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| author | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-09-02 15:22:05 -0700 |
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| committer | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-09-02 15:22:05 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76799-0.txt b/76799-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3189d48 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6740 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76799 *** + + +[Illustration: + + Mrs. WALTER BOWNE + + From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B. Lawrence + + ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + + + + + A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO + SELECTIONS FROM THE LETTERS OF ELIZA SOUTHGATE BOWNE + + + WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY CLARENCE COOK + + _ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS AND VIEWS_ + + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + 1887 + + + + + Copyright, 1887, + BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS. + + + _The Riverside Press, Cambridge_: + Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. + + + + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + + _MRS. WALTER BOWNE_ _Frontispiece_ + _Miniature by Malbone_ + + _Facing Page_ + _DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE—MRS. SOUTHGATE_ _5_ + _From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. + Lawrence, Esq._ + + _MRS. JOHN DERBY_ (_Eleanor Coffin_) _22_ + _Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss + Rogers, of Boston_ + + _RUFUS KING_ _42_ + _From a painting by Woods_ + + _MRS. RUFUS KING_ _68_ + _After a portrait by Trumbull_ + + _MR. E. HASKET DERBY, OF SALEM_ (_Æt. 28, 1794_) _110_ + _From a Miniature in possession of Dr. Hasket + Derby, of Boston_ + + _MRS. RICHARD DERBY_ (_Martha Coffin_) _116_ + _Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs. + Peabody, of Boston_ + + _THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE_ _130_ + + _MR. WALTER BOWNE_ _140_ + _Miniature by Malbone_ + + _THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM_ _148_ + + _LUCIA WADSWORTH—ZILPAH WADSWORTH_ _159_ + _From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. + Lawrence, Esq._ + + _SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE, HELL GATE, LONG ISLAND_ _167_ + + _THE BOWNE HOUSE, FLUSHING_ _195_ + _Erected 1661_ + + _JAMES GORE KING_ _206_ + _From a Miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq._ + + _CHARLES KING_ _210_ + _From a Miniature in the possession of his + daughter, Mrs. Martin._ + + + + + INTRODUCTION. + + +Eliza Southgate, the writer of the letters here collected, was the +daughter of Robert and Mary Southgate, and was born in Scarborough, Me., +September 24, 1783. She was the third in a family of twelve children. +Her father came of English stock, and was born in Leicester, Mass., +where his family had long been settled. Here he studied medicine, and +when he had finished his course he left his native place, where there +appeared to be no room for another practitioner, and settled in +Scarborough. We are told that, after the primitive fashion of the time, +he set out to seek his fortune on horseback, with all his worldly goods +in a pair of saddle-bags. In this way he entered Scarborough, where his +character and talents were not long in getting him a good position. He +had picked up some law, and in a new and small community was able to +make his knowledge useful, so that in course of time he was appointed a +Judge in the Court of Common Pleas. + +He had not been long in Scarborough before he married Mary, the daughter +of Richard King, a large landholder in the District of Maine. “Pretty +Polly King,” as Mary was familiarly called by her friends, was the +second daughter of Mr. King by his first wife. The eldest child by this +marriage was Rufus—well known for the distinguished part he played in +the early history of our country. A third child, Pauline, married Mr. +Porter; their son Moses, whose name often occurs in these letters, was a +young man of great promise. He engaged his cousin Eliza in a +correspondence, after the somewhat formal fashion of the time; only her +letters remain to indicate its character, but they are among her best. +In her lively tilting on the well-worn subject of the education of the +sexes, the lady shows herself a clever mistress of the foils, and there +are not wanting indications that the combatants did not escape from the +encounter heart-whole. But however this may have been, all was ended by +the sudden death of Mr. Porter from a fever caught in boarding an +infected vessel in the transaction of some necessary business. + +Scarborough was not a large town, but its position as a seaport gave it +some importance, and the society was far above what is ordinarily met +with in such places. The Hunnewells, Bragdons, Bacons, Emersons, +Wadsworths, names that are distinguished in the social history of New +England, belong to the early settlers of the neighborhood, and are still +represented there. Zilpah, one of the daughters of General Peleg +Wadsworth, who are frequently mentioned in these letters, married +Stephen Longfellow, a cousin of Mrs. Southgate, and became the mother of +the poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. + +The Southgates gave their children the best education to be had in those +times. They were first sent to school in Scarborough; but, later, were +placed—to be “finished,” as the old phrase was—at boarding-schools near +Boston. When she was fourteen years old, Eliza was sent to a school at +Medford, and a letter written from that place gives a rather +uncomfortable notion of her surroundings. In these few childish lines, +however, the character of the woman is plainly prefigured—her +observation, her power of clear, terse statement, her playful humor, her +cheerful submission to duty, and her affection for her parents, making +her willing to put up with whatever was disagreeable rather than give +them uneasiness. However, Dr. Southgate, as a physician, could see that +a school where the pupils slept, four beds in a small chamber and two in +a bed, was not the place for a growing girl, and he therefore took his +daughter away and put her at the school at Medford, kept by Mrs. Rowson. +This, for its time, was an excellent school, and Miss Southgate remained +there until the day came when “studies” were to be thrown aside, and +“life” was to begin. She seems by her letters to have been very happy +while under Mrs. Rowson’s care—the varied and somewhat romantic life led +by that lady perhaps fitted her, better than would have been thought, to +be the guide and friend of a girl of Eliza Southgate’s peculiar +character.[1] + +Her life after she left school is so fully described in her letters that +there is no need of following it in detail. She tells her own story far +better than another could do it, and much that would inevitably be dull +and commonplace narrated in plain prose, sparkles with life under the +swift pen of this lively girl. She tells of her visit to Saratoga, with +her friends Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby; and no school-girl of our time, +writing from Paris or London, could describe the wonders of her tour +with greater ecstasy. She sees this new corner of the world with the +miracle-working eye of youth, and accepts everything with youth’s +unquestioning heart. Previous letters had described Salem in terms +equally ecstatic, and after her account of the country-seat of the +Derbys, there could be nothing left to say of Versailles or St. Cloud. +But what then? Was not this a fine old country-house, with its formal +garden, its provincial but still solid stateliness, and, above all, with +its hearty, cheerful hospitality? It was our heroine’s first glimpse of +the gay world of fashion of her time, and she enjoyed it to the full. + +The story of her first meeting with her future husband, of her +engagement to him, of their wedding-journey, is told with the simplicity +and unaffected candor that were characteristic of her. The letter to her +mother in which she asks her consent to the marriage, shows mother and +daughter in the happiest light; it is the highest praise that could be +awarded the training the Southgates had given their children. Perfect +love had bred perfect confidence, and it is certainly pleasant to know +that the hearts and judgments of the parents could only confirm the +decision of their daughter. Mr. Walter Bowne was everything that the +most exacting parents could wish as the husband of a daughter so dear to +them. + +But the new life of happiness thus entered upon was brief, and in a few +months more than six years it had come to an end. In 1803 Mr. Bowne and +Miss Southgate were married. In 1806 their first child, a boy, named +Walter, after his father, was born; and two years later, in July, 1808, +came their second child, a girl, named Mary, after Mrs. Bowne’s mother. +After the birth of this child, Mrs. Bowne did not recover her strength, +and as winter was coming on, the medical men recommended a sea-voyage +and a visit to a warmer climate. It was determined to send the invalid +to Charleston, S. C.; and accordingly Mrs. Bowne set out, accompanied by +her sister Octavia and her husband, Mr. Browne, leaving Mr. Bowne in New +York, where he had some business-affairs to settle before he should join +his wife later in the season. Unhappily, the sea-voyage proved a +disastrous experiment; and when the party arrived at Charleston, Mrs. +Bowne was in so enfeebled a condition from its effects that her sister +gave up all hope of saving her life. She failed rapidly, and died on the +20th of February, only two months after her arrival. Mr. Bowne, who, in +common with her family, had probably no idea of the serious nature of +his wife’s illness when she left New York, yet made all the haste he +could to follow her, but had the inexpressible grief to arrive too late. +His only consolation was in the fact that her suffering had been brief, +and that her departure was serene, while all that a sister’s +affectionate devotion could avail to comfort her had been given without +stint from a full heart; and even strangers in a strange city had been +moved, by the beauty and loveliness of this young mother, and by her +pitiful case, deprived of husband and children, to shield her and cheer +her with all that the warmhearted Southern hospitality knows so well to +bestow. She was buried in Charleston and her grave was hid in flowers +sent by the people of the town and the neighboring plantations, many of +whom had only heard her name and story. + + +There is little need for an editor’s help in following the story of the +life which these letters portray. They are, in fact, an almost complete +diary of that life, for the earliest bears date when the writer was a +child at boarding-school, and the last was written only a few days +before she died. Of the years that came between, the record is almost +uninterrupted; so that the task confided to me resolves itself into +little more than a statement of the few facts connected with the +personal and family history of their author, that naturally have no +place in the letters themselves. + +No doubt we have gained much, so far as the material convenience of the +great public life is concerned, from the inventions that, for all +practical purposes, have reduced time and space to comparative +insignificance. We have, however, lost some good things, which those who +lived in younger days must always regret, and for which there is small +compensation in the material gain we have received in exchange. Among +these losses, that of letter-writing is perhaps the most serious. A +whole world of innocent enjoyment for contemporaries and for posterity +has been blotted out, and, so far as appears, nothing is taking its +place. Is it the newspapers? But how scattered, how disjointed, how +impersonal, the record they contain! We might as well hope to recall the +charm of some old garden loved in youth, by turning over the leaves of a +_herbarium_ in which its flowers had been pressed, as to make the +domestic life of a time gone by, live again in reading the files of a +newspaper. Nor do memoirs or biographies give us what we want. They are +too formal, too self-conscious; they want the spontaneity, the vividness +of impression, the lightness of the recording hand. These things letters +give us, and letters alone. + +Science has many fairy-tales to tell us, but the most magical of all her +inventions is that toy, the phonograph, invented by our own Edison. It +listens to the words that are whispered in its ear, to the songs that +are sung to it, to the gossip that buzzes about it, and the record made +on its revolving surface, replaced at any time upon the cylinder—after +the lapse of an hour, or of a hundred years—will repeat what has been +confided to it in the very voice of the speaker, with every tone and +every inflection as clear as when first it spoke. + +Familiar letters are privileged to play the same magical part. To the +readers of successive generations, they speak with the living voice of +the writer; they recall the fugitive emotions, the joys, the sorrows, +the whims, the passions, and as we read we persuade ourselves that we +are part and parcel of the times they record. + +What a difference in our enjoyment it would make, were the letters of +Fanny Burney and Horace Walpole taken from us! Even Hannah More becomes +entertaining; for though her circle was a narrow one, there were +delightful people in it, and the letters make us at home in her little +world, as no formal biography could do. + +Nowadays no one writes letters, and no one would have time to read them +if they were written. Little notes fly back and forth, like swallows, +between friend and friend, between parent and child, carrying the news +of the day in small morsels easily digested; it is not worth while to +tell the whole story with the pen, when it can be told in a few weeks, +at the farthest, with the voice. For nobody now is more than a few weeks +from anywhere. In the spring my neighbor came home with his wife from +the Philippine Islands, to pass a few weeks with his friends and hers. +Yesterday he ran back to the islands, to buckle to business again. Why +take the trouble while here to detail the gossip of his home-circle to +his Philippine friends, in letters, when in a fortnight or so he would +be recounting it to them at their own tables? + +The letters here printed have more than the interest of contemporary +records; they paint in words, with a thousand delicate and expressive +touches, the portrait of a lively and beautiful girl, with a character +as striking and individual as the face that Malbone has drawn for us on +ivory. Never was a reigning beauty more spirited, never was a spirited +girl of fashion more truly lovable, than Eliza Bowne. Whether she be at +boarding-school, writing letters to her “honored parents,” and hiding +her little homesick heart in vain under the formal phrases dictated by +the starched decorum of the day; or stealing an hour for her pen amid +the whirl of the gay world in which she sparkled, such a cheerful star, +and rattling off to her mother the story of the day’s doings—she is +always the same generous, unselfish creature; impulsive, but with her +impulses well in hand; a heart brimming over with mirth, its clear +crystal clouded by no drop of malice; witty, but with a friendly glint +in her mischievous eyes, even when, as now and then happens, she gives +formality or presumption a fillip. Love and friendship followed her +wherever she went in her too brief span of life, and fortune heaped her +girlish lap with all good things; but she showed herself worthy of her +blessings, and kept herself unspotted from the world. + +Something should be said of the literary merit of these letters. The +name of Richardson has been mentioned; but Richardson never wrote +anything so fresh from the heart, so playful in their sincerity, as some +of the letters to her cousin, Moses Porter; nor could Richardson have +touched with so light a hand the story of the drive home in the +snow-storm after the Assembly ball, or the account of the game of Loo, +when, with a fluttering heart, she stands, divided between the eager +desire to read the letter she has just slipped into her pocket, and the +impatient calls of her partners to join them at the game. Fanny Burney, +and Fanny Burney alone, could have written letters like these. + +They are not, however, the letters of a practised writer, nor was there +ever in her mind any thought of publication. It was the age of +“epistolary correspondence:” all the girls of Miss Southgate’s +acquaintance were writing letters to their friends, long ones, often, +made up in the manner of a diary, with a week’s doings recorded day by +day; for postage was dear, and to send blank paper an extravagance, and +no doubt, like her friends, she forgot her letters as soon as they were +sent off. Her correspondents were not so indifferent, however, and they +kept her letters carefully. Her mother, to whom the most of them were +written, left those sent to herself as a bequest to her granddaughter, +Mrs. John W. Lawrence, the “little Mary” of the later letters. Mrs. +Bowne died in the same year in which this daughter was born; but her +sister-in-law, Miss Caroline Bowne, who devoted herself to the care of +the little girl after her mother’s death, instilled into her heart such +an affection for her parent’s memory that she came to cherish it with an +almost religious devotion, and guarded as a sacred relic everything that +had belonged to her. To the letters left her by her grandmother, Mrs. +Lawrence added all she could collect from other persons with whom her +mother had corresponded. They came to her in a sad state, from much +reading and passing about from hand to hand; and to preserve their +contents she copied the whole collection, with the greatest care, in her +neat, methodical handwriting, into two small books, and these, in her +turn, she bequeathed to her children, as her grandmother had bequeathed +the originals to her. + +They are now given to the public, enriched with a considerable number of +contemporary portraits and other illustrations, carefully reproduced +from original miniatures and old prints; and with an abundance of +biographical notes, industriously collected by a competent hand, which +cannot fail to be of value to the social chronicler of our time. While +the importance of these letters as illustrations of the domestic life of +our country at a most interesting time is considerable, their chief +value, after all, lies in the picture they give of the writer. It is a +picture drawn, as we have said, with a thousand graceful touches, and +the natural girlish loveliness of the portraiture shows best when it is +read from end to end. Then, as we look up from the printed page to +Malbone’s portrait, the vision takes shape: + + “A hair-brained, sentimental trace + Was strongly markèd in her face; + A wildly witty, rustic grace + Shone full upon her; + Her eye, even turned on empty space, + Beamed keen with honour.” + + CLARENCE COOK. + + FISHKILL-ON-HUDSON, + October 1, 1887. + + + + + A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO + + + Medford, Jan. 23, 1797. + + My Mamma: + +I went to Boston last Saturday, and there I received your letter. I have +now to communicate to you only my wishes to tarry in Boston a quarter, +if convenient. In my last letter to my Father I did not say anything +respecting it because I did not wish Mrs. Wyman to know I had an +inclination to leave her school, but only because I thought you would +wish me to come home when my quarter was out. I have a great desire to +see my family, but I have a still greater desire to finish my education. + +Still I have to beg you to remind my friends and acquaintances that I +remain the same Eliza, and that I bear the same love I ever did to them, +whether they have forgotten me or not. + +Tell my little Brothers and Sisters I want to see them very much indeed. +Write me an answer as soon as you can conveniently. I shall send you +some of my work which you never have seen,—it is my Arithmetic. + +Permit me, my Honored Mother, to claim the title of + + Your affectionate daughter, + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, May 12, 1797. + + Honored Parents: + +With pleasure I sit down to the best of parents to inform them of my +situation, as doubtless they are anxious to hear,—permit me to tell them +something of my foolish heart. When I first came here I gave myself up +to reflection, but not pleasing reflections. When Mr. Boyd[2] left me I +burst into tears and instead of trying to calm my feelings I tried to +feel worse. I begin to feel happier and will soon gather up all my +Philosophy and think of the duty that now attends me, to think that here +I may drink freely of the fountain of knowledge, but I will not dwell +any longer on this subject. I am not doing anything but writing, +reading, and cyphering. There is a French Master coming next Monday, and +he will teach French and Dancing. William Boyd and Mr. Wyman advise me +to learn French, yet if I do at all I wish you to write me very soon +what you think best, for the school begins on Monday. Mr. Wyman says it +will not take up but a very little of my time, for it is but two days in +the week, and the lessons only 2 hours long. Mr. Wyman says I must learn +Geometry before Geography, and that I better not begin it till I have +got through my Cyphering. + +[Illustration: + + DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE MRS. SOUTHGATE + + From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Lawrence, Esq. +] + +We get up early in the morning and make our beds and sweep the chamber, +it is a chamber about as large as our kitchen chamber, and a little +better finished. There’s 4 beds in the chamber, and two persons in each +bed, we have chocolate for breakfast and supper. + + Your affectionate Daughter + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Medford, May 25, 1797. + + My dear Parents: + +I hope I am in some measure sensible of the great obligation I am under +to you for the inexpressible kindness and attention which I have +received of you from the cradle to my present situation in school. Many +have been your anxious cares for the welfare of me, your child, at every +stage and period of my inexperienced life to the present moment. In my +infancy you nursed and reared me up, my inclinations you have indulged +and checked my follies—have liberally fed me with the bounty of your +table, and from your instructive lips I have been admonished to virtue, +morality, and religion. The debt of gratitude I owe you is great, yet I +hope to repay you by duly attending to your counsels and to my +improvement in useful knowledge. + + My thankful heart with grateful feelings beat, + With filial duty I my Parents greet, + Your fostering care hath reared me from my birth, + And been my Guardians, since I’ve been on earth, + With love unequalled taught the surest way, + And Check’d my passions when they went astray. + I wish and trust to glad declining years,— + Make each heart gay—each eye refrain from tears. + When days are finished and when time shall cease + May you be wafted to eternal peace + +Is the sincere wish of your dutiful Daughter, + + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Robert Southgate Esqr. & Lady. + + Medford, June 13, 1797. + + Dear Mother: + +With what pleasure did I receive your letter and hear the praises of an +approving Mother! It shall be my study to please and make you happy. You +said you hoped that I was not disappointed in learning French; I hope +you think that I have too much _love_ and _reverence_ for my Parents to +take any thing amiss that _they_ thought most proper for me. I was very +happy to hear that you had received the bonnets, and I hope they will +suit you. I have never received a letter from Horatio[3] since I have +been here. I expect to begin Geometry as soon as I have done Cyphering, +which I hope will be soon, for I have got as far as Practice. Tell +Isabella[4] and Mama[5] King, that some letters from them would give me +great pleasure and that I hope to experience it soon. I should have +written to Mama King, but I had not time, but I intend to, the first +opportunity. I have found the nubs and sent them to Portland. I received +your letter by my Brother Boyd, and was very much surprised to hear that +Octavia[6] was going to have the small-pox. Please to give my love to +Harriet Emerson, and Mary Rice, and tell them that I intend to write to +them very soon and shall expect some letters from them. Give my love to +all my friends and tell them that I often think on them, and I hope they +will not forget your affectionate daughter + + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, August 11, 1797. + + Dear Parents: + +It is a long time since I received a letter from home, and I have +neglected my duty in not writing to you oftener. I shall send you with +this some of my Pieces, and you will