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! ELIZA. Give my love, respects, everything, to all. July 3rd, 1800.