Give my love, respects, everything, to all.
July 3rd, 1800.
I believe, my Dear Mother, that you meant to give me a very close lesson
in Economy—when you cut out the shirts for me to make. You had measured
off the bodies of two and cut them part way in—and also the sleeves were
marked,—after I had cut them off there was a quarter of a yard left. I
now wanted the collars and all the trimmings. I made out after a great
deal of planning to get out the shoulder pieces,—wrist-bands, 1 pair of
neck gussets and one of sleeve do., are still wanting. I shall send this
on by Mrs. Smith, and if you can find out when she returns I wish you
would send some linen and some more shirts to make as I shall soon
finish these, and can as well finish making up the piece here as at
home. I was very sorry I did not wear my _habit_ down as I shall want it
when I go to Wiscassett. If you can possibly find an opportunity, I wish
you would send it to me. Aunt Porter’s child is one of the most
troublesome ones I ever saw, he cries continually, and she is at present
destitute of any help except a little girl about 12 years old. I wish,
my Dear Mother, that you would forward all letters that come to
Scarborough for me immediately. I hope you will enjoy yourself in
Portland this week. I was almost tempted to wish to stay a week
there,—there were so many parties, and so gay every body appeared—that I
longed to stay and take part. I forgot all about it before I got to
Topsham,—much as I enjoy society I never am unhappy when without it,—I
cannot but feel happy that I was brought up in retirement,—since from
habit at least, I have contracted a love for solitude, I never feel
alone when I have my pen or my book. I feel that I ought to be very
happy in the company of such a woman as Aunt Porter, for I really don’t
know any one whose mind is more improved, and which makes her both a
useful and instructing companion. Her sentiments and opinions are more
like those I have formed than any person I know of. I think my
disposition like hers, and I feel myself drawn towards her by an
irresistible impulse, not an hour but she reminds me of you and I
sincerely think her more like you than your own sister. I shall write
you when I go farther East. I don’t know what I shall do about writing
Octavia, as Mrs. Rawson told her I wrote on an improper subject when I
asked her in my letter if Mr. Davis was paying attention to Eleanor
Coffin, and she would not let her answer the question. This is
_refining_ too much, and if I can’t write as I feel, I can’t write at
all. Now I ask you, Mamma, if it is not quite a natural question when we
hear that any of our friends are paid attention to by any gentleman, to
ask a confirmation of the report from those we think most likely to know
the particulars. Never did I write a line to Octavia but I should have
been perfectly willing for you or my Father to have seen. You have
always treated me more like a companion than a daughter, and therefore
would make allowance for the volatile expressions I often make use of. I
never felt the least restraint in company with my Parents which would
induce me to stifle my gaiety, and you have kindly permitted me to rant
over all my nonsense uncorrected, and I positively believe it has never
injured. I must bid you good-night.