopal church in
Portland, and afterward Professor and Chaplain at West Point. He was
a man of fine literary culture and Mrs. French was a very attractive
woman. In a letter dated "Night before Thanksgiving," and addressed to
the early friend already mentioned, Lizzy refers to this removal and
also gives a glimpse of her active home life:

I have been busy all day and am so tired I can scarcely hold a pen.
Amidst the beating of eggs, the pounding of spices, the furious rolling
of pastry of all degrees of shortness, the filling of pies with
pumpkins, mince-meat, apples, and the like, the stoning of raisins and
washing of currants, the beating and baking of cake, and all the other
_ings_, (in all of which I have had my share) thoughts of your ladyship
have somehow squeezed themselves in. We have really bidden adieu to
"Pumpkin Place," as Mrs. Willis calls it, and established ourselves in
a house formerly occupied by old Parson Smith--and very snug and
comfortable we are, I assure you.

In the midst of our "moving," after I had packed and stowed and lifted,
and been elbowed by all the sharp corners in the house, and had my hands
all torn and scratched, I spied the new "Knickerbocker" 'mid a heap of
rubbish and was tempted to peep into it. Lo and behold, the first thing
that met my eye was the Lament of the Last Peach. [9] I didn't care to
read more and forthwith returned to fitting of carpets and arranging
tables and chairs and bureaus--but all the while meditating how I should
be revenged upon you. As to ----'s request I am sorry to answer nay; for
I feel it would be the greatest presumption in me to think of writing
for a magazine like that. I do not wish to publish anything, anywhere,
though it would be quite as wise as to entrust my scraps to _your_ care.
My mother often urges me to send little things which she happens to
fancy, to this and that periodical. Without her interference nothing
of mine would ever have found its way into print. But mammas look
with rose-colored spectacles on the actions and performances of their
offspring. Have you laughed over the Pickwick Papers? We have almost
laughed ourselves to death over them. I have not seen Lizzy D. for a
long time, bu