see if you think I have improved +any: the Epitaph on the Hon. Thomas Russell was the first one that I +wrote. My brother Boyd never came to see me when he was up, only called +and delivered me the letter. I have never heard any thing since from +Boston, nor seen any of my acquaintance from there. I have not been to +Boston since Election. I expected to have gone to Commencement, but I +did not. I fear that the time allotted for my stay here will be too +short for me to go so far as I wish, for I shall have to go much farther +in Arithmetic than I had an idea of, then go over it again in a large +book of my own writing; for my Instructor does not wish to give me a +superficial knowledge only. He says if I am very diligent; he thinks +that 9 months from the time I came will _do_, if I can’t stay longer; I +should feel happy, and very grateful, if you thought proper to let me +tarry that time. I have Cyphered now farther than Isabella did, for I +have been thro’ Practice, the Rule of Three and Interest and two or +three rules that I never did before. + +I would thank you to write me word if you are willing for me to stay so +long. With wishing you health and all the happiness which you are +capable of enjoying, permit me to subscribe myself + +Your affectionate and most dutiful Daughter + + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mr. & Mrs. Southgate. + + Medford, Aug. 14, 1797. + + Dear Mother: + +I am very sorry for your trouble, and sympathize with you in it. I now +regret being from home, more than ever, for I think I might be of +service to you now the children are sick. I hope they will be as much +favored in their sickness _now_, as they were when they had the measles. +I am very sorry that Jane has broken her arm, for it generally causes a +long confinement, and I fear she has not got patience enough to bear it +without a great deal of trouble. I suppose that Isabella will be very +much worried about her babe. I would thank you to write me very often +now—for I shall be very anxious about the children. I believe I have got +some news to tell you, that is, I have found one of your acquaintance, +and relation; it is a Mrs. _Sawyer_, before she was married she was +Polly King, and she says that you kept at their house when you was in +Boston. I believe I have nothing more to request, only for you to give +my love to all the children, and _kiss_ each of them for _me_, and tell +them to be as patient as they can. Give my respects to my Father and +tell him I want to receive a letter from him very much. + +I am your affectionate and dutiful daughter + + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, August 25, 1797. + + Dear Mother: + +I received your packet of things the 20th inst. and was very glad of +them. If you will be so kind as to send me word whether Sarah’s[7] +ear-rings were in the basket, I will be much obliged to you. I have +forgotten whether I did or not—write me word if you like your bonnet and +the children’s, I hope you do. + +Give my love to Sarah and all the children, and kiss Arixene,[8] and +Robert for me. Never did I know the worth of good parents half so much +as now I am from them; I never missed our closet so much, and above all +things our cheese and Butter which we have but very little of, but I am +very contented. I wish you would send me up my patterns all of them for +I want them very much indeed, for I expect to work me a gown. + + I am with due respect + Your dutiful daughter + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, Sept. 30, 1797. + + Dear Mother: + +You mentioned in yours, of the 16th inst. that it was a long time since +you had received a letter from me; but it was owing to my studies which +took up the greater part of my time; for I have been busy in my +Arithmetic, but I finished it yesterday, and expect now to begin my +large manuscript Arithmetic. You say that you shall regret so long an +absence; not more certainly than I shall, but a strong desire to possess +more useful knowledge than I at present do, I can dispense with the +pleasure a little longer of beholding my friends and I hope I shall be +better prepared to meet my good parents towards whom my heart overflows +with gratitude. You mentioned in your letter about my Winter clothes of +which I will make out a Memorandum. I shall want a coat and you may send +it up for me to make, or you may make it your self, but I want it made +loose with a belt. I wish you to send me enough of all my slips to make +long sleeves that you can, and I wish you would pattern my dark slip to +make long sleeves. I want a flannel waist, and a petticoat, for my white +one dirts so quick that I had rather have a colored one. I have nothing +more to write, only give my love to all who ask after me. I have just +received a letter from Horatio, he is very well. + + Your ever affectionate daughter + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, Oct. 17, 1797. + + Dear Brother: + +Yours of the 11th of Sept. was gratefully received by your affectionate +Sister; and your excuse at first I thought not very good, but now I +think it very good, for I have been plagued very much myself. William +Boyd came from Portland about a fortnight since and by him I was +informed that Sister Isabella’s child was very sick and he was in doubt +whether it would ever get over it. I feel for Isabella much more than I +can tell you who is but just entered the bonds of Matrimony should so +soon have sickness, and perhaps Death, be one of the guests of her +family. I was also informed that the children had all got over the +hooping cough and that Octavia was much healthier than she was before +she had the small-pox. By my last letter from home Papa informed me that +I might tarry all Winter and I have concluded to. I suppose you would +like to know how I spend my time here. I shall answer, very well; my +going abroad is chiefly in Boston, for I don’t go out much in Medford. +It was vacation about a week since and I spent it in Boston very +agreeably. + +I keep at Mr. Boyd’s when I am there, and Mrs. Little’s. I go to Boston +every public day as Mr. B. is so good as to send for me. I am very fond +of that family and likewise Mrs. Little’s. You speak of my writing and +you think that I have improved. I am glad of it. I hope I shall make as +great progress in my other studies and be an “Accomplished Miss.” + +Horatio do write very soon; will you? + + Adieu! your affectionate Sister + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Horatio Southgate. + + Medford, Nov. 10, 1797. + +You mentioned in your letter, my dear mother, that Cousin Mary informed +you that I expected to go to the Ball. I did think that I should go but +I altered my mind; I had 2 or 3 invitations but I would not accept of +any of them. My cloak likewise you mentioned something about, which I +shall attend to when I go to Boston. I expect to go to Boston at +Thanksgiving, for there is a vacation of a week. I had a letter from +_Horatio_ yesterday, he was well. Isabella wrote me word that my Father +had got the Rheumatism very bad, which I am sorry to hear. If the wishes +or prayers of Eliza would heal the wound, it would not long remain +unheal’d. + +My love to all the children, tell them I don’t dare to tell them how +much I want to see them, nor even think. My love to all that ask after +me. May all the happiness that is possible for you to enjoy be +experienced is the sincere wish of + + Your affectionate Daughter + ELIZA S. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + + Medford, Dec. 16, 1797. + + My Dear Father: + +I received yours with pleasure and was happy to hear that you were +better. I hope you will continue growing better until the complaint is +entirely removed. I came from Boston yesterday after spending vacation +there. I went to the theater the night before for the first time, and +Mr. Turner came into the box where I was. I did not know him at first, +neither did he me, but he soon found me out. With this I shall send some +pieces. My respect is justly due to my good Mother, and my love to all +who ask after me, the children in particular. I hope to improve to your +satisfaction, which will amply reward me for all my pains. + +I must conclude with wishing you health and happiness. + + Your ever affectionate daughter, E. S. + + Medford, Jan’y 9th, 1798. + + My Good Father: + +The contents of your letter surprised me at first; it may sometimes be +of service to me, for while I have such a monitor, I never can act +contrary to such advice. No, my Father, I hope by the help of Heaven +never to cause shame or misery to attend the grey hairs of my Parents +nor myself, but on the contrary to _glad_ your declining years with +happiness and that you may never have cause to rue the day that gave me +existence. My heart feels no attachment except to my family. I respect +many of my friends but _love_ none but my Parents. Your letter shall be +my guide from home, and when I again behold our own peaceful mansion +then will I again be guided by my Parents’ happiness,—their happiness +shall be my pursuit. My heart overflows with gratitude toward you and my +good Mother. I am sensible of the innumerable obligations I am under to +you. You mention in your letter about my pieces, which you say you +imagine are purloined; I am very sorry if they are, for I set more by +them than any of my pieces; one was the Mariner’s Compass, and the other +was a Geometrical piece. I spent Thanksgiving at Mrs. Little’s and +Christmas here. I have finished my large Manuscript Arithmetic and want +to get it bound, and then I shall send it to you. I have done a small +Geometry book and shall begin a large one to-morrow, such a one as you +saw at Mr. Wyman’s if you remember. It is the beginning of a new year; +allow me then to pay you the compliments of the season.—I pray that this +year to you may prove a year of health, prosperity, and love. My quarter +will be out the 8th day of next month, it will be in about four weeks. I +wish you would write me soon how I am to come home—for I wish to know. + +I should be very glad if _you_ could make it convenient to come for me, +for I wish _you_ to come. Give my love to Irene and tell her I believe +she owes me a letter; if you please you may tell her that part of my +letter which concerns school affairs. + +My love is due to all who will take the trouble to ask after me. Tell +Mamma I have begun the turban and will send it as soon as I finish it. +When I see her I will tell her why I did not do it before. + +Accept my sincere wishes that My Parents may enjoy all the happiness +that ever mortals know. + + Still I hope I am + Your _dutiful_ Daughter, + ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Robert Southgate, Esq. + + Boston, Jan. 30, 1798. + + My Honored Father: + +By Capt. Bradbury I was informed that you wished me to come home with +him, which I should have complied with, had not I have seen my Uncle +William[9] to-day, and he informed me that you had concluded to let me +spend some time in Boston, which I was very glad to hear. I shall now +wait until I hear certain, which I wish you to send me word by the next +post.—I shall enclose in this a card of Mrs. Rawson’s terms which you +may peruse; until then I remain with the same affection, + + Your dutiful Daughter, ELIZA S. + + Boston, February 13, 1798. + + Hon. Father: + +I am again placed at school under the tuition of an amiable lady, so +mild, so good, no one can help loving her; she treats all her scholars +with such a tenderness as would win the affection of the most savage +brute, tho’ scarcely able to receive an impression of the kind. I learn +Embroidery and Geography at present and wish your permission to learn +Musick. You may justly say, my best of Fathers, that every letter of +mine is one which is asking for something more; never contented—I only +ask, if you refuse me, I know you do what you think best, and I am sure +I ought not to complain, for you have never yet refused me anything that +I have asked, my best of Parents, how shall I repay you? You answer, by +your good behaviour. Heaven grant that it may be such as may repay you. +A year will have rolled over my head before I shall see my Parents. I +have ventured from them at an early age to be so long a time absent, but +I hope I have learnt a good lesson by it—a lesson of experience, which +is the best lesson I could learn. + +I have described one of the blessings of creation in Mrs. Rawson, and +now I will describe Mrs. Wyman as the reverse: she is the worst woman I +ever knew of all that I ever saw; nobody knows what I suffered from the +treatment of that woman—I had the misfortune to be a favorite with Miss +Haskell and Mr. Wyman, she said, and she treated me as her own malicious +heart dictated; but whatever is, is right, and I learnt a good lesson by +it. I wish you, my Father, to write an answer soon and let me know if I +may learn music.—Give my best respects to my good Mother, tho’ what I +say to my Father applies to my Mother as much as to my Father. May it +please the disposer of all events to return me safe home to the bosom of +my friends in health safely. I never was happier in my life I think, and +my heart overflows toward my heavenly Father for it; and may it please +him to continue it and afford it to my Parents, is the sincere wish of + + Your ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + Robert Southgate, Esqr. + + Boston, May 12th, 1798. + + My dear Parents: + +Now at the end of the week, when my hopes are almost exhausted of seeing +my brother, I attempt to address you,—a task which was once delightful +but now painful since my Mother’s last letter. I see my errors, and if I +can hope they will no longer be remembered by my Parents, I shall again +be happy. + +My Mother’s letter greatly surprised me after having received so +different a one from my Father. Indeed, my Parents, did you think I +would any longer cherish a passion _you_ disapproved? After expressing +your disapprobation it was enough, your _wishes are_ and ever shall be +my commands. I have spent a week of painful expectation; no letter, no +brother, no father have come, and I am now in anxious expectation to +receive a letter to-night, but I dare not hope it to be so. Do, my +Father, as soon as you receive this send for me as soon as possible, for +my quarter at Mrs. Rawson’s was out last Saturday, and as circumstances +are, I thought it proper not to go to Mr. Boyd’s. I beg of you to send +for me home directly, for I only board at Mrs. Rawson’s now, for I am in +expectation of seeing or hearing every day and therefore I have not +begun any more work. My time is spending without gain. I am at Mrs. +Frazier’s and have been here ever since Thursday. I shall go back to +Mrs. Rawson’s to-night and there wait for further orders. Time hangs +more heavy than ever it did before. I am with the most sincere Respect +and affection + + Your daughter ELIZA. + + R. & M. Southgate. + + Scarborough, Dec. 16th. + +I am sorry to have given Aunt Porter such an opportunity of charging me +with neglect in executing her commission, but I can easily convince her +I did not deserve censure; for until last Friday I never received yours +of Nov. 22nd, and I shall execute that part of Aunt’s request which I +can in Scarborough—the gown patterns I shall enclose. The one with a fan +back is meant to just meet before and pin the Robings, no string belt or +any thing. The other pattern is a plain waist with strips of the same +sticked on, and for white, laced between with bobbin or cord. I have a +muslin done so with black silk cord, which looks very handsome—and I +have altered my brown silk into one like the other pattern. I was over +at Saco yesterday and saw one Mary [King] had made in Boston. It was a +separate waist, or rather the breadths did not go quite up. The waist +was plain with one stripe of cording let in behind and the rest of the +waist perfectly plain—the skirt part was plaited in box plaits 3 of a +side—which reached to the shoulder strap and only enough left to meet +strait before, as is one of the patterns I have sent. You ask so many +questions that I hardly know how to answer them. Isabella is almost +recovered—her family well. The baby I believe will be named Charles +Orlando. The assemblies begin next Thursday—as also do Saco assemblies, +and on Friday I go to the Saco assembly—probably I shall go to next +Portland assembly. You ask how Mr. Little and Laura do? A strange +question. Laura is well or was last Thursday, and Mr. Little is soon to +be married to Miss Bowman of Exeter. + +Papa has been confined to the house a week yesterday by a wound on his +leg which he made with an axe, he wounded the tendon which leads from +his great toe up, he cut it a little above the ankle—it has been very +painful. Give my love to Aunt, tell her I shall not be able to come down +this winter, for my next visit will be to Boston. Write me the next +opportunity respecting the sables, and the time and how Uncle goes to +Boston that I may be in readiness. + +Family all well. + + ELIZA. + + To Octavia. + + Boston, Feb. 7th, 1800. + +After the toil, the bustle and fatigue of the week I turn towards home +to relate the manner in which I have spent my time. I have been +continually engaged in parties, plays, balls, &c. &c. Since the first +week I came to town, I have attended all the balls and assemblies, one +one week and one the next. They have regular balls once a fortnight, so +that I have been to one or the other every Thursday. They are very +brilliant, and I have formed a number of pleasing acquaintances there; +last night, which was ball night, I drew No. 5, & 2nd sett drew a Mr. +Snow, bad partner; danced voluntarily with Mr. Oliver, Mr. Andrews, Mr. +McPherson; danced until 1 o’clock; they have charming suppers, table +laid entirely with china. I had charming partners always. To-day I +intended going to Mrs. Codman’s, engaged to a week ago, but wrote a +billett I was indisposed, but the truth of the matter was that I wanted +to go to the play to see Bunker hill, and Uncle (William King) wished I +should—therefore I shall go. I have engagements for the greater part of +next week. To-morrow we all go to hear Fisher Ames’ Eulogy. And in the +morning going to look at some instruments; however we got one picked out +that I imagine we shall take, 150 dollars—a charming toned one and not +made in this country. I am still at Mrs. Frazier’s, she treats me with +the greatest attention. Nancy is indeed a charming girl,—I have the +promise of her company the ensuing summer. I have bought me a very +handsome skirt, white satin. Richard Cutts went shopping with me +yesterday morn, engaged to go to the play next week with him. For +mourning for Washington the ladies dress as much as if for a relation, +some entirely in black, but now many wear only a ribbon with a line +painted on it. I have not yet been out to see Mrs. Rawson and Miss +Haskell, but intend to next week. Uncle William [King] has been very +attentive to me—carried me to the play 3 or 4 times and to all the balls +and assemblies excepting the last which I went with Mr. Andrews. Give my +best respects to Pappa and Mamma, and tell them I shall soon be tired of +this dissipated life and almost want to go home already. I have a line +to write to Mary Porter and must conclude. + + ELIZA. + + To Octavia. + +[Illustration: + + Mrs. JOHN DERBY. (Eleanor Coffin.) + + From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss Rogers of Boston. + + ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + +Now Mamma, what do you think I am going to ask for?—a wig. Eleanor[10] +has got a new one just like my hair and only 5 dollars, Mrs. Mayo one +just like it. I must either cut my hair or have one, I cannot dress it +at all _stylish_. Mrs. Coffin bought Eleanor’s and says that she will +write to Mrs. Sumner to get me one just like it; how much time it will +save—in one year we could save it in pins and paper, besides the +_trouble_. At the assembly I was quite ashamed of my head, for nobody +has long hair. If you will consent to my having one do send me over a 5 +dollar bill by the post immediately after you receive this, for I am in +hopes to have it for the next Assembly—do send me word immediately if +you can let me have one. Tell Octavia she must write soon, and that +there are many inquiries after her. + + ELIZA. + +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! + + ELIZA. + +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. + + ELIZA. + +Pray don’t forget to send some more shirts. + + July 17, 1800. + +I must again trouble my Dear Mother by requesting her to send on my +spotted muslin. A week from next Saturday I set out for Wiscassett, in +company with Uncle William and Aunt Porter. Uncle will fetch Ann[12] to +meet us there, and as she has some acquaintance there we shall stay some +time and aunt will leave us and return to Topsham; so long a visit in +Wiscassett will oblige me to muster all my muslins, for I am informed +they are so monstrous smart as to take no notice of any lady that can +condescend to wear a calico gown, therefore, dear mother, to ensure me a +favorable reception, pray send my spotted muslin by the next mail after +you receive this, or I shall be on my way to Wiscassett. I shall go on +horseback,—how I want my habit,—I wish it had not been so warm when I +left home and I should have worn it. I am in hopes you will find an +opportunity to send it by a private conveyance before I go, but my +muslin you must certainly send by the mail. Aunt Porter’s little Rufus +is very sick, poor child, he was born under an evil star. I believe +Pandora opened her box upon him when he first came into existence. The +mumps, I believe, now afflict him; night before last we were alarmed +about him for fear of his having the Quinsy, but I believe he is in no +danger of that now. I wish to hear from home very much. + + ELIZA. + +I shall anxiously await the arrival of the next mail after you receive +this. + + Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800. + +I suppose I ought to commence my letter with an humble apology, begging +forgiveness for past offences and promising to do better in future, but +no, I will only tell you that I have been so much engaged since I got +home from Topsham that I could not write you. Martha tells us you were +in Boston last Sunday. Mamma thinks, Octavia, you are there too much, we +do not know how often, but we hear of you there very often indeed. I +think, my dear sister, you ought to improve every moment of your time, +which is short, very short to complete your education. In November +terminates the period of your instruction. The last you will receive +perhaps ever, only what you may gain by observation. You will never +cease to learn I hope, the world is a volume of instruction, which will +afford you continual employment,—peruse it with attention and candor and +you will never think the time thus employed misspent. I think, Octavia, +I would not leave my school again until you finally leave it. You +may—you will think this is harsh; you will not always think so; remember +those that wish it must know better what is proper than you possibly +can. Horatio will come on for you as soon as your quarter is out. We +anticipate the time with pleasure; employ your time in such a manner as +to make your improvements conspicuous. A boarding-school, I know, my +dear Sister, is not like home, but reflect a moment, is it not +necessary, _absolutely necessary_ to be more strict in the government of +20 or 30 young ladies, nearly of an age and different dispositions, than +a private family? Your good sense will easily tell you it is. No task +can be greater than the care of so many girls, it is impossible not to +be _partial_, but we may conceal our partiality. I should have a poor +opinion of any person that did not feel a love for merit, superior to +what they can for the world in general. I should never approve of such +general love. I say this not because I think you are discontented, far +from it—your letters tell us quite the reverse and I believe it. Surely, +Octavia, you must allow that no woman was ever better calculated to +govern a school than Mrs. Rawson. She governs by the love with which she +always inspires her scholars. You have been indulged, Octavia, so we +have all. I was discontented when I first went from home. I dare say you +have had some disagreeable sensations, yet your reason will convince +you, you ought not to have had. You had no idea when you left home of +any difference in your manner of living. I knew you would easily be +reconciled to it and therefore said but little to you about it. +Yesterday Miss Haskell’s letter, which I so much wished for and so +highly prize, was sent me; tell her to trust no more letters to the +politeness of Mr. Jewett,[13] for he will forget to deliver them; he has +been studying in the same office with Horatio ever since he returned and +never told him he had a letter for me till I told Horatio to ask him. I +did get it at last and will answer it as soon as I have an opportunity, +which I expect soon, my letters are of too little consequence to send by +Post. Tell Miss Haskell how highly I am obliged to her for every letter, +and how much it gratifies me to have her write thus. My love and esteem +ever awaits our good Mrs. Rawson, and hope she does not intend my last +letter shall go unanswered. Susan Wyman is still remembered as the +companion of my amusements in Medford. Irene joins me in love to her. +Betsey Bloom my love to her likewise.