E. S. A man of your gallantry, cousin, surely might make a small exertion to confer an obligation on two of the fair. Octavia and myself are very anxious that Miss Tappan should make us a visit. My father will bring Miranda home; but our chaise is broken so much that ’tis impossible to use it in its present state; none to be hired or borrowed. Why can’t you take a chaise and bring over Pauline and Betsey Tappan? Besides gratifying me with their company, I would be very glad to see you—no coaxing Eliza! But I am in earnest; come and see. Do come and bring them if possible. I will show you some of Martha’s letters from London, Bath. I will tell you everything I can think of and perhaps invent something if all this won’t do. Lord bless me! I should not have to urge every one so hard to come and see me. I am sure I should be discouraged; but seriously, I wish you to come _very_ much, but if you think it _impossible_, or rather very bad—don’t mind what I say; however, I expect you. ELIZA. To Mr. Moses Porter. Portland, Jan. 24, 1802. Now at this moment imagine your friend Eliza half-double with the cold, two children teazing and playing round the table, sister and nurse talking all the time, and you will then be prepared to receive a letter abounding with sound reasoning, profound argument, elegant language, and a profusion of sublime ideas; but do not stare if I intersperse, by way of relieving your mind, a few little Jackey Horner stories which I am obliged to gabble out by wholesale to stop the children’s mouths. If I had not had a most retentive memory, I should have forgotten we were correspondents. I can put up with such a tardy, indifferent, reluctant correspondent when I myself set the example—but we ladies are so accustomed to attention from gentlemen that I can hardly bring myself to put up with your neglect. I have a thousand times determined to wait just as long before I answer your letters as you do before mine are noticed, and you have nothing to prevent—but, pshaw! I am only spending time to give you something to laugh at. I must honestly acknowledge, however, that your last letter was very _acceptable_, though I was piqued at your neglecting me so long. I wish I felt adequate to giving an opinion on your perfect character, but as I have told you before, I cannot _think_ when all is noise and confusion around me. But I have endeavored in vain to find fault with it. I am really sorry that your sentiments so perfectly coincide with my own, for you have said all I think on the subject and much more than I could have expressed, therefore I am compelled to assent to all you have said. I am very glad we do not agree on every subject, for our letters would (mine I mean) be very unentertaining, indeed they have no merit to part with. I do not