To Octavia Southgate—Mrs. Frazier’s.
12th of June, 1800.
Hanover Street, Boston.
In the Hospital! Bless your heart, I am not there! Who told you I was?
Mr. Davis I know, if you see him tell him I shall scold him for it.
Martha has heard the same; true I had some idea of going in, but gave it
up as soon as I heard Dr. Coffin did not attend. Horatio did likewise.
Your last to Mamma is dated from Mrs. Frazier’s; how, Octavia, shall we
discharge the debt of gratitude which we owe her? it had exceeded my
hopes of payment before you went, surely it is now doubled. You mention
nothing of any letters from me; I have written several and in one told
you particularly that Mamma wished you by all means to take lessons in
music; you don’t tell us what you have done since you have been in
Medford. Martha writes me that you are to spend part of vacation at Mrs.
Sumner’s. What has become of Ann and Harriett? I am out of patience
waiting for them, why don’t they write, it is an age since I have had
one line. Col. Boyd I hope will bring some letters from all of you. I
have heard that Eleanor Coffin received attentions from Sam Davis when
in Boston, did you hear of it? Martha writes me too that Mr. Andrews is
paying attention to a young lady in Boston, but does not mention her
name, _Miss Packman_ I guess; he was said to be her swain last winter.
Mary Porter went home last week, I went with her, she has now gone to
Topsham to tarry until uncle returns. I anxiously expect a letter from
Ann or Harriett to know the reason that they don’t hasten their visit. I
am learning my 12th tune, Octavia, I almost worship my Instrument,—it
reciprocates my sorrows and joys, and is my bosom companion. How I long
to have you return! I have hardly attempted to sing since you went away.
I am sure I shall not dare to when you return. I must enjoy my triumph
while you are absent; my musical talents will be dim when compared with
the lustre of yours. Pooh, Eliza, you are not envious? no! I will excel
in something else if not in music. Oh nonsense, this spirit of emulation
in families is destructive of concord and harmony, at least I will
endeavor to excel you in _sisterly affection_. If you outshine me in
accomplishments, will it not be all in the family? Certainly. How I wish
I had a _balloon_, I would see you and all my friends in Boston in a
trice. I have not got one. Do tell me is Ann the same dear good friend
and as much my _sister romp_ as ever? Tell her I am so affronted with
her that I won’t speak to her. Sister Boyd is over, won’t go home this
week; about your work, I will go down stairs and ask Mamma,—a _mourning
piece_ with a figure in it, and two other pictures, _mates_—figures of
females I think handsomer than Landscapes. Mrs. Rawson knows what is
best,—thus says Mamma—she don’t wish any screens. Mr. Little, the bearer
of this, another beau I send you, and here is poor _I_ not a bit of a
one, _Doc. Bacon_ excepted, and even _him_, _Cousin Mary_, selfish
creature, has lugged off his _heart_ and left the remainder here, so we
might as well have a stump—poor soul, his face looks like a _Piana_,[11]
one continued blush—I suppose for fear of hearing her name mentioned,
and she, unreasonable creature! thinks he is not all perfection.
Unaccountable taste! he is very _delightsome_ surely,—how long shall I
rant at this rate. I long to go to Portland and then I shall see some
being that looks like a beau—or a monkey, or anything you please;—To
supply the loss I often look out the window, till my imagination forms
one out of a tree or anything that I see, we can imagine anything you
know. Bless my soul, Mr. L. is waiting!