—Family are all well, Octavia, +Sister Boyd is here, been with us several days. Let us hear from you +when you have an opportunity. I should like to know how many tunes you +play, but you have never answered any of my enquiries of this kind, +therefore I suppose I ought not to make them. Your + + ELIZA. + + Octavia. + + Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800. + +Tired, stupid, and sleepy, I feel that I can write nothing instructive +or amusing. Oh these _summer balls_ are not the thing, but it was much +more comfortable than I expected. My ears were continually assailed with +lamentations that you were not present. Mr. Kinsman would certainly have +gone out for you (so he said) had he ever been at our house. He really +asked one or two gentlemen to go. He is a frothy fellow. He rattles +without a spark of fancy and stuns you with his volubility, as anything +hollow or empty always makes the most noise. I told him I received a +letter from you yesterday. He gave a pious ejaculation to heaven, turned +gracefully on his heel and entreated in the most humble manner that I +would grant him a sight of one line! I refused as I thought him too +insignificant an animal to be so much honored. Col. Boyd arrived last +night, I found him in the parlor when I went down to breakfast, he +enquired for you. Mr. Derby and Mr. Coffin will leave town to-day or +to-morrow for Boston, they undoubtedly will call and see you. ’Twill be +a good opportunity to send me the money if Mamma pleases. Harriet will +sail to-morrow or next day, she sends an abundance of love. + + ELIZA. + + Octavia. + + Bath, October, Sunday. + +After a fortnight very pleasantly spent in Wiscassett I return to Bath. +In my last I mentioned that Judge Lowell’s family were expected in +Wiscassett; they came immediately after, and Eliza, the youngest, +brought letters from Ellen Coffin, thus I very readily got acquainted +with them. Judge Lowell appears to be one of the mildest, most amiable +men I ever saw. Mrs. Lowell is a fine ladylike woman, yet her manners +are such as would have been admired 50 years ago, there is too much +appearance of whalebone and buckram to please the depraved taste of the +present age. Nanny L., the oldest daughter, is animated, sensible, +enthusiastic, and very easy and pleasing in her conversation and +manners, you would be delighted with her conversation—’tis elegant and +refined, she has no airs. Eliza is a little, charming, sweet creature, +she is about 17 or 18, short, fat, and a blooming complexion, handsome +blue eyes, light hair, beautiful dimples, artless and unaffected in her +manners,—indeed I was delighted with her, she is so perfectly amiable in +her appearance. I was much pleased at an acquaintance with them. At +Wiscassett I was invited to accompany them to Bath, as they were going +in a boat. I accepted with pleasure. In the morning, which was Monday, +they called for me and I went with them as far as Tincham’s where they +kept; at last, after a long debate, it was thought too hazardous to go +by water while the wind blew so violently, ’twas determined to go by +land. Mr. Lee took the two Miss Lowells and myself in his carriage, +which holds 4 very charmingly. Judge Lowell and wife in a chaise with a +boy to carry it back. Judge Bourne in a chair with a boy, and Mr. +Merrill on horseback. About 5 miles on our way Mr. Lee took Mr. +Merrill’s horse and he sat in with us, and he sang us a number of songs; +we had a charming time. At the ferry Mr. Lee, Mr. Merrill, and the boys +with the chaise left us; we then all got into a boat and landed at +Uncle’s wharf; ’tis about 3 miles, a most charming sail, indeed we had a +very pleasant time. They went directly to Page’s, and in the evening I +went up to see them; left them at 8 and with real regret. I had passed +several pleasant hours in their society. They set out in the morning for +Portland. Only think of Eleanor going to be married; ’tis no more than I +expected and believed at the moment I heard it. Poor Mrs. Sumner, what +an afflicting loss she has met with, my heart bleeds while I think how +_very fond_ she was of the little creature, she was a lovely child. How +do all do at home? I long to get home, I never wanted to see home more +in my life, yet I am very happy here. I wish Mamma would send me two of +my cotton shifts and my habit or great-coat to ride home in; send them +by Uncle. Pray get the instrument tuned. If you see Moses[14] soon tell +him I think it impossible to find words to express my obligation to him +for his many and long letters, yet I shall endeavour to convince him I +have a due sense of them. I shall make all the return in my power. I was +going up to Topsham this week. I wish to very much, but Mamma King and +Uncle both going, Nanny would be quite alone, I must stay to comfort +her. As to Aunt Porter I believe she will think I am never coming to +Topsham. I begin to think so myself, but what am I to do? However I +must. I shall go as soon as Uncle returns and stay till I return home. I +want to see Aunt Porter very much. Write me soon and tell me what news +you hear. Love to all. Is Pappa gone to Salem? + + ELIZA. + + To Octavia Southgate. + + + To Moses Porter. + +My most charming Cousin! Most kind and condescending friend—teach me how +I may express the grateful sense I have of the obligations I owe you; +your many and long letters have chased away the spleen, they have +rendered me cheerful and happy, and I almost forgot I was so far from +home.—O shame on you! Moses, you know I hate this formality among +friends, you know how gladly I would throw all these fashionable forms +from our correspondence; but you still oppose me, you adhere to them +with as much scrupulosity as to the ten commandments, and for aught I +know you believe them equally essential to the salvation of your soul. +But, Eliza, you have not answered my last letter! True, and if I had not +have answered it, would you never have written me again—and I confess +that I believe you would not—yet I am mortified and displeased that you +value my letters so little, that the exertions to continue the +correspondence must all come from me, that if I relax my zeal in the +smallest degree it may drop to the ground without your helping hand to +raise it. I do think you are a charming fellow,—would not write because +I am in debt, well, be it so, my ceremonious friend,—I submit, and +though I transgress by sending a half sheet more than you ever did, yet +I assure you ’twas to convince you of the violence of my anger which +could _induce_ me to forget the rules of politeness. I am at Wiscassett. +I have seen Rebecca every day, she is handsome as ever, and we both of +us were in constant expectation of seeing you for 2 or 3 days, you did +not come and we were disappointed. + +I leave here for Bath next week. I have had a ranting time, and if I did +not feel so offended, I would tell you more about it. + +As I look around me I am surprised at the happiness which is so +generally enjoyed in families, and that marriages which have not love +for a foundation on more than one side at most, should produce so much +apparent harmony. I may be censured for declaring it as my opinion that +not one woman in a hundred marries for love. A woman of taste and +sentiment will surely see but a very few whom she could love, and it is +altogether uncertain whether either of them will particularly +distinguish her. If they should, surely she is very fortunate, but it +would be one of fortune’s random favors and such as we have no right to +expect. The female mind I believe is of a very pliable texture; if it +were not we should be wretched indeed. Admitting as a known truth that +few women marry those whom they would prefer to all the world if they +could be viewed by them with equal affection, or rather that there are +often others whom they could have preferred if they had felt that +affection for them which would have induced them to offer +themselves,—admitting this as a truth not to be disputed,—is it not a +subject of astonishment that happiness is not almost banished from this +connexion? Gratitude is undoubtedly the foundation of the esteem we +commonly feel for a husband. One that has preferred us to all the world, +one that has thought us possessed of every quality to render him happy, +surely merits our gratitude. If his character is good—if he is not +displeasing in his person or manners—what objection can we make that +will not be thought frivolous by the greater part of the world?—yet I +think there are many other things necessary for happiness, and the world +should never compel me to marry a man because I could not give +satisfactory reasons for not liking him. I do not esteem marriage +absolutely essential to happiness, and that it does not always bring +happiness we must every day witness in our acquaintance. A single life +is considered too generally as a reproach; but let me ask you, which is +the most despicable—she who marries a man she scarcely thinks _well_ +of—to avoid the reputation of an old maid—or she, who with more +delicacy, than marry one she could not highly esteem, preferred to live +single all her life, and had wisdom enough to despise so mean a +sacrifice, to the opinion of the rabble, as the woman who marries a man +she has not much love for—must make. I wish not to alter the laws of +nature—neither will I quarrel with the rules which custom has +established and rendered indispensably necessary to the harmony of +society. But every being who has contemplated human nature on a large +scale will certainly justify me when I declare that the inequality of +privilege between the sexes is very sensibly felt by us females, and in +no instance is it greater than in the liberty of choosing a partner in +marriage; true, we have the liberty of refusing those we don’t like, but +not of selecting those we do. This is undoubtedly as it should be. But +let me ask you, what must be that love which is altogether voluntary, +which we can withhold or give, which sleeps in dulness and apathy till +it is requested to brighten into life? Is it not a cold, lifeless +dictate of the head,—do we not weigh all the conveniences and +inconveniences which will attend it? And after a long calculation, in +which the heart never was consulted, we determine whether it is most +prudent to love or not. + +How I should despise a soul so sordid, so mean! How I abhor the heart +which is regulated by mechanical rules, which can say “thus far will I +go and no farther,” whose feelings can keep pace with their convenience, +and be awakened at stated periods,—a mere piece of clockwork which +always moves right! How far less valuable than that being who has a soul +to govern her actions, and though she may not always be coldly prudent, +yet she will sometimes be generous and noble, and that the other never +can be. After all, I must own that a woman of delicacy never will suffer +her esteem to ripen into love unless she is convinced of a return. +Though our first approaches to love may be involuntary, yet I should be +sorry if we had no power of controlling them if occasion required. There +is a happy conformity or pliability in the female mind which seems to +have been a gift of nature to enable them to be happy with so few +privileges,—and another thing, they have more gratitude in their +dispositions than men, and there is a something particularly gratifying +to the heart in being beloved, if the object is worthy; it produces a +something like, and “Pity melts the heart to love.” Added to these there +is a self-love which does more than all the rest. Our vanity (’tis an +ugly word but I can’t find a better) is gratified by the distinguished +preference given us. There must be an essential difference in the +dispositions of men and women. I am astonished when I think of +it—yet—But I have written myself into sunshine—’tis always my way when +anything oppresses me, when any chain of thoughts particularly occupies +my mind, and I feel dissatisfied at anything which I have not the power +to alter,—to sit down and unburthen them on paper; it never fails to +alleviate me, and I generally give full scope to the feelings of the +moment, and as I write all disagreeable thoughts evaporate, and I end +contented that things shall remain as they are. When I began this it +absolutely appeared to me that no woman, or rather not one in a hundred, +married the man she should prefer to all the world—not that I ever could +suppose that at the time she married him she did not prefer him to all +others,—but that she would have preferred another if he had professed to +love her as well as the one she married. Indeed, I believe no woman of +delicacy suffers herself to think she could love any one before she had +discovered an affection for her. For my part I should never ask the +question of myself—do I love such a one, if I had reason to think he +loved me—and I believe there are many who love that never confessed it +to themselves. My Pride, my delicacy, would all be hurt if I discovered +such _unasked_ for love, even in my own bosom. I would strain every +nerve and rouse every faculty to quell the first appearance of it. There +is no danger, however. I could never love without being beloved, and I +am confident in my own mind that no person whom I could love would ever +think me sufficiently worthy to love me. But I congratulate myself that +I am at liberty to refuse those I don’t like, and that I have firmness +enough to brave the sneers of the world and live an old maid, if I never +find one I can love. + +[Illustration: + + RUFUS KING + + From a painting by Woods +] + + Scarborough, Tuesday Night. + + Dear Mother: + +We have got Miranda[15] all fix’t, only her clothes to be washed, or +rather ironed. You have undoubtedly got all things ready for her, or you +would not send for her immediately. I suppose we shall send her over in +the stage, as the riding is as yet too bad to go in a chaise; she wants +some pocket handkerchiefs and a pair of cotton gloves to wear to school; +she had 3 pairs of white mitts and I have given her another pair. I +think she must have another dimity skirt; her jaconet muslin we could +not fix, for it wants a new waist and sleeves and a hem put on the +bottom, and we could get no muslin to pattern it; you can buy a piece +and it can be sent over any time, she won’t need it immediately. Charles +says you told him I must send over to you for anything I needed. I want +nothing so much as some new linen and some English stockings; excepting +the two fine pairs I have none but homespun ones. I should like a half +dozen pair, 4 at least. If you see anything that would be light and +handsome for our summer gowns, I should like you would get them. Why +can’t you go and see McLellan’s lace shades? Perhaps he may let you have +one reasonably. I think there are some for 10, 6 and 12 shillings a +yard, at 18 they would not come to more than 9 or 10 dollars; you can +look at them at least. I should like one very much. Sally Weeks has +taken one of them. We do very well here, all goes on charmingly, only +Arixene loses her thimble, her needle and anything to avoid working. +Sally Leland has been here ever since Miranda returned, and you know +when they are together there must be romping,—however, Frederic has gone +to carry her home to-day. Miranda must have my little trunk. Octavia and +I both want little trunks, my old one is a good size. How is Sister? +give my love to her, kiss the children; I really miss them, and our own +don’t seem more natural than they did. The little _Isabella_[16] (so +they say it is) is Aunt Eliza’s darling. I love that little thing +dearly. I never loved an infant more in my life, Isabella says it is +because it has blue eyes; she _will_ make me selfish. I had a letter +from Martha yesterday, the third since you have been in Portland; she +mentions Uncle Rufus[17] and family in all of them. In her last but one +she says Aunt King[18] was confined; she had dined there the Sunday +before, and they requested her in a billet to bring yours and my +Father’s profiles,[19] which I gave her some time before she went away. +She carried them, and Uncle thought them good likenesses. She admires +Uncle Rufus; she says when he first called on her he stayed two hours, +but she could have talked with him _two_ days. In her last she says she +was to have been introduced at court, but Aunt King’s confinement +prevented; as soon as she gets out she is to be introduced. She says she +shall write by the Minerva and send the fashions to me. Mr. Smith the +Russian was here last week, bro’t me some letters. I am now writing to +Martha, to send by William Weeks; ’twill be a fine opportunity, and I +shall write as much as I can; he will probably see her. Mrs. Coffin will +be delighted with such an opportunity. Don’t hurry home until you have +staid as long as you wish, for I don’t know anything at present that +requires your presence. I think I make a very good manager, and tell +Sister Boyd I am astonished to find how I have improved in my housewife +talents this last winter. The children won’t allow me absolute rule +among them, but I have the worst of it; they do pretty well, considering +what a young gay mistress they have. I sometimes get up to dance and all +of them flock up to help me, and when I am tired I find it difficult to +still them, so as I set the example I am obliged to put up with it. I +have not been out of the yard since I came home till this afternoon. I +rode a mile or two on horseback just to smell the fresh air. I never was +more contented in my life; tho’ I have not seen anybody but Mr. Smith +these 3 weeks almost, I have not had an hour hang heavily on me; ’tis +charming to get home after being gone so long! I believe you will think +I am never going to leave off. + + Your affectionate ELIZA. + + To Mrs. Mary King Southgate, Portland. + + + Portland, March 18, 1801. + +Thank you for being so particular in your description of your eastern +tour. I told you that Wiscassett would delight you; ease and sociability +you know always please you. By the bye, Jewett thought _Saco_ was the +land of milk and honey, such fine buxom girls! so easy and familiar. +Dorcas Stour charmed him much, her haughty forbidding manners +corresponded with the dignity of her sentiments, so he says, something +congenial in their dispositions I think. But he has made his +selection—Miss Weeks is handsome, censorious, animated, violent in her +prejudices, genteel, impatient of contradiction, speaks her sentiments +very freely, has many admirers and many enemies,—on the whole a pleasant +companion amongst friends.—How think they will do together? Jewett you +know. + +Last evening I was out at Broads;[20] we had only 7 in our party—a very +pleasant one. Jewett, Horatio, William Weeks, and Charles Little were +our beaux. Miss Weeks, Miss Boardman (from Exeter), and myself, the +ladies. Mr. Little is engaged to Miss Boardman; he is an open, honest, +unaffected, plain, _clever_ fellow. She has a pleasant face, an open +guileless heart, plain unaffected manners, a clumsy shape, easy in +company—but it is rather the ease which a calm, even temper produces, +than that which is acquired in polite circles. I think they are as much +alike as possible and ’twill be a pleasant couple. We played cards, +talked and wrote crambo; after we had scribbled the backs of two packs +of cards, cut half of them up, and eat our supper, we set out for home, +about one o’clock. You say in your last that if reports are true, I am +on the highway to matrimony,—you know what I always said with regard to +these things; if they are true, well and good—if they are not, let them +take their course, they will be shortlived. I despise the conduct of +those girls who think that every man who pays them any attention is +seriously in love with them, and begin to bridle up, look conscious, +fearful lest every word the poor fellow utters should be a declaration +of love. I have no idea that every gentleman that has a particular +partiality for a lady thinks seriously of being connected with her, and +I think any lady puts herself in a most awkward situation to appear in +constant fear or expectation that the gentleman is going to make love to +her. I despise coquetry,—every lady says the same, you will say,—but if +I know myself at all—my heart readily assents to its truth—I think no +lady has a right to encourage hopes that she means never to gratify, but +I think she is much to blame if she considers these little attentions as +a proof of love; they often mean nothing, and should be treated as such. +The gentleman in question I own pays me more attention than any other +gentleman, yet I say sincerely, I don’t think he means any thing more +than to please his fancy for the present. I pride myself upon my +sincerity, and if I ever am engaged, I trust it will be to one whom I +shall not be ashamed to acknowledge. Our intimacy has been of long +standing. He and Enoch Jones were Martha’s most intimate acquaintance, +they were there almost every evening. Here comes Enoch and William +[Weeks], we used to say as soon as we heard the knocker in the evening. +I was always at the Doctor’s a great part of the time I spent in +Portland, I could not but be intimate with them. I liked them both, they +were pleasant companions, and I was always glad to see them come +in;—since that time, Enoch has been gone most of the time, and William +has been left alone;—true, he has this winter been more attentive to me +than usual; he lent me books, drawings, and music; he used often to be +my gallant home from parties if I walked, and if I rode help me to the +sleigh, yet every gentleman does the same,—all have a favorite, some for +a month, some a little longer. It seems like making you a confidant to +talk thus, but I say many things which would appear ridiculous if +communicated to a third person, and I know you would have too much +delicacy to communicate any thing which might hurt my feelings. I have +heard all these stories before, yet I must act and judge for myself. I +know better than any other person can, how far they are true, and I +candidly confess that he never said a word to me which I could possibly +construe into a declaration of love, not the most faint or distant. Then +think for a moment how ridiculous it would be for me to alter my conduct +towards him! No! while he treats me as a friend, I shall treat him as +such; and let the world say what they will, I will endeavor to act in a +manner that my conscience will justify,—to steer between the rocks of +prudery and coquetry, and take my own sense of propriety as a pilot that +will conduct me safe. I should not have been thus particular, but I felt +unwilling that you should be led into error that I could easily remove +from your mind; it would seem like giving a silent assent, as I confess +to write as I think to you, and to speak openly on all occasions, I felt +that I ought to say more to you on this affair than I ever have to any +other. Let the world still have it as they will. I confess it would be +more pleasing to me if my name was not so much[21] ... what Johnson says +of an author may apply ... is much known in the world. That his name +like ... must be beat backward and forward as it falls to the ground. I +recollect in a former letter you asked why I did not say more of +particular characters, and among my acquaintance select some and give +you a few characteristic sketches. The truth is—I felt afraid to, I did +not know but you might mention many things which would make me enemies. +I am always willing to speak my opinion without reserve on any +character, because I should take care that I spoke it before those who +would not abuse the frankness; but letters may be miscarried, may fall +into hands we know not of,—but I never think of these, or I am sure I +should burn this in a moment,—another thing that it requires a quiet +discernment, a correct judgment and a thorough knowledge of the world, +of human nature, to form a just character of any one that we are not +intimately acquainted with. However, we all of us form an opinion of +every person we see, and whatever I shall say and have said you must +recollect is only the opinion of one who is oftener wrong than right, +and you can form no correct idea of my character from what I say. + + Scarborough, March, Sunday. + +P. S.