Oh me what a poor goose I am, how I wish I did not have such a long tongue, how often, do such thoughts cross my mind, and I try to drive them off ‘til something I have said comes before me, and I grieve and repent, sorrow, and say to myself, in the future it shall be different, but alas how weak, how frail are our endeavours, and again I will find myself as thoughtless as ever, oh! What would I give to change in a great great many things—I know when I utter things I mean them all in fun, but how apt are persons to, repeat, and and often to what in the beginning was not anything—I don’t mean things that I really feel when I say, often it is time I say and do things in a passion, that I do repent of afterwards—but things that I say often that, I really mean, and don’t care if they are not liked—But poor me, every day, and I may almost add every moment, do I have some thing to mourn over, caused by my want of prudence, and a long tongue combining—I feel tonight exactly,—oh—I don’t know how I feel—any way, but good—It was not any thing much, but still it could be made much of, but I do not believe Mr Pippen as long as he has promised to keep it a secret will tell, I said it thoughtlessly and I may add foolishly, it was not any thing serious but still I wish I had never said it—If I was one of the kind that take things to heart and keep them there, I would be unhappy all the while—maybe it would be best for me though keep them at heart longer—But it is Sunday Night and Mr Chapman speaks of leaving for Raleigh in the morning, so I must try and write Mother a few lines—I have a good deal to write about, when I can find time, but had I hours to devote to it tonight, I could do very little, I feel so badly—I am nearly asleep now—hope at any rate I have pleasant dreams—