—Congratulate me, I am at home at last! Come and see us,—we expect +Miss Tappan to-morrow and Paulina Porter[22] and Miranda Southgate. I +wish much to see Miss T. I think I shall like her; tell her she does not +know what she lost last week,—a young gentleman came several miles out +of his way only to see her; she was not here and he returned to Portland +with a heavy heart. Jewett says she is rather shy. + +I meant to have written more about Wiscassett, about Miss R.,[23] but I +must leave that for another letter. I have a great deal to say on that +head,—“exercise the same coolness and judgment as in choosing a horse!” +I heard a gentleman make really the same observation, and yet that very +gentleman is raving, distractedly in love,—he is a little calmer now, +but he was a madman. He, like you, always talks of his insensibility, +his coldness and discretion, and he, like you, is always upon extremes, +extravagant beyond all bounds. More hereafter. + + Mr. Moses Porter. + + + Thursday, April 8th. + +I have been thinking on that part of your letter which interests me +most, respecting the propriety of conduct, opinion of the world, etc., +etc. I don’t exactly recollect what I wrote in my last, but I am +positive you have mistaken my meaning, or at least have taken what I +said on too large a scale;—as a general rule of conduct, in so extensive +a sense as you talk about, such doctrine would indeed be pernicious. But +whatever I said I meant to apply to this particular case, and perhaps +did not express myself so clearly as I ought to have done. You have +described principles which I have ever condemned—as those I now act +upon. Perhaps I shall find it impossible fully to explain my sentiments +on this subject—it is of a delicate nature; and many things I shall say +will probably bear a misconstruction. However, I trust to your candor to +judge with lenity, and to your knowledge of my heart, to believe I would +not intentionally deviate from the laws of female delicacy and +propriety. Reputation undoubtedly is of great importance to all, but to +a female ’tis every thing,—once lost ’tis _forever_ lost. Whatever I may +have said, my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of that boasted +independence of mind which can stand collected in its own worth, and let +the censure and malice of the world pass by as the “idle wind which we +regard not.” I have ever thought that to be conscious of doing right was +insufficient; but that it must appear so to the world. How I could have +blundered upon a sentiment which I despise, or how I could have written +anything to bear such a construction as you have put upon a part of my +letter, I know not. When I said that I should let these reports pass off +without notice or pretending to vindicate myself, ’twas not because I +despised the opinion of the world, but as the most effectual method to +preserve it!—_You_ say as well as myself, that whatever we say in +vindication of ourselves, only makes the matter worse. When I said, that +I meant not to alter my conduct while my conscience did not accuse me, I +had no idea that you would suppose my conduct towards him had ever been +of a kind that required an alteration, or any thing more pointed than to +any other gentleman. I supposed you would infer from what I said that it +was such as propriety and a regard for my reputation would sanction. I +know not what you think it has been, but if I can judge of my own +actions,—their motives I know I can, but I mean the outward +appearance,—I have never treated him with any more distinction than any +other gentleman, nor have appeared more pleased with his attentions than +with another’s; believe me, I have kept constantly in view the opinion +of the world, and if you knew every circumstance of my life, you would +be convinced my feelings were “tremblingly alive” to all its slanders. +But “something too much of this”; you, who know my disposition, may +easily conceive how often I subject myself to the envenomed shafts of +censure and malice, by that gaiety and high flow of spirits, which I +sometimes think my greatest misfortune to possess,—sometimes I err in +judgment—don’t always see the right path,—sometimes I see it, yet the +warmth and ardor of my feelings force me out of it. Yet in this affair I +feel confident I have acted from right principles,—there are a thousand +trifling things which at times influenced my conduct, which you cannot +know, and you may be surprised when I say that his attentions were of a +kind that politeness obliged me to receive, nor should I ever have +suspected they meant any thing more than gallantry and politeness, had +not the babbles of the world put it into my head. You have been +misinformed in many respects, I am convinced. You mentioned his constant +visits at Sister Boyd’s. I declare to you he never was there a half +dozen times the three months I was in Portland, excepting the morning +after the assemblies, when the gentlemen all go to see their partners; +neither was I his constant partner at assemblies. I never danced but two +dances in an evening with him all winter, excepting once, and then there +was a mistake,—this surely was nothing remarkable, for I always danced +two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were at. I danced as much with +one as the other. True, he was my partner at 2 parties at Broads. I at +the time asked Horatio, when he mentioned the party, why he would not +carry me; he said if I was asked by any other, to say I was going with +my brother, would be considered as a tacit declaration that I had an +aversion to going with him, therefore ’twould have been folly. You +cannot judge unless you know a thousand customs and every ... which they +have in Portland. But I declare to you, Cousin, I am much gratified that +you told me what you thought—had you have locked it in your bosom, I +should never have had an opportunity to vindicate myself. I beg of you +always to write with freedom, always write with the same openness you +did in your last—’tis one of the greatest advantages I expect to derive +from our correspondence—I enjoin it upon you as you value my happiness. +I told you I would show you some of Martha’s letters; I had one from her +since I wrote you, in which she says I must on no condition whatever +show her letters,—however, I will read you some passages in some of +them. You _shall_ see some parts; I will make my peace with—indeed I +know she would not object. I love to show you her letters because you +feel something as I do in reading them. You admire her or you should not +be the friend of + + ELIZA. + +P. S. I wrote this letter last night intending to keep it by me to send +whenever I please; all the family were absent, left me reading,—I read +your letter, the house was silent, and I was entirely alone. I knew I +should not have another opportunity as convenient for giving you my +sentiments—no fear of intrusion—and I therefore took my pen and +scribbled what I now send you, but I believe I must adopt your plan and +send it immediately to the office,—but I repent and burn it, and I find +on reading it that I have said not half I meant to; but I will send it +away immediately. I am almost ashamed to answer yours so soon, ’tis so +unlike the example you set me that I suppose you will say ’tis a tacit +disapprobation of your conduct. + + Scarborough, April 9th. + Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. + + + Sunday, Scarborough, May —, 1801. + +When one commences an action with a full conviction they shall not +acquit themselves with honor, they are sure not to succeed; imprest with +this idea I write you. I positively declare I have felt a great +reluctance ever since we concluded on the plan. I am aware of the +construction you may put on this, but call it _affectation_ or what you +will, I assure you it proceeds from different motives. When I first +proposed this correspondence, I thought only of the amusement and +instruction it would afford _me_. I almost forgot that I should have any +part to perform. Since, however, I have reflected on the scheme as it +was about to be carried into execution, I have felt a degree of +diffidence which has almost induced me to hope you would _forget_ the +engagement. Fully convinced of my inability to afford pleasure or +instruction to an enlarged mind, I rely wholly on your candor and +generosity to pardon the errors which will cloud my best efforts. When I +reflect on the severity of your criticisms in general, I shrink at the +idea of exposing to you what will never stand the test. Yet did I not +imagine you would throw aside the _critic_ and assume the _friend_, I +should never dare, with all my vanity (and I am not deficient), give you +so fine an opportunity to exercise your favorite propensity. I know you +will laugh at all this, and I must confess it appears rather a folly, +first to request your correspondence and then with so much diffidence +and false delicacy, apparently to extort a compliment, talk about my +inability and the like. You will not think I intend a compliment when I +say I have ever felt a disagreeable restraint when conversing before +you. Often, when with all the confidence I possess I have brought +forward an opinion, said all my imagination could suggest in support of +it, and viewed with pleasure the little fabric, which I imagined to be +founded on truth and justice, with one word you would crush to the +ground that which had cost me so many to erect. These things I think in +time will humble my vanity, I wish sincerely that they may. + +Yet I believe I possess decent talents and should have been quite +another being had they been properly cultivated. But as it is, I can +never get over some little prejudices which I have imbibed long since, +and which warp all the faculties of my mind. I was pushed on to the +stage of action without one principle to guide my actions,—the impulse +of the moment was the only incitement. I have never committed any +grossly imprudent action, yet I have been folly’s darling child. I trust +they were rather errors of the head than the heart, for we have all a +kind of inherent power to distinguish between right and wrong, and if +before the heart becomes contaminated by the maxims of society it is +left to act from impulse though it have no fixt principle, yet it will +not materially err. Possessing a gay lively disposition, I pursued +pleasure with ardor. I wished for admiration, and took the means which +would be most likely to obtain it. I found the mind of a female, if such +a thing existed, was thought not worth cultivating. I disliked the +trouble of thinking for myself and therefore adopted the sentiments of +others—fully convinced to adorn my person and acquire a few little +accomplishments was sufficient to secure me the admiration of the +society I frequented. I cared but little about the mind. I learned to +flutter about with a thoughtless gaiety—a mere feather which every +breath had power to move. I left school with a head full of something, +tumbled in without order or connection. I returned home with a +determination to put it in more order; I set about the great work of +culling the best part to make a few sentiments out of—to serve as a +little ready change in my commerce with the world. But I soon lost all +patience (a virtue I do not possess in an eminent degree), for the +greater part of my ideas I was obliged to throw away without knowing +where I got them or what I should do with them; what remained I pieced +as ingeniously as I could into a few patchwork opinions,—they are now +almost worn threadbare, and as I am about quilting a few more, I beg you +will send me any spare ideas you may chance to have that will answer my +turn. By this time I suppose you have found out what you have a right to +expect from this correspondence, and probably at this moment lay down +the letter with a long sage-like face to ponder on my egotism.—’Tis a +delightful employment, I will leave you to enjoy it while I eat my +dinner: And what is the result, Cousin? I suppose a few exclamations on +the girl’s vanity to think no subject could interest me but where +herself was concerned, or the barrenness of her head that could write on +no other subject. But she is a _female_, say you, with a _manly +contempt_. Oh you Lords of the world, what are you that your unhallowed +lips should dare profane the fairest part of creation! But honestly I +wish to say something by way of apology, but don’t seem to know what,—it +is true I have a kind of natural affection for myself, I find no one +more ready to pardon my faults or find excuses for my failings—it is +natural to love our friends. + +I have positively not said one single thing which I intended when I sat +down; my motive was to answer your letter, and I have not mentioned my +not having received it?—Your opinion of Story’s Poems I think very +unjust; as to the _man_, I cannot say, for I know nothing of him, but I +think you are too severe upon him; a man who had not a “fibre of +refinement in his composition” could never have written some passages in +that poem. What is refinement? I thought it was a delicacy of taste +which might be acquired, if not any thing in our nature,—true, there are +some so organized that they are incapable of receiving a delicate +impression, but we won’t say any thing of such beings. I just begin to +feel in a mood for answering your letter. What you say of Miss Rice—I +hardly know how to refuse the challenge; she possesses no quality above +mediocrity, and yet is just what a female ought to be. Now what I would +give for a little _Logic_, or for a little skill to support an argument. +But I give it up, for tho’ you might not convince me, you would +_confound_ me with so many _learned_ observations that my vanity would +oblige me to say I was convinced to prevent the mortification of saying +I did not understand you. How did you like Mr. Coffin? Write soon and +tell me. We expect you to go to the fishing party with us on Tuesday. +Mr. Coffin told us you would all come. You must be here by 9 o’clock +(not before) (in the morning). My love to the girls, and tell them—no! +I’ll tell them myself. + + ELIZA. + + To Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. + + + Scarborough, June 1st, 1801. + +As to the qualities of mind peculiar to each sex, I agree with you that +sprightliness is in favor of females and profundity of males. Their +education, their pursuits would create such a quality even tho’ nature +had not implanted it. The business and pursuits of men require deep +thinking, judgment, and moderation, while, on the other hand, females +are under no necessity of dipping deep, but merely “skim the surface,” +and we too commonly spare ourselves the exertion which deep researches +require, unless they are absolutely necessary to our pursuits in life. +We rarely find one giving themselves up to profound investigation for +amusement merely. Necessity is the nurse of all the great qualities of +the mind; it explores all the hidden treasures and by its stimulating +power they are “polished into brightness.” Women who have no such +incentives to action suffer all the strong energetic qualities of the +mind to sleep in obscurity; sometimes a ray of genius gleams through the +thick clouds with which it is enveloped, and irradiates for a moment the +darkness of mental night; yet, like a comet that shoots wildly from its +sphere, it excites our wonder, and we place it among the phenomenons of +nature, without searching for a natural cause. Thus it is the qualities +with which nature has endowed us, as a support amid the misfortunes of +life and a shield from the allurements of vice, are left to moulder in +ruin. In this dormant state they become enervated and impaired, and at +last die for _want of exercise_. The little airy qualities which produce +sprightliness are left to flutter about like feathers in the wind, the +sport of every breeze. + +Women have more fancy, more lively imaginations than men. That is easily +accounted for: a person of correct judgment and accurate discernment +will never have that flow of ideas which one of a different character +might,—every object has not the power to introduce into his mind such a +variety of ideas, he rejects all but those closely connected with it. On +the other hand, a person of small discernment will receive every idea +that arises in the mind, making no distinction between those nearly +related and those more distant, they are all equally welcome, and +consequently such a mind abounds with fanciful, out-of-the-way ideas. +Women have more imagination, more sprightliness, because they have less +discernment. I never was of opinion that the pursuits of the sexes ought +to be the same; on the contrary, I believe it would be destructive to +happiness, there would a degree of rivalry exist, incompatible with the +harmony we wish to establish. I have ever thought it necessary that each +should have a separate sphere of action,—in such a case there could be +no clashing unless one or the other should leap their respective bounds. +Yet to cultivate the qualities with which we are endowed can never be +called infringing the prerogatives of man. Why, my dear Cousin, were we +furnished with such powers, unless the improvement of them would conduce +to the happiness of society? Do you suppose the mind of woman the only +work of God that was “made in vain.” The cultivation of the powers we +possess, I have ever thought a privilege (or I may say duty) that +belonged to the human species, and not man’s exclusive prerogative. Far +from destroying the harmony that ought to subsist, it would fix it on a +foundation that would not totter at every jar. Women would be under the +same degree of subordination that they now are; enlighten and expand +their minds, and they would perceive the necessity of such a regulation +to preserve the order and happiness of society. Yet you require that +their conduct should be always guided by that reason which you refuse +them the power of exercising. I know it is generally thought that in +such a case women would assume the right of commanding. But I see no +foundation for such a supposition,—not a blind submission to the will of +another which neither honor nor reason dictates. It would be criminal in +such a case to submit, for we are under a prior engagement to conduct in +all things according to the dictates of reason. I had rather be the +meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon the wide world to +suffer all the ills “that flesh is heir to,” than live a slave to the +despotic will of another. + +I am aware of the censure that will ever await the female that attempts +the vindication of her sex, yet I dare to brave that censure that I know +to be undeserved. It does not follow (O what a pen!) that every female +who vindicates the capacity of the sex is a disciple of Mary +Wolstoncraft. Though I allow her to have said many things which I cannot +but approve, yet the very foundation on which she builds her work will +be apt to prejudice us so against her that we will not allow her the +merit she really deserves,—yet, prejudice set aside, I confess I admire +many of her sentiments, notwithstanding I believe should any one adopt +her principles, they would conduct in the same manner, and upon the +whole her life is the best comment on her writings. Her style is nervous +and commanding, her sentiments appear to carry conviction along with +them, but they will not bear analyzing. I wish to say something on your +_natural refinement_, but I shall only have room to touch upon it if I +begin, “therefore I’ll leave it till another time.” + +Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us; we had a fine “dish of +conversation” served up with great taste, fine sentiments dressed with +elegant language and seasoned with wit. He is really excellent company—a +little enthusiastic or so—but that is no matter. In compassion I entreat +you to come over here soon and make me some pens. I have got one that I +have been whittling this hour and at last have got it to make a stroke +(it liked to have given me the lie). I believe I must give up all +pretension to _profundity_, for I am much more at home in my female +character. This argumentative style is not congenial to my taste. I hate +anything that requires order or connection. I never could do anything by +rule,—when I get a subject I am incapable of reasoning upon, I play with +it as with a rattle, for what else should I do with it? But I have kept +along quite in a direct line; I caught myself “upon the wing” two or +three times, but I had power to check my nonsense. I send you my +sentiments on this subject as they really exist with me. I believe they +are not the mere impulse of the moment, but founded on what I think +truth. I could not help laughing at that part of your letter where you +said the seal of my letter deprived you of some of the most interesting +part of it. I declare positively I left a blank place on purpose for it, +that you might not lose one precious word, and now you have the +impudence to tell me that the most interesting part was the blank paper. +It has provoked my ire to such a degree that I positively declare I +never will send you any more blank paper than I possibly can avoid, to +“spite you.” + + E. S. + + To Mr. Moses Porter. + + + Portland, July 17, 1801. + +I almost at this moment wish myself in your situation, meeting old +acquaintances, shaking hands with old friends and telling over with +renewed pleasure your College frolicks. I can almost see you convulsed +with laughter, hear you recount the adventures of the last year, while +imagination brings every boyish frolic to your view, unimpaired by time. +What a world of humour! what flashes of wit! what animated descriptions! +O these social meetings! How they animate and inspire one! how they +lighten the cares and multiply the joys of life! I wish you would write +me about Commencement. I heard yesterday that Sam. Fay of Concord +delivered an oration the 4th of July. I should admire to see it. I know +it must be very fine; in my opinion he is a man of excellent talents, +capable of writing on the occasion an oration that would reflect great +honor. The sentiments must be noble and generous. He possesses so much +feeling, there must be many glowing passages in it. If it is possible I +beg you will get me a copy and I will confess myself very, very greatly +obliged. Last night I attended the _Theater_,—“Speed the plough” was +performed, and I assure you very _decently_; the characters in general +were well supported. Villiers in Fannie Ashfield really outdid himself; +he threw off the monkey and became a good honest clown, and did not, as +he usually does, outstep the bounds of nature and all other bounds. Mrs. +Powell as Miss Blandford delighted us all. How I admire that woman! She +is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet there is no levity in her +appearance; she has great energy, acts with spirit, with feeling, yet +never rants; her private character we all know is unexceptionable. Mr. +Donnee as a young buck is very pleasing, he has a most melodious voice +in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish air,—good figure, tho’ small. +As for Mrs. Harper she is my aversion—for, as Shakespeare says, she will +“tear a passion to tatters, to very rags,” and she is too indecent ever +to appear on the stage. Harper is a fine fellow; he appears best among +the common herd of Players, and has as much judgment in supporting his +part as any one I ever saw, and even in comic characters I think he +excels Villiers. He has much greater resources within himself. Villiers +gains applause by distorting his face and playing the monkey, while +Harper adheres more strictly to nature. In Villiers we cannot help +seeing the player thro’ the thin disguise,—_Villiers_, not the character +he personates, is continually in our minds. S. Powell is contemptible as +a player (and I believe as a man); he puffs and blows so incessantly +that it is enough to put one into a fever to see him; he does not know +in the least how to preserve a medium, but takes a certain pitch and +there remains; he cannot gradually bring his passion to the height, but +he thunders it out without any preparation, and the unvarying monotony +of his voice is truly disgusting. I am sure, by his strutting and +bellowing, Hamlet would think _he_ was made by one of “Nature’s +journeymen.” But it is time to have done with players, for you will +think my head turned indeed if I rant about them any longer; but it has +served to fill up a part of my letter, and I assure you that alone was a +sufficient reason why I should give them a place. Society, bustle, and +noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot write anywhere but at home. I am +ashamed that things of so little consequence should turn my head, but +’tis a melancholy truth. O you malicious fellow, don’t talk to me about +my favorite topic “female education,” don’t tell me of your +_philosophical indifference_! O Moses, you can’t leave the subject, +every word that could any way dash at it is marked. I believe you do +_itch_ to commence the attack. Well, rail on, you shall not say it is in +compassion to me that you desist. God forbid that your greatest enemy +should ever inflict so severe a punishment as to prohibit you from +speaking of your “favorite topic.” I fancy you have forgotten that it +_is_ such, _Mr. Indifference_. Your ironical letter has had a wonderful +effect, but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not to confess myself +contemptibly inferior to my antagonist. You ought to blush, but from a +very different cause; but I had forgotten myself, and was taking the +thing too seriously. I am not slow at taking the hint, perhaps my +presumption merited the reproof. I receive it and will endeavor to +profit by it; and pray, Cousin, how does Mr. Symmes’ coat suit you? His +“haughty humility,” his “condescending pride.” You have assumed the +habit, and I hope will ever clothe yourself with it when you meet your +_superior antagonist_. + +You have a fine imagination and have pictured a chain of delightful +events which probably will exist there alone, yet I should have no +objection to your being a true prophet. We all can plan delightful +schemes, but they rarely ever become realities; but no matter, we enjoy +them in imagination. I expect from you a particular account of yourself +when you return. You will have many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you +will take the trouble. I have just read your last and picture something +in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. You say all you +have said on the subject of education was merely the thought of the +moment, “written not to be received but laughed at.” What shall I +think?—That you think me too contemptible to know your real sentiments? +I should be very unwilling to admit such a suspicion, yet what can you +mean?—with the greatest apparent seriousness, you speak of the +_sincerity_ with which you conduct this correspondence. Was that +likewise meant to be laughed at? I had flattered myself, when I +commenced this correspondence, to reap both instruction and amusement +from an undisguised communication of sentiments. I had likewise hoped +you would not think it too great a condescension to speak to me with +that openness you would to a male friend. However, I shall begin to +think it is contrary to the nature of things that a gentleman should +speak his real sentiments to a lady, yet in our correspondence I wished +and expected to step aside from the world, speak to each other in the +plain language of sincerity. I have much to say on this subject, but +unfortunately my ideas never begin to flow until I have filled up my +paper. Do not imagine from what I have said that the most disagreeable +truths will offend me. I promise not to feel hurt at any thing you +write, if ’tis your real sentiment. But, Cousin, don’t trifle with me. +Do not make me think so contemptibly of myself as you will by not +allowing me your confidence; promise to speak as you think and I will +never scold you again. + + ELIZA. + +Cousin, I wish you would write a list of your mother’s children, names +and ages, those that have died together with the others. We are going to +send them out to Uncle Rufus, as he requested it some time since. By +Martha it will be a fine opportunity,—as soon as convenient send them +over. + + Mr. Moses Porter, + Biddeford. + + + Scarborough, August 6, 1801. + + Hon. Rufus King. + +Pardon, my dear Sir, the liberty I take in addressing you, and let my +motives shield me from the imputation of presumption. Some time since, +you requested a list of my Aunt Porter’s and our family. It has never +been sent, and as we have now a very favorable opportunity, my father +has requested me to make it out and enclose it to you. I tremble while I +write, lest I should appear disrespectful in my manner of addressing +you. Unused as I am to writing to any one so much superior in years, I +cannot but feel embarrassed. A degree of confidence in ourselves is +necessary in every undertaking to ensure success; as I feel at this +moment destitute of that confidence, I likewise despair of succeeding in +my wishes, yet I entreat you to attribute whatever may appear assuming +rather to an incapacity of expressing myself as I wish than to a want of +respect. When I consider you as a public character esteemed and +respected by your country, I would willingly shrink from observation, +lest my intruding myself on your attention should be thought +impertinence. But when I think how nearly I am allied, I flatter myself +I shall obtain that indulgence which I now earnestly solicit. Mr. and +Mrs. Derby, by whom I shall send this, intend taking the tour of Europe +after having taken that of the United States. Mrs. Derby is my +particular friend, and as she is intimately acquainted in our family, +can give you whatever information you wish respecting us. I say nothing +to remind her, for I have too high an opinion of your discernment to +suppose any recommendation necessary. My mother joins me in desiring you +would make our respects acceptable to Mrs. King, and all the family +unite in earnest wishes for the complete restoration of her health. Our +family are all in good health.... My mother really looks young! My Aunt +Porter [Pauline] is not wholly restored to her former health, but is +much better than she has been for many years past. + +[Illustration: + + Mrs. RUFUS KING. + + After a portrait by Trumbull. + + ARTOTYPE. E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + +I cannot conclude this without earnestly intreating you to receive it +with the candor of an Uncle rather than the severity of a critic. I feel +I do not write as I ought to, yet I entreat you not to think me +deficient in that respect and esteem with which I shall ever remain. + + Your niece ELIZA SOUTHGATE. + + + Scarborough, August 4, 1801. + + Dr. Southgate to Rufus King in London. + +You will receive this by Mr. Richard Derby, youngest son of the late H. +Derby of Salem. His lady who accompanies him is the daughter of Dr. N. +Coffin of Portland. The Doctor’s family and mine have ever been on terms +of intimacy and friendship. Mrs. Derby in particular has ever been a +favorite of my daughters Octavia and Eliza. They can give you all +particulars about friends at home. + + Bath, Sunday, Sept. 13. + +There are some kinds of indisposition that instead of weakening the +faculties of the mind, serve only to render them more vigorous and +sprightly, and in proportion as the body is debilitated, the mind is +strengthened. I have every reason to believe that the imagination never +soars to such lofty heights as it sometimes does in sickness. But where +am I! What about—Well may _you_ ask the question. Believe me, Cousin, I +have attempted to finish this letter 4 times this day. I cannot account +for my inability to write. It used to be the joy of my life, nothing +delighted me so much as to steal into the chamber by myself and scribble +an hour, but since I received your last I have often attempted to answer +it, but in vain. I have a stubborn brain; it must be coaxed, not driven. +I find there is nothing so tedious as to write when we are not in the +mood for it. You may easily see that I am not in one at present. Now for +Heaven’s sake see what I have written—find the chain that connects. When +I began I meant to say I had been quite unwell ever since I left +Portland, that some disorders only served to give vigor to the mind, +&c., &c., but I _meant_ also to say mine was altogether of a different +nature. But as I left that out, so I had better have done the other. +Oh—’tis too, too bad! I’ll not write another till I think I can +understand it after it is written. I am low-spirited, stupid and +everything else. + + Wednesday. + +Now I shall really think I have no _soul_ if I find myself as destitute +of ideas as I was on Sunday. I have just been viewing the most +delightful prospect I have seen this long time, and if it has left no +more impression on my mind than objects passing before a mirror, I shall +think myself devoid of every quality that constitutes us rational +beings. I think nature has done everything to render Bath pleasant: the +window at which I now sit commands a most delightful water prospect; the +river is about a mile in breadth at this place, the opposite banks are +neither sublime nor beautiful. What if I for a moment should take a +poet’s license, and by the force of imagination project steep and rugged +rocks! bid them stoop with awful majesty to reflect their gloomy horrors +in the wave! See you not that enormous precipice whose awful summit was +ne’er profaned by human footsteps? Does not your blood freeze as it +creeps along your veins? Behold again that barren waste, the axe nor the +plough have never clothed it with a borrowed charm, or robbed it of +those nature bestowed upon it; it still boasts its independence of the +labor of man. But to leave fiction for reality, the surface of the water +is a perfect mirror. I never saw it so perfectly smooth; at this moment +there is a boat passing, rowed by two men—the reflection in the water is +so distinct, so very clear, it looks like two boats. I admire to see a +boat _rowed_; it seems to look like arms or wings, moving with graceful +majesty, while the boat cuts the liquid bosom of the water, leaving as +it recedes a widening track. There is always to me something very +charming in the rowing of a boat. There is music in the motion; and what +can be more graceful and majestic than the motion of a _ship under +sail_? Yesterday there was a _brig_ passed by here—’twas within +hearing—very near. I never was more forcibly struck than at the moment; +I longed to prostrate myself in humble admiration—as she approached with +a slow, commanding, _celestial_ air;—at the moment I am sure it gave me +a better idea of the awful grandeur of a deity than anything I had ever +seen. I saw Juno’s dignified gracefulness such as I had read of but +could not conceive. + +I have often in reading been disagreeably struck by the epithets used +for the motions of the gods. Sometimes they make them _glide_ thro’ the +air, sometimes approach with a solemn _step_, and many other words I do +not recollect; nor do I at present think of any words that would answer +better—yet _to glide_ seems stealing along—to move rapidly and +imperceptibly;—a bird glides thro’ the air, yet there is nothing +celestial in the flight of a bird. It seems to me properly applied to +_fairies_; something light and airy should glide,—that a fairy should +glide along seems right,—just as I have an idea of them. And then for a +god _to step_—that seems too grovelling, too like us mortals,—yet that +in my opinion is better than the other. + +The place on which this house stands seems to project in a small degree +toward the water. I believe there is not a window in the house that does +not command a view of the water. In front there is a kind of cove the +water makes in several rods; the river is broad and straight, the land +rises gradually from it a half mile;—but I think it is to be regretted +that the inhabitants have built under the _hill_, or rather that they +did not prefer climbing a little higher; however, I think it must have a +fine appearance from the water. Last year I recollect sailing along in +front of the settlement and remarked how much more compact it looked +than it really is, the houses rising one above the other in such a +manner that every one was seen distinctly. I think nothing can be more +beautiful than a town built on a sloping ground ascending from so fine a +river as this branch of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging to +the different ports on this river above Bath, passes directly by here, +and several times I have seen 12 or 14 at a time. To one who has been +brought up amidst salt marsh and flats, this large fine river affords +much novelty and amusement, and I cannot confess but the sensations I +feel in viewing it are more pleasing than those produced by a stagnant +water in a Scarborough salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet without +saying a word of your letter, indeed I have forgotten what was in it—at +the time you gave it me I know I received it with much pleasure, as it +robbed me of some painful moments. After Horatio’s recovery I sat down +one evening to write you, but I had only written the day of the month, +when a most violent clap of thunder (the same that struck Mrs. Horper’s +house) shook the pen from my hand and my desk from my lap. I do not +imagine even by this omen that I offend the strictest laws of virtue and +propriety by continuing to write you, therefore should something equally +powerful wrest the pen from my hand, depend upon it I will seize it with +renewed vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, &c., &c. + + ELIZA. + +I shall go to Wiscassett on Monday; expect to hear from me after I +return to Bath; while there I shall have no time. I expect to have +important communications to forward—a certain pair of sparkling eyes, +which are far more eloquent than her tongue! Now I have half a mind to +be affronted. I know at this time, as soon as you have read this you are +tumbling it into your pocket as waste paper to ponder on the brilliancy +of said eyes. Is it true? Well, I shall see them soon and shall be +tempted to ask some atonement for the damages I may suffer. Write me +often while I am here, it is your _duty_. + + Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. + + + By Mrs. King. + +To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford. + +I want to write, yet I don’t want to write to you, my _ceremonious_ +Cousin, but at this time I can think of nobody else and am _compelled_ +to address you. My last was dated from Bath, so is this; since then I +have made a visit to Wiscassett. Oh I believe—yes I did write a few +lines from there by Uncle Thatcher—I had forgotten that I wrote any more +than the letter I finished before I left Bath. I wish I could give you +an account of my spending my fortnight at Wiscasset, which would amuse +you as much as the reality did me, but that is impossible. I have seen +so many new faces—(I was going to say new characters, but they were +generally such as we see every day), so many handsome ladies, so many +fine men, indeed I have seen a little of everything. Mr. Wild and Mr. +Davis (of Portland) kept at Mrs. Lee’s. Mr. Wild is a most charming man, +and sensible and genteel, apparently has one of the mildest and most +amiable dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis you know. There was a Miss +P—— spent 2 or 3 days at Mrs. Lee’s. She was—was—I can’t tell you what; +you may have heard of her, celebrated for her wit, lost a lover by +exercising it rather too severely; poor soul! it was a sad affair; she +has at length become sensible of the impropriety of her conduct, and now +hopes to atone for it by flattering every gentleman she sees—time will +show whether this plan will succeed. She talks incessantly, laughs +always at what she says herself. At table, when the judges, lawyers, and +a dozen gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss P—— engrossed all the +conversation. I defy any person to be in the room with her and not be +compelled to converse with her, not by the irresistible force of her +charms, they are rather in the wane. If you look at her she asks what +you were going to say—“I know you were going to speak by your looks.” Of +course my gentleman walks up, how can he help it? In this manner she +draws a whole swarm around her; the poor souls rattle out their +outrageous compliments, trembling with fear, for the moment their ardor +to please appears to abate, she rouses them to a sense of their duty by +a lash of her tongue. + +Sunday.—Now I can’t bear to be hurried, and I must submit to be or not +send this by Mamma King. Last night when I began this, I felt quite +disposed to throw away an hour (for my letters to you are thrown away as +you won’t take the trouble to answer them) without consulting anything +but my feelings. I began, and soon found, to my mortification, that I +ought to have consulted my candle, for as if piqued at my neglect, it +took French leave to doze. I broke off my description of Miss P—— in the +most _striking_ part. I do not resume the subject, ’twould be a +profanation of this day to scandalize a frail sister; my mind is full of +charity and Christian love. I hope I shall not stumble against some +unlucky thought that may derange its present peaceful state. Now, +Cousin, don’t you think it unpardonable, don’t you think it a violation +of all the laws of politeness, that you should neglect writing me merely +because I owed a letter? I should not be surprised if you counted the +words in yours and my letters and settled the account by some rule in +Arithmetic. But let me entreat you not to estimate mine by the _weight_, +but the _number_; in that case I am equal to anybody; but if, unhappily +for me, you should weigh them with critical exactness, ’twill take many +of them to repay you for one of yours. I feel assured you must have +adopted this method, and sincerely ask your pardon for doubting a moment +that this was the true cause. What prevented your coming to Wiscassett? +I tho’t you had determined upon it. Rebecca and I used to expect you +every day; believe me I was asked a dozen times if you were not +absolutely engaged to Miss Rice. How such things will get about. I told +every body that asked me that I was your confidant, of course must keep +your attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive your +thanks. + +Mr. Kinsman has been down to Wiscassett. He attended the courts, as he +says, to acquire a better knowledge of the law; but I should imagine he +mistook the _ladies_ for the _law_, as he makes them his constant study. +But I leave so dangerous a subject, lest my feelings should deprive me +of the power to finish this sheet. I shall probably return home the +beginning of next month. If I have a letter due from you, according to +your new arrangement, I beg you to forward it as soon as possible; +however, I have not the vanity to suppose there is more than a dozen +lines as yet; perhaps when I have written half a dozen more letters I +may be _richly_ rewarded with _one_ from you. Where is Maria? How does +she do? Rebecca wrote her while I was in Wiscassett, and told her +undoubtedly she is expected to spend the winter there. I must finish: +Uncle calls. + + ELIZA. + +I believe it is about the 10th day of October. + + E. + +Ellen Coffin is going to be married to a widower and 3 children, think +of that, sir!!! I had a letter from her last week. She is not coming +home till she leaves Portland as Mrs. Derby. + + Topsham, Oct. 29, 1801. + +Why, you unaccountable wretch! you obstinate fellow! you malicious, you +vain, you—Oh, I am run out, I will e’en call in the assistance of Sir +John Fallstaff to help me exclaim against you—provoking creature! With +one scratch of your pen to banish such delightful thoughts! I was +applauding myself for my _condescension_ in writing so often without +answers. I exulted in the thought of your shame and confusion at the +proofs of my superiority,—so much above the little forms that narrowed +your own heart. How did I see you hanging your head with penitence and +sorrow, while your face glowed with conscious shame! Oh, ’twas +delicious! Every day I reflected on it with renewed pleasure. I felt +assured nothing prevented your writing but an aversion to acknowledging +how humble, how little you felt,—yet the letter at length arrived, my +heart trembled with delight, a glow of triumph flushed my face. I saw +the humiliation so grateful to my vanity, (I was at the _Lieu_ table)—I +hurried the letter into my pocket, I had no wish to read it—I knew (I +tho’t I did) what it _must_ contain. I could scarcely breathe; vanity, +exultation, revenge (sweet sensation) gave me unusual spirits. I stood +and called 5— I was sure of a Palm-flush! ’twas impossible anything +could go wrong,—’twas a frail hope—I got nothing, was lieued; never mind +it, thought I, the letter is enough. I played wrong, discarded the wrong +card, knocked over the candlestick, spilt my wine; positively, if it had +been a love-letter, a first declaration, it would not put me in a worse +flustration; but ah! ’twas so different,—I did not blush, look down, +tremble, fear to raise my eyes; my heart did not dissolve away in +melting tenderness—hey-day! I had no notion of telling you what I did +_not_ do—but what I _did_. Well then—I sat so upright, I was a foot +taller, I looked at every body for applause. I wondered I did not hear +them exclaim: Oh, generous, excellent girl! I demanded it with my +eyes—’twas all in vain, I heard nothing but—“Eliza, you must follow +suit. Why do you play that card? You will certainly be lieued!” I was +vexed; I thought of the letter, all was sunshine again. I am +called—dinner; oh, this eating seems to clog all my faculties, I never +write with half so much ease as when I’m half starved. I believe it is +true that poets ought not to live well. + +But begging your pardon for leaving you so in the lurch, I had forgotten +that the letter was as yet unopened in my pocket. Well then, we did not +break up till late; after I retired to bed out came the letter. I was +sleepy and had a great mind not to open it till morning; however I +thought I would, to have the satisfaction of the confirmation of my +hopes, not once thinking of the stroke that should annihilate them. It +came. How shall I tell you my consternation!—“description falters at the +threshold;” yet I did not rave, I did not tear my hair with a frenzy of +passion. I did not stand in mute despair,—no; I collected all my dignity +and stood fixed and immovable. I was convinced ’twas obstinacy alone, +’twas envy, ’twas a something that prevented you from giving me what you +knew I deserved. I am called again. + + Portland, Nov. 10, 1801. + +I had almost determined to light the fire with this scrawl!—but upon +second thoughts I withdrew my hand from the devouring flames and saved +it from the fate it so justly merits. Yet we have such a partiality for +our own offspring we rarely ever treat them with the severity they +deserve. But I ought to tell you where I am,—but this letter has nothing +like method in it—but never mind—I began it immediately after I received +your last. I wrote while the first impressions it made were on me; +unluckily I was called from the pleasing task while in the midst of it, +and as I never feel the same two hours together, I was unable to +continue as I began: ’twould have been cold and studied; so I left it. I +threw it into my trunk, determining not to have anything more to do with +it. I had grown amazingly wise; I wondered how I could suffer myself to +write such nonsense. To-day I have received an invitation to the +_second_ wedding of Capt. Stephenson. I shall go. I thought I would +write you a line to let you know I was still in existence and on my way +home. I could not find any paper and was compelled to tumble over my +trunk to find this. I have a world of news to tell you, but I don’t know +that you would care a farthing about any of it. Mary has been at Boston. +Capt. Stephenson told me all about it. Tell her I hear she has a heap of +fine things, at which, together with her ladyship, I hope to have a +peep. I have something of vast importance to say to _her_ likewise, a +thing on which depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. “Oh, +Mary! who would have thought cruelty one of the failings of your heart.” +But I shall out with this secret to you before I am aware of it. Now I +have a great mind to turn this into a letter to Mary. I have as much +again to say to her as I have to you, but she would not know what to +make of some of it. I expect to be at home on Saturday next; bring Mary +on Sunday,—mind, and don’t disobey. Horatio will be with me. I am in a +monstrous hurry. I must send more blank paper than I ever did before, +for which you will thank me, as I think you once told me that the blank +paper in my letters always afforded you the most pleasure,—not exactly +so—but something like it. Adieu. + + ELIZA. + + Mr. Moses Porter. + + + Scarborough, Dec. 4th, 1801. + +“I give you thanks,” as Parson Fletcher says, for your dissertation upon +apologies and old sayings. You have stored up enough to fill a volume, +if I should take your last as a specimen of the quantity. However, they +are things I trouble myself but little about, and I should rather be +inclined to join in railing against them than in enumerating their good +effects. I perceive that you were much more inclined to be their +advocate after supper than you were before. You had just laid down your +pen after venting all your spleen and ill-nature (occasioned by your +impatience for roast-beef) upon these poor harmless old sayings. You +return, with an entire new set of sentiments on the subject. You +commence their advocate with more vehemence than is usual with you, and +conclude by making them the very foundation of every virtue. Now I have +endeavored to find some natural cause for this sudden change, but +cannot. Was it that you heard one trickle from the lips of some favorite +fair with eloquence too powerful to be resisted? Or was it a bumper of +wine which proved so warm a friend to them? Or was it the good-natured +effects of the roast-beef, which exhilarating your spirits, made you +look with an eye of pity and compassion on these poor neglected things, +and endeavor by rubbing off the rust and polishing them anew, to +compensate for your malicious endeavors to lessen their merit? But after +all I must confess myself a great enemy to them, in conversation +particularly. I never knew a person who made frequent use of them, but I +pitied them for the scanty portion of ideas which must have driven them +to such a paltry theft; and moreover, if I must steal the idea, I would +clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray me. I dislike them +because they are in every body’s mouth, the greatest fool on earth has +sense enough to use them with as much propriety as any other, and you +will find every old beggar has his wallet stuffed full of them, ready to +launch out on every occasion. I don’t know, however, but you are +perfectly right in what you say in their defence. I am inclined to +believe what you say is just, but I have so often seen instances of +their meaning being perverted to answer some vicious purpose that I am +compelled to believe the balance is against them. “So much for old +sayings.”—But now as to apologies, I must with _due reverence_ beg leave +to differ from you in my opinion of them. I am by no means inclined to +think they are never used but when we know ourselves in fault, and that +we ought always to suspect the sincerity of any one who makes them. You +certainly must have known instances when they were essentially +necessary, and not to have made them would have proved an obstinacy of +disposition quite as disagreeable as insincerity. I hate this parade and +nonsense about _independence_, which every gentleman of _ton_ puts on; +it always proves that the reality is small, when such a fuss is made for +the appearance. I know some gentlemen who boast of never having made an +apology, yet at the same time would say and do a thousand things much +more derogatory to their dear independence than fifty apologies, such as +any man of sense might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentlemen +more careful in avoiding anything that would require an apology, and not +like cowards skulk behind their flimsy shield of independence for +defence or security. I have as great an aversion to cringing apologies, +made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, and should always +suspect the sincerity of them.—If this class are the greater part of +them,—still I can conceive, nay I _have known_ instances when an apology +has heightened my opinion of a person instead of lessening it. If we are +in fault, ought we not to confess it? If we are _not_ in fault, ought we +not to exculpate ourselves? I should think a person valued my +approbation very little, if he knew I had any reason to censure him and +yet would not by a single word convince me I had been deceived. However, +I did not mean to dip so far into this _weighty_ subject, ’twould have +been better to have just touched the edges and away. Now really, Moses, +I write in pain if I am not good-natured; you must attribute it all to +the cold which makes my fingers tingle; I can’t write below, there is +such a gabbling. ’Tis a cold, comfortless night; the rain patters +against the window and the wind whistles round the house, it sounds like +December,—oh! that was an unlucky word! I feel gloomy at the sight of +it. The storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for shelter. I +am at this moment so selfish and cross that I would not walk ten steps +to do good to any one. Our old windows here clatter so that I can hear +nothing else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and that I +hear the groans of distress between the blasts of wind, which sound +hollow and dreary; even now the shadow of my pen on the wall looked like +a man’s arm, and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the +candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories! we never get rid of them. I +sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are asleep in the house, get my +imagination so roused, that I look in fearful expectation that the tall +martial ghost of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less +dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop down +chimney.—Ghosts, what a looking word that is!!—nonsense!—what was I +going to say, something about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I +declare this shall be the last letter I will write from the +fire,—December, and writing in the chamber without fire. Oh—monstrous! +But here am I at the end without saying several things I meant to. I +never, when I sit down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to +when I began. You found my letter, you say—’twas not worth the finding, +as it was too late to answer the purpose I wish. Write me often. I have +been entertained with Johnson’s life. We are alone, so write me often. + + 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 +mean to send your perfect character away without a more intimate +acquaintance. When I feel in a proper mood for it I will take it up and +examine every quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on my +mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for ’tis up in my trunk and I +feel no disposition to leave the fire; with your permission I will lay +it by till another time. In the meantime let us descend from these +important discussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With great +satisfaction we at length behold the ground covered with snow, for we +are almost freezing here; it has been impossible almost to obtain wood +to keep us warm, and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay +chimney—The bell rings—I must stop!— + + Monday, Feb. 1, 1802, Portland. + +The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt me in the midst of a +very homely catalogue of blessings—’tis not worth finishing, and if it +was I could not take up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it +was begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, but I find I +am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen firm in my hand, look this +side and that side, yet still cannot think. Scarborough—desolate, dreary +Scarborough is the only place from whence I can write with ease,—nothing +present engages my attentions, and I then have leisure to turn over the +rubbish which I have collected from home—ponder on things past and +anticipate those to come: ’tis something like dreaming,—we are +insensible to everything around us,—the imagination is unchecked by the +operation of our senses, and soars beyond the boundaries of reality. +Pray read over this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I +feel, look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does not +discover a something unlike my letters in general,—cold and studied—I +will not—I cannot write, another post must pass and no letter, yet ’tis +labor, ’tis pain to write thus. + + Sunday, Feb. 8. + +To see the dates of this sheet one would immediately conclude that my +ideas flowed periodically and that I had stated periods to “unpack the +heart,” but ’tis because I cannot take my pen and write at the moment I +feel an inclination,—not to defer it till a more convenient time when I +most probably should feel indifferent about it. Now I am aware what you +are about to infer from such a dull studied letter as this is,—The +“seven days twice run” has put something into your head that ought not +to be there, and you are laughing in your sleeve at the discovery. Now, +I am not after the manner of our sex going to protest it is false—that +there is no foundation for such a report, and counterfeit anger that I +don’t feel, for these things always are viewed as a modest confirmation +of the truth, and frequently are considered the greatest proof that can +be brought. It is folly to give importance to such stories by appearing +to feel interested, and the only way to destroy them is to hear and let +them pass with perfect indifference; time will certainly show what is +true and what is not, and the only method is to let them take their +course, they will sink to oblivion if not fed by our own folly. I own +’tis unpleasant to hear such things, but every girl must prepare herself +for such vexations. It has one good effect—that of making us more +circumspect in our conduct. I do not say I am not in love; if your +penetration has not discovered that I _am_, neither will what I say +convince you. How such a report came to you I do not know. I had hoped +it would wither and die in the hotbed of scandal from whence it sprang. +If you lived here you would not be surprised at any thing of the kind. I +declare to you I don’t know the girl in town of whom the same is not +said. The prevailing propensity this winter is _match-making_, and at +the assemblies there is no other conversation,—such and such a one will +make a match because they dance together,—another one is positively +engaged because she does _not_ dance with him. If a lady does not attend +the assembly constantly—’tis because her favorite swain is not a +member,—if she does—’tis to meet him there: if she is silent, she is +certainly in love; if she is gay and talks much, there must be a lover +in the way. If a gentleman looks at you at meeting you are suspected, if +he dances with you at the assembly it must be true, and if he _rides_ +with you—’tis “confirmation strong as proof of holy writ.” I am vext to +have spent so much time on this subject, but I care nothing about it. +’Tis well I have found something to fill my sheet, and had it not been +for that lucky seven days twice over, I should not have finished it this +month, and finishing now has been a _week’s_ work. + + ELIZA. + + To Mr. Moses Porter. + + + Sunday, Feb’y 14. + +Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed thro’ town! I did not +expect you so soon, altho’ you said you should return on Friday. I +thought _something_ might detain you in Wiscassett longer than you +expected; but you are one of those odd fellows which nothing can turn +aside, no, not even the most sparkling pair of black eyes in the world +could detain you a moment longer than you first intended,—what a +philosopher in this age of gallantry to remain untainted! It will come +at last, Moses. Belamy says there is as much a time for love as for +death, and every one as surely one time or other will feel it. I expect +to see you throw off the Philosopher and assume the man; one more trial +and I will pronounce you invulnerable. For Miss T——, this one is +reserved. I long to see how you will look when (to use a religious +phrase) you are struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive this +and tell me about your journey; don’t wait as long as you commonly do. + + Adieu. + + ELIZA. + + Portland, March 1, 1802. + +Such a frolic! Such a chain of adventures I never before met with, nay, +the page of romance never presented its equal. ’Tis now Monday,—but a +little more method, that I may be understood. I have just ended my +Assembly’s adventure, never got home till this morning. Thursday it +snowed violently, indeed for two days before it had been storming so +much that the snow drifts were very large; however, as it was the last +Assembly I could not resist the temptation of going, as I knew all the +world would be there. About 7 I went down-stairs and found young Charles +Coffin, the minister, in the parlor. After the usual enquiries were over +he stared awhile at my feathers and flowers, asked if I was going out,—I +told him I was going to the Assembly. “Think, Miss Southgate,” said he, +after a long pause, “think you would go out to _meeting_ in such a storm +as this?” Then assuming a tone of reproof, he entreated me to examine +well my feelings on such an occasion. I heard in silence, unwilling to +begin an argument that I was unable to support. The stopping of the +carriage roused me; I immediately slipt on my socks and coat, and met +Horatio and Mr. Motley in the entry. The snow was deep, but Mr. Motley +took me up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without difficulty. I +found a full assembly, many married ladies, and every one disposed to +end the winter in good spirits. At one we left dancing and went to the +cardroom to wait for a coach. It stormed dreadfully. The hacks were all +employed as soon as they returned, and we could not get one till 3 +o’clock, for about two they left the house, determined not to return +again for the night. It was the most violent storm I ever knew. There +were now 20 in waiting, the gentlemen scolding and fretting, the ladies +murmuring and complaining. One hack returned; all flocked to the stairs +to engage a seat. So many crowded down that ’twas impossible to get +past; luckily I was one of the first. I stept in, found a young lady, +almost a stranger in town, who keeps at Mrs. Jordan’s, sitting in the +back-seat. She immediately caught hold of me and beg’d if I possibly +could accommodate her to take her home with me, as she had attempted to +go to Mrs. Jordan’s, but the drifts were so high, the horses could not +get through; that they were compelled to return to the hall, where she +had not a single acquaintance with whom she could go home. I was +distres’t, for I could not ask her home with me, for sister had so much +company that I was obliged to go home with Sally Weeks and give my +chamber to Parson Coffin. I told her this, and likewise that she should +be provided for if my endeavors could be of any service. None but ladies +were permitted to get into the carriage; it presently was stowed in so +full that the horses could not move; the door was burst open, for such a +clamor as the closing of it occasioned I never before heard. The +universal cry was—“a gentleman in the coach, let him come out!” We all +protested there was none, as it was too dark to distinguish; but the +little man soon raised his voice and bid the coachman proceed; a dozen +voices gave contrary orders. ’Twas a proper riot, I was really alarmed. +My gentleman, with avast deal of fashionable independence, swore no +power on earth should make him quit his seat; but a gentleman at the +door jump’t into the carriage, caught hold of him, and would have +dragged him out if we had not all entreated them to desist. He squeezed +again into his seat, inwardly exulting to think he should get safe home +from such rough creatures as the men, should pass for a lady, be secure +under their protection, for none would insult him before them, mean +creature!! The carriage at length started full of ladies, and not one +gentleman to protect us, except our lady man who had crept to us for +shelter. When we found ourselves in the street, the first thing was to +find out who was in the carriage and where we were all going, who first +must be left. Luckily two gentlemen had followed by the side of the +carriage, and when it stopt took out the ladies as they got to their +houses. Our sweet little, trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat +immovable whilst the two gentlemen that were obliged to walk thro’ all +the snow and storm carried all the ladies from the carriage. What could +be the motive of the little wretch for creeping in with us I know not: I +should have thought ’twas his great wish to serve the ladies, if he had +moved from the seat, but ’twas the most singular thing I ever heard of. +We at length arrived at the place of our destination. Miss Weeks asked +Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl’s name) to go home with her, +which she readily did. The gentlemen then proceeded to take us out. My +beau, unused to carrying such a weight of sin and folly, sank under its +pressure, and I was obliged to carry my mighty self through the snow +which almost buried me. Such a time, I never shall forget it! My +great-grandmother never told any of her youthful adventures to equal it. +The storm continued till Monday, and I was obliged to stay; but Monday I +insisted if there was any possibility of getting to Sister’s to set out. +The horse and sleigh were soon at the door, and again I sallied forth to +brave the tempestuous weather (for it still snowed) and surmount the +many obstacles I had to meet with. We rode on a few rods, when coming +directly upon a large drift, we stuck fast. We could neither get forward +nor turn round. After waiting till I was most frozen we got out, and +with the help of a truckman the sleigh was lifted up and turned towards +a cross street that led to Federal Street. We again went on; at the +corner we found it impossible to turn up or turn, but must go down and +begin where we first started, and take a new course; but suddenly +turning the corner we came full upon a pair of trucks, heavily laden; +the drift on one side was so large that it left a very narrow passage +between that and the corner house, indeed we were obliged to go so near +that the post grazed my bonnet. What was to be done? Our horses’ heads +touched before we saw them. I jump’t out, the sleigh was unfastened and +lifted round, and we again measured back our old steps. At length we +arrived at Sister Boyd’s door, and the drift before it was the greatest +we had met with; the horse was so exhausted that he sunk down, and we +really thought him dead. ’Twas some distance from the gate and no path. +The gentleman took me up in his arms and carried me till my weight +pressed him so far into the snow that he had no power to move his feet. +I rolled out of his arms and wallowed till I reached the gate; then +rising to shake off the snow, I turned and beheld my beau fixed and +immoveable; he could not get his feet out to take another step. At +length, making a great exertion to spring his whole length forward, he +made out to reach the poor horse, who lay in a worse condition than his +master. By this time all the family had gathered to the window, indeed +they saw the whole frolic; but ’twas not yet ended, for, unluckily, in +pulling off Miss Weeks’ bonnet to send to the sleigh to be carried back, +I pulled off my wig and left my head bare. I was perfectly convulsed +with laughter. Think what a ludicrous figure I must have been, still +standing at the gate, my bonnet halfway to the sleigh and my wig in my +hand. However, I hurried it on, for they were all laughing at the +window, and made the best of my way into the house. The horse was +unhitched and again set out, and left me to ponder on the incidents of +the morning. I have since heard of several events that took place that +Assembly night much more amusing than mine,—nay, Don Quixote’s most +ludicrous adventures compared with some of them will appear like the +common events of the day. + + March 12, 1802. + +William Weeks is going to Philipsburg[24] and thinks of returning by the +way of Scarborough; if so, will leave this at our house, otherwise can +return it to me. I have not yet seen Miss Jewett, but I hear she has +returned. Did your Saco party come as you expected? Give my love to Miss +Tappan, and tell her nothing but the fame of her beauty would carry this +young man so many miles out of his way. I found he was very desirous of +calling at our house, therefore wrote by him. Tell her she must answer +for the mischief done by leading young men astray from their path. I +will estimate the loss it will be to William:—he will ride 6 or 8 miles +further than necessary,—fatigue his horse,—wear out his sleigh runners, +and certainly be detained 3 hours. Now, as we know a gentleman’s time is +much more valuable than a lady’s, it must be a real loss to him. 3 +dollars a day for posting books any common accountant would have; and +allowing him but just so much, his loss would certainly amount to 4–6 on +that score. I speak merely of the loss on the score of interest;—how +deeply it may affect him otherwise may better be imagined from the +ravages she has committed in Mr. Orr’s heart than from anything I can +say. This short visit may derange all his reasoning faculties, and give +a different hue to all his future prospects,—it may give him a disrelish +for all amusements, and make him sigh for the calm serenity of domestic +life,—to sum up all together—it may make him _in love_,—but I shall have +no time to say anything else, if I run on with this any further. +To-morrow I expect to go to Gorham,—return the same evening or Sunday +morning. I am still at Mrs. Coffin’s, but shall return to Sister when I +come from Gorham. We have had a number of pleasant parties this +week,—Tuesday Mrs. Robert Boyd had a charming one. Wednesday had a large +one here, and to-day all going to Capt. Robinson’s, where we expect to +dance. To-morrow I go to Gorham. I wrote to Mamma requesting money to +buy a lace shade,—I called to look at them again and the shopkeeper told +me he was mistaken in the price, for it was 21 per yard instead of the +whole pattern, which makes a vast difference. I, of course, think no +more of lace shades, but I still think of some money, I have but 4 cents +in the world, not enough to pay the postage of a letter, pray send me a +little immediately. I shall send you a description of the Assembly—which +I believe you may read to my Mother if you wish, ’twill amuse her I +know. I wish you would look in the old desk among my papers and get a +little Drawing book,—directions for drawing printed in a pamphlet, and +give to William to bring over. I hope the snow will last till Mamma +comes over and I return home, ’tis delightful weather. How do the +daisies and jelly flowers? Mrs. Parker is going to give me some flower +seeds. I hear frequent enquiries for you—when are you coming in town? +Tell Miss Tappan I had the honor of dancing a voluntary dance with Mr. +Orr at the last assembly,—he attracted much attention by his irregular +expression—“The floor was very _unyielding_,” &c., &c. I did not tell +you any one’s adventures but my own on that eventful night. Poor Mr. +Orr, impatient to get home, plunged into the snow without waiting for a +carriage, and unfortunately turning up street instead of down, got most +to Mr. Vaughn’s before he discovered his mistake, and was obliged to +turn round and worry his way back again, he was half dead when he got to +his lodgings. Eunice Deering was tumbled over and when Mr. Little took +her from the carriage[25]. + + * * * * * + + Portland, May 23, 1802. + +I receive your apology and am satisfied—’tis not the manner of making +apologies I think most of, but that long dissertation on the subject +continually obtrudes itself on your mind whenever you feel conscious an +apology is necessary, but while I am convinced nothing but the fear of +appearing inconsistent prevents your making these said apologies, I will +not complain—let them come “edgeways” or any other way—so long as I am +convinced you feel their necessity. But I have been pondering on your +new plan of life, yet I confess it does not appear to me so delightful +as to you, it sounds well,—tickles the fancy,—cuts a pretty figure on +paper and would form a delightful chapter for a novel. Our novelists +have worn the pleasures of rural life threadbare, every lovesick swain +imagines that with the mistress of his heart he could leave the noisy +tumultuous scenes of life and in the shades of rural retirement feel all +the delightful serenity and peace ascribed to the golden age. The +Philosopher and the Poet fly to this imaginary heaven with as much +enthusiasm as the lover. Here, say they, we can contemplate the beauty +and sublimity of nature free from interruption; here the reflecting mind +can find endless subjects for contemplation! here all is peace and love! +no discord can find a place among these innocent and happy beings,—they +live but to promote the happiness of each other and their every action +teems with benevolence and love. Yet let us judge for ourselves,—we all +have seen what the pleasures of rural life are, and whatever Poets may +have ascribed to it, we must know there is as much depravity and +consequently as much discontent in the inhabitants of a country village +as in the most populous city. They are generally ignorant, illiterate, +without knowledge to discover the real blessings they enjoy by comparing +them with others, continually looking to those above them with envy and +discontent and imagine their share of happiness is proportioned to their +rank and power. I am convinced that a country life is more calculated to +produce that security and happiness we are all in pursuit of than any +other, but those who have ever been accustomed to it have no relish for +its pleasures, and those who quit the busy scenes of life, disgusted by +the duplicity or ingratitude of the world, or oppressed by the weight of +accumulated misfortune—carry with them feelings and sentiments which +cannot be reciprocated. Solitary happiness I have no idea of, ’tis only +in the delightful sympathies of friendship, similarity of sentiments, +that genuine happiness can be enjoyed. Your mind is cultivated and +enlarged, your sentiments delicate and refined, you could not expect to +find many with whom you could converse on a perfect equality,—or rather +many whose sentiments could assimilate with yours. Were I a man, I +should think it cowardly to bury myself in solitude,—nay, I should be +unwilling to confess I felt myself unable to preserve my virtue where +there were temptations to destroy it, there is no merit in being +virtuous when there is no struggle to preserve that virtue. ’Tis in the +midst of temptations and allurements that the active and generous +virtues must be exerted in their full force. One virtuous action where +there were temptations and delusions to surmount would give more delight +to my own heart, more real satisfaction than a whole life spent in more +negative goodness, he must be base indeed who can voluntarily act wrong +when no allurement draws him from the path of virtue. You say you never +dip’t much into the pleasures of _high life_ and therefore should have +but little to regret on that score. In the choice of life one ought to +consult their own dispositions and inclinations, their own powers and +talents. We all have a preference to some particular mode of life, and +we surely ought to endeavor to arrive at that which will more probably +ensure us most happiness. I have often thought what profession I should +choose were I a man. I might then think very differently from what I do +now, yet I have always thought if I felt conscious of possessing +brilliant talents, the _law_ would be my choice. Then I might hope to +arrive at an eminence which would be gratifying to my feelings. I should +then hope to be a public character, respected and admired,—but unless I +was convinced I possessed the talents which would distinguish me as a +speaker I would be anything rather than a lawyer;—from the dry sameness +of such employments as the business of an office all my feelings would +revolt, but to be an eloquent speaker would be the delight of my heart. +I thank Heaven I was _born_ a woman. I have now only patiently to wait +till some clever fellow shall take a fancy to me and place me in a +situation, I am determined to make the best of it, let it be what it +will. We ladies, you know, possess that “sweet pliability of temper” +that disposes us to enjoy any situation, and we must have no choice in +these things till we find what is to be our destiny, then we must +consider it the best in the world. But remember, I desire to be thankful +I am not a man. I should not be content with moderate abilities—nay, I +should not be content with mediocrity in any thing, but as a woman I am +equal to the generality of my sex, and I do not feel that great desire +of fame I think I should if I was a man. Should you hereafter become an +inhabitant of Boyford I make no doubt you will be very happy, because +you will weigh all the advantages and disadvantages. Yet I do not think +you qualified for the laborious life farmers generally lead, and it +requires a little fortune to live an independent farmer without labor. +Rebecca would do charmingly, I know you are imagining her the partner of +all your joys and cares,—of all your harmony and content, when you charm +yourself with your description of rural happiness. With her you imagined +you could quit the world and almost live happy in a desert. So may it +be,—I know none but a lover could paint the sweets of retirement with +such enthusiasm. ’Tis _my_ turn now to rail a little,—the world also has +linked _you_ to a certain person, as firmly—nay, _more_ so than it ever +did me; however I will not press so closely on this subject. I shall not +expect that candid confession I made you,—as your feelings and mine are, +I believe, entirely different on the two subjects. I want to ask you a +question which you may possibly think improper, but if so, do not answer +it.—Is Mary[26] really engaged to Mr. Coffin? I hear so from so many +persons and in so decided a manner I cannot doubt. I would ask her, but +in these things there is so much deception, there is no finding out,—but +however, I think I should never deny such a thing when I once was +engaged,—however, enough of this. I am now in Portland, shall return +to-morrow to Scarborough where I shall be very happy to see you and +Mary, so I depend on your bringing her over very soon. Adieu—dinner is +ready and I have nothing to say worth losing it for, write me often—I +shall be at home alone these two months to come,—remember you have it in +your power to amuse and gratify. + + ELIZA. + + +I hardly know what to say to you, Cousin, you have attacked my system +with a kind of fury that has entirely obscured your judgment, and +instead of being convinced of its impracticability, you appear to fear +its justness. You tell me of some excellent effects of my system, but +pardon me for thinking they are dictated by prejudice rather than +reason. I feel fully convinced in my own mind that no such effects could +be produced. You ask if this plan of education will render one a more +dutiful child, a more affectionate wife, &c, &c., surely it will,—those +virtues which now are merely practised from the momentary impulse of the +heart, will then be adhered to from principle, a sense of duty, and a +mind sufficiently strengthened not to yield implicitly to every impulse, +will give a degree of uniformity, of stability to the female character, +which it evidently at present does not possess. From having no fixed +guide for our conduct we have acquired a reputation for caprice, which +we justly deserve. I can hardly believe you serious when you say that +“the enlargement of the mind will inevitably produce superciliousness +and a desire of ascendancy,”—I should much sooner expect it from an +ignorant, uncultivated mind. We cannot enlarge and improve our minds +without perceiving our weakness, and wisdom is always modest and +unassuming,—on the contrary a mind that has never been exerted knows not +its deficiencies and presumes much more on its powers than it otherwise +would. You beg me to drop this crazy scheme and say no more about +enlarging the mind, as it is disagreeable, and you are too much +prejudiced ever to listen with composure to me when I write on the +subject. I quit it forever, nor will I again shock your ear with a plan +which you think has nothing for its foundation either just or durable, +which a girlish imagination gave birth to, and a presumptuous folly +cherished. I fear I have rather injured the cause than otherwise, and +what I have said may have more firmly established those sentiments in +you which I wished to destroy. Be it as it may, I believe it is a cause +that has been more injured by its friends than its enemies. I am sorry +that I have said so much, yet I said no more than I really thought, and +still think, just and true. I beg you to say no more to me on the +subject as I shall know ’twill be only a form of politeness which I will +dispense with. You undoubtedly think I am acting out of my sphere in +attempting to discuss this subject, and my presumption probably gave +rise to that idea, which you expressed in your last, that however +unqualified a woman might be she was always equipt for the discussion of +any subject and overwhelmed her hearers with her “clack.” On what +subjects shall I write you? I shall either fatigue and disgust you with +female trifles, or shock you by stepping beyond the limits you have +prescribed. As I cannot pursue a medium I fear I shall be obliged to +relinquish the hope of pleasing—of course of writing. Good night, I am +sleepy and stupid. Morning. O, how I hate this warm weather, it deprives +me of the power of using any exertion, it clogs my ideas, and I ask no +greater felicity than the pleasure of doing nothing. I intended to amuse +you with some of the trifles of the day, but I shall scarcely do them +justice this morning. Friday night we had a ball,—the hall was decorated +with much taste. ’Twas filled up for the _masons_. At the head of the +room there was a most romantic little bower, four large pillars formed +of green and interspersed with flowers, supported a kind of canopy which +was arched in front, with this inscription—“Here Peace and Silence +reign,” filled with a parcel of girls whining sentiment, and silly +fellows spouting love, it produced a most laughable scene. The deities +to whom it was dedicated withdrew from the sacred retreat, which was so +profaned, and noise and folly reigned supreme,—so sweet a place,—so fine +an opportunity for making speeches—’twas irresistible, even _you_ would +have caught a spark of inspiration from the surrounding glories,—and +felt a degree of emulation at the flashes of genius that blazed from +every quarter. Invention was on the rack, the stores of memory were +exhausted and folly blushed to be so outdone. Mr. Symmes sat down to +overwhelm me with a torrent of eloquence, yet his compassionate heart +often prompted him to hesitate that I might recover myself. Such stores +of learning did he display, such mines of wisdom did he open to my view, +that I gazed with astonishment and awe and scarce believed “That one +small head could carry all he knew.” Mr. Kinsman with a countenance that +beamed with benevolence and compassion gazed on all around, while a +benign smile played round his mouth and dimpled his polished cheek, the +laughing loves peeped from his eyes and aimed their never-failing +darts—rash girl—too, too near hast thou approached this divinity—the +poisoned dart still rankles in thy heart,—“The lingering pang of +hopeless love unpitied I endure,” and feel a wound within my heart which +death alone can cure. Monday night—You will easily perceive that I am +obliged to write when and where I can, I have not quite so much leisure +as when at Scarborough, and though in the very place to _hear news_, I +have no faculty of relating what I hear in a manner that could interest +you. Last evening I spent in talking scandal (for which God forgive me) +but was too tempting an occasion to be resisted. I wish you were +acquainted with some of the Portland ladies, I would then tell you many +things that might amuse. But I dare not introduce you to them, lest I +should entirely mistake their character, and that when personally +acquainted with them you would be confirmed in your opinion of my +wanting penetration in studying characters. Yesterday I spent with +Martha, I wish you were acquainted with her, she is truly an _original_. +I never saw one that bore any resemblance to her. She despises flattery +and is even above praise, beautiful without vanity, possessing a refined +understanding without pedantry, the most exquisite sensibility connected +with all the great and noble qualities of the mind. She knows that no +woman in America ever was more admired, she has received every attention +which could be paid and yet is exactly as before she left Portland. The +same condescension, the same elegance and unaffected simplicity of +manners, the same independent and noble sentiments. Perhaps I am blinded +to her faults, yet I think she deserves all I say of her, nay more, for +she “outstrips all praise and makes it halt behind her.” They have +determined to go to England, in two months at farthest they will leave +America, not to return for 2 years,—two years! how many, many events +will have taken place. Perhaps ere that I shall rest in the tomb of my +fathers forgotten and unknown!! Perhaps oppressed with care and borne +down with misfortune, I shall have lost all relish for life—all hopes of +pleasure may have ceased to exist and the grave of time closed over them +forever. I grow gloomy, I wish I could write anything, but I have never +felt a relish for writing since I have been in Portland,—at home it +supplies the place of _society_, but here I need no such substitute. + + ELIZA. + +Write by the post if you have no other opportunity, the players will +commence acting next Wednesday. + +I believe it is the 28th. + + Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. + + +This letter is the last one written by Miss Southgate to her cousin +Moses Porter. The following one from Dr. Southgate to his +brother-in-law, Rufus King, who was then living in England, tells of the +untimely death of his nephew, and its sad cause, July 26th, 1802. + + +Our brother and sister Porter of Biddeford have lost their eldest son +Moses. He dyed (sic) about fifteen days since of the yellow fever. He +had a ship arrived from the West Indies. On her passage the _cook boy_ +dyed suddenly—the rest of the crew were none of them sick, but of those +persons who went on board, five or six were taken with the yellow fever +in about four days—none of whom lived more than four or five days. Moses +is much lamented by his family and acquaintance—this month would have +completed his law education. His talents, generous and amiable +disposition formed a pleasing prospect etc. etc. Mrs. Porter’s health is +_better_, better than I ever expected she would have enjoyed tho’ she is +now only a feeble woman. + + R. SOUTHGATE. + +[Illustration: + + Mr. E. HASKET DERBY of Salem Æt 28, 1794 + From a miniature in possession of Dr. Hasket Derby of Boston. + + ARTOTYPE, E BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + + + JOURNAL. + + Tuesday, July 6th, 1802. + +Arrived in Salem, met Mrs. Derby at the door who received us joyfully. +At tea-time saw the children, fine boys, very fond of Ellen and are +managed by their Father with great judgment. How few understand the true +art of managing children, and how often is the important task of forming +young minds left to the discretion of servants who caress or reprove as +the impulse of the moment compels them. Here are we convinced of the +great necessity that Mothers, or all ladies should have cultivated +minds, as the first rudiments of education are always received from +them, and at that early period of life when the mind is open to every +new impression and ready to receive the seeds which must form the future +principles of the character. At that time how important is it to be +judicious in your conduct towards them! In the evening Mr. Hasket Derby +came in on his return from New York; he is a fine, majestic-looking man, +tho’ he strikes you rather heavy and unwieldy on his first appearance; +he says little, yet does not appear absent,—has travelled much, and in +his manners has an easy unassuming politeness that is not the +acquirement of a day.—Wednesday morning had an agreeable tete-a-tete +with Ellen, talked over all our affairs: in the afternoon rode out to +Hersey Derby’s[27] farm, about 3 miles from Salem; a most delightful +place! The gardens superior to any I have ever seen of the kind; +cherries in perfection! We really feasted! There are 3 divisions in the +gardens, and you pass from the lower one to the upper thro’ several +arches rising one above the other. From the lower gate you have a fine +perspective view of the whole range, rising gradually until the sight is +terminated by a hermitage. The summer house in the center has an arch +thro’ it with 3 doors on each side which open into little apartments, +and one of them opens to a staircase by which you ascend into a square +room the whole size of the building; it has a fine airy appearance and +commands a view of the whole garden; two large chestnut trees on each +side almost shade it from the view when seen from the sides; the air +from the windows is always pure and cool, and the eye wanders with +delight and admiration over the extensive landscape below, so +beautifully variegated with the charms of nature. Imagination luxuriates +with delight, and as it plays o’er the beauties of an opening flower, +imperceptibly wanders to the first principles of nature, its wonderful +and surprising operation; its harmony and beauty. The room is ornamented +with some Chinese figures and seems calculated for serenity and peace. +’Tis like the pavilion of Caroline, and I almost looked around me for +the music of the Guitar and books; but I heard not the tramplings of +Lindorf’s horse, nor did I sing to hear the echo of his voice,—“Listen +to love, and thou shalt know indifference or bless the foe;” certain it +is, however, I thought of Caroline the moment I entered. We descended, +and passing thro’ the arch, proceeded to the hermitage, which terminated +the garden. It was scarcely perceptible at a distance. A large +weeping-willow swept the roof with its branches and bespoke the +melancholy inhabitant. We caught a view of the little hut as we advanced +thro’ the opening of the trees; it was covered with bark,—a small low +door, slightly latched, immediately opened at our touch. A venerable old +man was seated in the centre with a prayer-book in one hand, while the +other supported his cheek, and rested on an old table, which, like the +hermit, seemed moulding to decay; a broken pitcher, a plate and tea-pot +sat before him, and his tea-kettle sat by the chimney; a tattered +coverlit was spread over a bed of straw, which tho’ hard might be +softened by resignation and content. I left him impressed with +veneration and fear which the mystery of his situation seemed to create. +We returned to the house, which was neat and handsome, and from thence +visited the Greenhouse, where we saw oranges and lemons in +perfection,—in one orange tree there were green ones, ripe ones and +blossoms. Every plant and shrub which was beautiful and rare was +collected here, and I looked around with astonishment and delight; at +the upper end of the garden there was a beautiful arbour formed of a +mound of turf, which we ascended by several steps formed likewise of +turf, and ’twas surrounded by a thick row of poplar trees which branched +out quite to the bottom and so close together that you could not see +through,—’twas a most charming place, and I know not how long we should +have remained to admire if they had not summoned us to tea. We returned +home, and Mr. Hasket Derby asked if we should not like to walk over to +his house and see the garden,—we readily consented, as I had heard much +of the house. The evening was calm and delightful, the moon shone in its +greatest splendor. We entered the house, and the door opened into a +spacious entry; on each side were large white marble images. We passed +on by doors on each side opening into the drawing-room, dining-room, +parlor, etc., etc., and at the farther part of the entry a door opened +into a large, magnificent oval room; and another door opposite the one +we entered was thrown open and gave us a full view of the garden below. +The moon shone with uncommon splendor. The large marble _vases_, the +images, the mirrors to correspond with the windows, gave it so uniform +and finished an appearance, that I could not think it possible I viewed +objects that were real, every thing appeared like enchantment,—the +stillness of the hour, the imperfect light of the moon, the novelty of +the scene, filled my mind with sensations I never felt before. I could +not realize every thing and expected every moment that the wand of the +fairy would sweep all from before my eyes and leave me to stare and +wonder what it meant. You can scarcely conceive any thing more superb. +We descended into the garden, which is laid out with exquisite taste, an +airy irregularity seems to characterize the whole. At the foot of the +garden there was a summer house, and a row of tall poplar trees which +hid every thing beyond from the sight, and formed a kind of walk. I +arrived there and to my astonishment found thro’ the opening of the +trees that there was a beautiful terrace the whole width of the garden; +’twas twenty feet from the street, and gravelled on the top, with a +white balustrade round; ’twas almost level, and the poplar trees so +close that we could only occasionally catch a glimpse of the house. The +moon shone full upon it, and I really think this side is the most +beautiful, tho’ ’tis the back one. A large dome swells quite to the +chamber-windows and is railed round on top and forms a delightful +walk,—the magnificent pillars which support it fill the mind with +pleasure. We returned into the house; and on passing the mirrors I +involuntarily started back at seeing so much company in the other room. +We entered the drawing-room which is superb, furnished with blue and +wood color. There was the Grand Piano, the most charming Instrument I +ever heard. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, Mr. Hasket D., Frank Coffin and myself +were the party, and I was requested to play, and took my seat at the +Instrument, and had just begun playing, when a slight noise in the entry +made me turn my head. A gentleman entered and was introduced as Mr. +Grey; made a most graceful bow, took his seat, and I resumed my playing. +We rose to depart, and Mr. G. accompanied us home. I was delighted with +his conversation, which was sensible, unassuming, and agreeable. I +scarcely saw his face, as there was no light. + +Thursday at home all day. In the evening walked in the garden. The +evening was uncommonly fine. The moon shines brighter in Salem than +anywhere else; here too is an elegant garden, full of fruit trees, the +walks kept as nice as possible, and shaded on each side by plum trees; +very handsome summer house where we sat an hour or two. Rambled in the +garden all the evening, which was the finest I ever saw, so very light, +that, as Shakespeare says, “’twas but the daylight sick, only a little +paler.” There is something in a fine moonlight evening exquisitely +soothing to the soul. I have felt as if I could melt away with the +exquisite enthusiasm of my sensations. We were called into the house and +found Mrs. West, a sister of Mrs. Derby’s; but more of her by-and-bye. +Friday Dr. Coffin arrived, and Dr. Lathrop and Hasket Derby dined with +us and set out for Boston. + + +The following letter, written by Martha Coffin, Eliza’s most intimate +friend, and descriptive of a visit that she paid to Salem, will be found +of interest. + + June 29, 1800. + + My dear Ellen: + +I have never told you all about my visit to Salem. I passed my time as +you may imagine very charmingly, and had I your pen or your talent at +description I would endeavor to give you some ideas of the house, the +gardens, and the farm; but it is _Impossible_. + +_The Hermitage_ more than answered my expectations. It is everything +which we see described in novels, and which I thought was not to be +found in reality. + +The garden beyond description beautiful, does indeed exceed anything of +the kind I ever saw. Ten thousand different kinds of flowers from all +quarters of the globe. Fruit of every kind in abundance. A delightful +Summer house in the middle of the garden, furnished quite in the rural +style; and from the chamber where they sometimes drink tea is the most +beautiful prospect you can imagine. + + M. COFFIN. + +[Illustration: + + Mrs. RICHARD DERBY. (Martha Coffin) + + From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs. Peabody of Boston + + ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + + Salem, July 14, 1802. + + Dear Mother: + +I have just received my trunk with the letter and key. I perceive you +have not received my letter by Mr. Jewett. Fear not, my dear Mother, +tho’ gay and volatile in my disposition, I feel that I shall return home +with the same sentiments with which I left it. True, I was in the midst +of gaiety and splendor such as I never before witnessed, yet a something +within whispers true happiness resides not here,—in this family all is +calm contentment and peaceful pleasure. Mr. Derby is everything his best +friends can wish him, and the whole family consider him as every thing +good and benevolent; he truly is so, and appears one of the finest men I +ever knew. How is Uncle Porter’s family? I cannot even now reconcile +myself to the idea of leaving them so unexpectedly and so immediately, +yet I know not how it could be avoided. I am in the midst of amusements +and pleasure, they drive all melancholy reflection from my mind, but +when alone, my feelings warmly pay a tribute to the merit of _our +departed Moses_; yet I cannot,—do not realize, every thing contributes +to make me think it a delusion, a mere dream; how is it possible I can +realize it? Yet sometimes I feel it is, it must be true. How soon do we +reconcile ourselves to the loss of the dearest friends; what would most +distract us in anticipation we meet with calmness when it approaches; +strange, unaccountable. I surely loved Moses with sincerity. I knew of +no person so distantly connected whom I felt so interested in,—yet he is +dead,—he is gone, and I can speak of it without emotion, and I am +called. Adieu, I will write soon. + + ELIZA. + + + JOURNAL. + + Saturday, July 11, 1802. + +We rode out, Ellen and myself, with the three boys, in a hack. Went to +Danners—Parson Wadsworth’s, to see Mrs. Rickman’s children; took them in +to ride; came down by the mills and went across to Hasket Derby’s +farm,—all the cherries gone,—rambled about the gardens an hour and +returned home,—charming ride; the country round Salem is delightful, +altho’ ’tis situated rather in a plain, ’tis surrounded with beautiful +hills, handsome trees, ponds, brooks, etc. We got home at dusk and found +Mr. Coffin just returned from Boston. Mrs. Hasket Derby sent a great +basket of cherries and her compliments, she would come over in the +morning. I wished very much to see her, she had been gone 5 weeks to the +Springs. I had heard Martha say much of her and wished much that +to-morrow could come. + +Next morning—Sunday—went to Meeting. Mr. Dana of Marblehead preached; +very devout, unaffected young man; saw not a soul I had ever seen +before, excepting Mr. Grey; thought I should not have known him as I +scarcely saw his face before. Found Mrs. Hasket Derby on my return, was +disappointed in her personal appearance; instead of finding the elegant, +majestic, beautiful creature my imagination had pictured, I beheld a +little, short, plump woman dressed in black, a coarse complexion and +anxious eyes, yet I had not been in her company an hour without +confessing to myself she was the most agreeable, fascinating woman I +ever saw. She continually pleases and delights you; she appears to live +for others, nor ever bestows a thought upon herself, yet so perfectly +unconscious of it, that it seems inherent in her disposition, and to +flow without any effort. She planned parties of amusement as I was a +stranger, and we fixed upon Friday for a fishing party to Nahant; sent +to Boston for some to meet us. Monday a small party at Mrs. Derby’s came +to tea. I rode in the chaise with Mr. Grey. Mrs. Grey and a Mr. White, +an Englishman, in her carriage. Mr. Coffin and Miss Grey in another +chaise,—Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby. We walked on a hill near the house, +where we had the most extensive prospect I ever saw—the whole world +seemed spread before us covered with the richly variegated carpet of +nature. We returned home in the evening with a fine moon, and all went +to Mr. Grey’s to spend the evening. Most charming time; treated with +great attention by Mrs. Grey, who is, in my opinion, a fine woman, +domestic, fond of her children, and never so happy as in contributing to +their amusement, and possesses fine sense, animated, unceremonious, and +agreeable.—Tuesday, Doct. and Mrs. Coffin and Mrs. Sumner came down from +Boston; dined together, and all went to Hasket Derby’s farm in the +afternoon. Mrs. Grey and Miss Bishop of the party; glad to see Miss +Bishop—one of my old school-mates. Had a most charming ride; went in the +carriage with Mrs. Grey. All returned to Mr. John Derby’s and spent the +evening. William Grey and his father came in the evening; walked in the +garden.—Wednesday, large party of gentlemen to dine with Doct. Coffin. +In the afternoon all went to Mrs. Grey’s; danced in the evening. Miss +Bishop plays and sings charmingly. Thursday, Doct. and Mrs. Coffin went +home, and in the afternoon went to Mrs. Hasket Derby’s with a party; +every thing elegant and pleasant. Friday to Nahant, fishing—Mr. and Mrs. +Hasket Derby, Mr. and Mrs. John Derby, Mr. and Mrs. Hersey Derby, Miss +Bishop, Mr. Grey, Mr. Coffin, and myself, Miss Heller, Mr. Prince, who +looks very much like Horatio, and several others. Met there some smart +Boston beaux,—Mr. Amory Parkman, Turner, etc., etc. Spent a most +charming day; caught but few fish, and very warm, yet pleasant +notwithstanding—set out for home just as the sun was setting. I returned +in the chaise with William Grey, Frank with Miss Bishop,—rode 2 miles on +the beach, the tide down, sun just setting; ’twas charming and +delightful. Saturday went out to Hersey Derby’s farm to tea, went to the +bathing house, summer house—and saw the Rumford[28] kitchen—elegant +place, beautiful children,—rainy afternoon, we could not enjoy the +pleasures of the country so well. Sunday—went to meeting and to tea with +Mrs. Hasket Derby; met company from Boston,—two beaux, Mr. Lee and Mr. +Davis. Monday—a party of young ladies at Mrs. Grey’s; danced in the +evening, went home at eleven, spent half an hour at Hasket Derby’s on my +way; Ellen was there. Tuesday—rode out with Mrs. Grey after dinner, +returned and drank tea with Mrs. Lambert, found company at Ellen’s on my +return—Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby, Hersey Derby and wife, Mr. Prince and +wife,—Patty Derby that was—looks like old _Madame Milliken_[29] very +much. Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby wish me to go to the Springs with them; +know not what to do. Ellen says go by all means, never will have such +another opportunity; she thinks my Father and Mother would not object if +I had time to write them, which would be impossible, they go +to-morrow—what shall I do? I must go over after breakfast, I will +consult Mrs. J. Derby. I would not go for the world if I thought my +Father or Mother would not be pleased. Mr. and Mrs. Derby go alone in +their carriage. I must think of it. + + Wednesday, Salem, July, 1802. + +What will you say, my Dear Mother, when you find I am gone with Mr. and +Mrs. Hasket Derby to the Saratoga Springs? But I hasten to explain all. +Mr. and Mrs. Derby were going in their carriage alone. Mrs. Derby says +she never travelled without some lady, and urged my accompanying her. I +thought ’twas only a compliment and treated it as such, but when I found +she seriously wished it and her husband joined his influence, I began to +think how it would do. I consulted Ellen and Mr. Derby, and they both +thought I ought not to refuse an opportunity of seeing the country which +perhaps may never again occur—a better one surely can never occur. To go +with Mr. and Mrs. Derby is surely an advantage I can never hope to meet +with again. Believe me, nothing would have induced me to think of going +with them unless they had been very urgent. Ellen and Mr. Derby both say +they doubt not you would approve the plan if you were here to consult. +If I did not think so myself nothing would induce me to go—still I +regret not having it in my power to wait an answer from you, but +to-morrow afternoon we must set out. Ellen has lent me everything +necessary for my journey,—indeed I can never repay her. She is the most +generous being I ever saw. She has nothing in the house but is at my +service,—all her handsome dresses she wishes me to carry, indeed +everything that I can possibly want she has supplied me with. I am glad +that I shall not be compelled to purchase anything that would be +unnecessary after my return. I think I shall borrow some money of her, +as it is impossible I can receive any from home, and if I do not need +it, I need not spend it. You may assure yourself I shall remember to +economise as much as possible. It seems as if Ellen and Mrs. Derby tried +which should most oblige me. As I never determined to go till this +morning, Mrs. Derby said ’twas impossible to make any new clothes, nay +unnecessary, and insisted I should take any thing of hers I should want, +but Ellen would not admit of that. I know not the route we shall take, +but Mrs. Derby says we shall probably _go_ or _return_ thro’ +_Leicester_.[30] I shall be gratified very much at an opportunity of +seeing our relations there. Ellen promises to write. I never was treated +with more attention in my life. Ellen heaps me with favors, and now I +have thought of this journey, she thinks she can’t do enough. I intend +keeping a particular journal while I am gone, which you shall all peruse +on my return. We shall probably be gone four or five weeks, as it is two +or three hundred miles from here. When you write me direct your letters +to Salem and Mr. Derby will forward them as he will know where we are. +Has Octavia returned? tell her I shall leave my Salem journal to be sent +to her the first opportunity. If I go thro’ Newport I shall endeavor to +find out Miss Crary and Miss Clarke, and wish I had a letter from her. + +And now, my dear Mother, assure me you approve of my going and I shall +have nothing to trouble me. My Father, I think, would not object to it +if I could know his opinion. Mr. Grey (Wm. Grey) says he is sure he +would not disapprove of it, if he knew in what good protection I was. +By-the-bye, I have received every attention from Mr. Grey’s family, and +Mrs. Grey is a remarkably fine woman. I rode out with her yesterday +afternoon, and she sent for me to go to Wexham pond with her this +afternoon; called to excuse myself and tell her of my projected journey; +she regretted it as I was to have gone to Medford with her the next +week, and she had planned several parties for me which would be +frustrated; but she acknowledged I was perfectly right to go, and if +’twas her daughter she should be much gratified at the opportunity. Mr. +and Mrs. Derby say I must tell you they will take good _care_ of me and +they shall take the full protection of me. Write me soon, or request my +Father or Octavia; but pray if you disapprove, do not tell me till I +return, ’twill be too late to alter or retract, and I should be wretched +if I thought you disapproved my going,—do write, or ask my Father, I +shall feel uneasy. My love to all friends, and believe me, with great +affection, Your + + ELIZA. + + + Francestown (New Hampshire), + July 26, 1802. + + My dear Father: + +My letter in which I informed you of my intended journey, my motives for +it, etc., you will receive before this, I therefore think it unnecessary +to say any more, but rest with full confidence on the indulgent heart of +an affectionate Father, who I trust knows my heart too well to think me +capable of acting in opposition to what I know to be his wishes. We left +Salem on Thursday evening and slept at Ten hills in Charleston, +breakfasted in Webrion,[31] and dined in Betavia.[32] We had a fine view +of the celebrated Middlesex canal, which in future ages must do honor to +our country,—such monuments of industry and perseverance raise our +opinion of our countrymen; it will be 25 miles in length when completed, +running from Deckel[33] to Medford river,—the river of Concord supplies +it with water, boats pass every day, and parties of pleasure are always +sailing on it. In my journal I have been more particular, here I say but +little as we are in a miserable tavern and the horses almost ready. I +cannot tell you the route we are going,—Mr. Derby’s motive is to see the +most pleasant part of the country that he has not seen before. From +Bilusia we came through Chelmsford, Inigsborough where old Irving lived +and Miss Pitts, now Mrs. Brimby, the heiress of his fortune has a most +elegant tasty country house on the banks of the Merrimack—which forms a +most beautiful scene in front of the house and gives a full view of the +river in each direction,—more of this in my journal. We are on a new +turnpike road, from Amherst to Dartmouth. We shall go up to Dartmouth +College as ’tis wholly a jaunt of pleasure, and Mr. Derby is determined +to be in no haste, to enquire everything worth seeing and not to mind 6 +or 7 miles from a direct road,—they are very attentive to me and have +gone a mile from the direct road to show me something they had seen +before. Mr. Derby has been such a traveller that he is now one of the +most useful travelling companions in the world; his wife is the most +engaging, unaffected, family woman in the world, and instead of feeling +myself a burden to them, they make me feel of the utmost consequence. We +passed thro’ several pretty villages on coming here—tho’ it is almost a +new country, scarcely cleared up,—excepting a small village every 6 or 7 +miles; the most hilly, mountainous, woody country I ever was in,—here as +I look round me I see nothing but enormous high hills, covered with +trees and almost mingling with the clouds. One of them in +particular—Francestown[34] is about 12 miles from Amherst, a number of +pleasant houses and a very elegant meeting-house,—how different from our +part of the country!—here, if there is but one handsome house in town +there will be a meeting house. I have passed but one on my journey, in +these new back places, but what was painted and a steeple! From +Dartmouth we go down to Northampton and then to Lebanon Springs, then to +Ballstown and Saratoga, and return by the way of New Haven, Hartford, +etc. I shall have a fine opportunity of seeing the country on +Connecticut River. Mr. Derby does not know the route he shall go, but +shall depend on what he hears; we shall go thro’ a part of the States of +Vermont, Connecticut, and New York, so that in our tour we shall be in 5 +different States. I shall write very often, and wish you, my Dear +Father, to write me by the return of the mail, and direct to Pittsfield +in Massachusetts,—or to Mr. John Derby in Salem. If we go thro’ +Leicester I shall find out our relations. Tell Octavia and Horatio I +shall write them soon, but as I keep a particular journal which they +shall all see, ’tis not so material. I hear the carriage—love to all. + + ELIZA. + + + Ballston Springs, August 22, 1802. + + My Dearest Mother: + +I feel at this moment as if I could fly! so far from home, received no +letters, yet at Albany I expect to find them, let me at least hope what +’twill delight me so much to realize. I sometimes almost fear to receive +a letter from home,—yet my indulgent Parents will pardon the liberty I +took in coming this journey, as I trust they are convinced by my past +life, that I would not for the universe act in opposition to what I knew +they approved. I am convinced when you know Mr. and Mrs. Derby you will +feel that I was both secure and honored in their protection. I cannot +tell you half I owe them, never in my life was I treated with more +affectionate attention. They appear as much interested in all I do as if +I were their daughter. You know my heart, my dearest Mother, you know it +never was insensible to the smallest favor, what then must be its +sensation when it is thus overpowered by affectionate kindness. I long +to convince them how much I feel, but words are inadequate. My Father +has seen Mr. D., I wish he would write to him, I think it would be no +more than just to thank him for the care he has taken of his daughter. +It seems as if he had a right to expect something of the kind. They are +the finest couple I know of, so different from what I expected to find +them. I thought Mr. Derby a gay gallant man like Mr. Davis, but he is a +plain, noble-hearted, sincere, generous man,—talks very little and one +of the pleasantest dispositions in the world. In Mrs. Derby I thought to +find a gay woman of fashion, but not a soul that ever knew her could +help loving her. I never saw a person so universally beloved. We have +been here at Ballston a fortnight to-morrow. It has been one continued +scene of idleness and dissipation—have a ball every other night, ride, +walk, stroll about the piazzas, dress,—indeed we do nothing that seems +like improvement. But still I think there is no place where one may +study the different characters and dispositions to greater advantage. +You meet here the most genteel people from every part of our +country,—ceremony is thrown off and you are acquainted very soon. You +may select those you please for intimates, and among so many you +certainly will find some agreeable, amiable companions. For a week we +sat down at the table every day with 60 or 70 persons, to-day we were +all speaking of the latter being very thin because we had only 40. There +are as many more at the other boarding house, continually going and +coming, and now there is scarcely 10 persons here that were here when we +came. We went last week to _Lake George_, about 40 miles from here,—made +up a party and went on Tuesday, breakfasted at _Saratoga_, where the +Springs formerly most celebrated were, and dined about 14 miles this +side the lake, at the most beautiful place I ever saw. Perhaps you have +heard of Glens-Falls; they are said to exceed in _beauty_ the Falls of +_Niagara_—tho’ in _sublimity_ must fall far short. I never imagined +anything so picturesque, sublime and beautiful as the scenery around +this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have exactly the +appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins, they are entirely of _slate_, +and seem piled in regular forms with shrubs and grass growing in +between. I looked around me for an hour and I every moment discovered +something new to admire,—nothing could exceed the beautiful variety of +the scenery. I left this elegant place with painful regret. About sunset +we came in view of the _Lake_, it is a most beautiful sheet of water, +Morse says 36 miles long and from one to 7 broad, full of beautiful +Islands, 365 in all and of every size and shape. It is surrounded by +very high hills and mountains rising one above the other in majestic +grandeur. In the morning we went out to fish, sailed about 4 miles on +the lake to a little Island where we went on shore,—nothing could exceed +the beautiful grandeur of the prospect; we anchored off,—I found it very +charming fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we could see +the fish swimming around the dock. Our first intention was to sail down +the lake to Lake Champlain and visit the ruins of the fortifications at +Ticonderoga, but some of our party dissuaded us from it. We saw the +ruins of Fort George and the bloody pond—where so many poor wretches +were thrown. We stopt on our return at the field where Burgoyne +surrendered his army; it is now covered with corn and nothing to +distinguish it from the surrounding fields; we returned by a different +route, for 10 miles we rode directly on the banks of the Hudson river, +nothing could be more delightful, our road wound with the river which +was beautifully overhung with trees; we returned here Thursday night, +found them dancing. I joined, and the next night we had a ball at the +other house; there again I danced till 12 o’clock and the next morning +got up quite sick,—to-day I am finely again and have made a resolution +not to dance again whilst I stay here. This all think I can’t keep, but +they shall see I can. Col. Boyd came here last week but went away while +we were gone to Lake George—to Canada I believe. He says you had not +heard of my coming when he left Portland, so he could tell me nothing +new. We shall probably leave here on Tuesday or Wednesday, stay at +Albany a few days and go to Lebanon again, perhaps to Williamston +Commencement. We are engaged to spend the day at Mr. Rensselaer’s, the +former L Governor, and one at Mr. Rensselaer’s—his brother, who is Mayor +of the City. I know not how long ’twill be before we return to Salem, +but I really begin to think of home with a great deal of anxiety. Tell +Octavia I never go into the Ball room to dance without wishing for her; +how delighted should I be if Horatio and Octavia were here with me! How +charming will it be when I get home again! Believe me, my Dear Mother, I +shall love home more than ever. I long to sit me down by the instrument +some evening after the business of the day is over, with you, my Father, +and all round me, or to hear Octavia sing and play. This scene of +dissipation may please for a while by its novelty, but it soon +satiates—no regular employment, I have never been in the habit of +spending my time in idleness; and they say here that the Southern ladies +seem more at home here than the Northern ladies and do not appear to +think industry necessary to happiness. I hope to find many letters at +Albany. I have kept a regular journal which will assist my memory in +relating my adventures, when I return home again. I wrote Horatio last +week and told him to send the letter home for you to read. I look +forward to returning with the greatest pleasure. I suppose you are fixed +upon a house and will move by the time I return, let me know as I am +anxious to hear about it. Give my best love to all my friends and tell +Octavia I have more to say to her than I can gabble in a month. Oh I +long to get home again. I find no time to write, if I lock myself in my +chamber I have so many knocks at the door—Miss Southgate go and walk—go +down to the spring—somebody wants you below,—so many interruptions, ’tis +almost impossible. After I retire for the night I am so tired and sleepy +and my chamber is so hot, I _cannot_ write; ’tis Sunday to-day (tho’ all +days are alike here) and I have determined I would write home. I wonder +how it was possible for Martha to write so much,—I hear of her from all +the Southern people, they all speak in raptures. Give my love to Mrs. +Coffin and kiss all the children—Mamy particularly, what would I give to +hear her open my door and run in this moment. Mrs. Derby says I get +low-spirited when I write home, the only way is to think as little of it +as possible whilst I am so far off. I shall write again from Albany, +where I hope to find letters. + + Ever your affectionate ELIZA. + + To the care of Robert Southgate, + Scarborough, + (District of Maine.) + +[Illustration: + + THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE +] + + Albany, August 8, 1802. + +Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without any thing to mortify +or disappoint us; I wrote you the night I arrived at Lebanon, the next +morning the bell rang and we all assembled to breakfast; there were +about thirty ladies, much dressed, looking very handsome, it seemed more +like a ball room than a breakfasting room. We were the last that came +in, and all eyes were fixed upon us. Lady Nesbert and the Allston family +from Carolina were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is a little, +smart-looking woman, very _learned_ they say, understands the dead +languages—not pedantic, rather reserved—Lady Nesbert,[35] a most +interesting woman, full black eyes with a wild melancholy expression and +a voice so sweet and plaintive, you would think it melancholy music. I +never heard her speak a dozen times since I have been here and rarely +ever smile. Old Mrs. Allston, the mother, is a _sour-looking_ woman, +nothing affable or condescending. Miss Allston, they say, is a romp, +though her mother restrains her so much you would not suspect it. Old +Mr. Allston[36] is affable and agreeable. We had likewise there a Mr. +Constable[37] of N. Y.; has lived in great style,—very much the +gentleman. + +Miss —— from N. Y. whom I mentioned in my last is a truly _fashionable_ +City Belle. She is a fortune, but I believe not of family. The Gentleman +she calls her father and whose name she takes ’tis said was hired by a +British officer, her real father, to marry the mother and adopt the +daughter, and a very large sum was given him. He appears an abandoned +old rake, pale and sallow. Oh! he is a horrid-looking object, in a deep +consumption I imagine; she is very attentive. But, good heavens! Ellen, +I had no idea of a fashionable girl before—one that devotes her whole +attention to fashion. I have much to tell you when I return, about the +Miss Ashleys’ french style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ransselear[38] left +Lebanon the day before we did with Mr. and Miss Westelo,[39] Mr. +Welsh,[40] the Miss Stevensons, and Miss Livingston the Albany +Belle,—all belong to Albany. Mr. and Miss Westelo, Miss Beakman, and Mr. +Ransselear, who is Mayor of the City, called last evening and we all +went to walk—went into Miss Westelo’s and spent a charming hour; all +returned with us, and we engaged to go to meeting with Mr. and Miss +Westelo and take tea at the Mayor’s this afternoon. Mr. Westelo is going +to Balston in company with us and a Mr. Kane[41] of N. Y. whom we met at +the Coffee House—very genteel man. Another little lawyer from +Litchfield, who came in from Lebanon with us, is likewise, on Monday; so +we shall have a very pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet one of +their genteelest N. Y. beaux at Balston, Mr. Bowne. I wonder if it is +the same I have heard you mention. I shall find out. About eleven +o’clock, or rather twelve, I was surprised by some delightful music, a +number of instruments, and most elegantly playing “Rise! Cynthia! rise!” +I jumped up and by the light of the moon saw five gentlemen under the +window. To Mr. Westelo I suppose we are indebted. “Washington March,” +“Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Taste Life’s glad moments,” “Boston March,” +and many other charming tunes—played most delightfully. I have heard no +music since I left Salem till this, and I was really charmed. The bell +will ring soon and I must finish this after meeting.—Sunday afternoon. +The dinner was brought on the table just as the bell rang for meeting, +so that we were obliged to stay at home this afternoon, and tell Mr. +Westelo and his sister, who called again for me, as Mrs. Derby did not +go out, that I would go to Mrs. Ranselear’s after meeting. In the +morning, Mr. Derby and myself went to the New Dutch Church with Mr. and +Miss Westelo and sat with them next pew to the Patroon’s, whom you saw +in Salem with his beautiful wife. + +After meeting, Mr. Westelo came with the Patroon and his wife to see us. +She is really beautiful, dressed very plain; cotton cambric morning +gown, white sarsnet cloak, hair plain, and black veil thrown carelessly +over her head. They urged our dining there to-morrow, but Mr. Derby is +determined to set out in the morning for Balston—the waters, all tell +him, will be of great service—when we return we shall go and see them. A +great number of elegant gentlemen are here in this house, many from N. +Y., some going to the springs. Your Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would +look rusty long side them. Hush, not a word!—Mr. Kane of N. Y., whose +sister married Robert Morris, is here, will set out for the springs in +company with us, Mr. Westelo and some others. We shall go to Lake George +and probably make a party from Balston. Mrs. Derby has insisted on my +wearing the sarsnet dress to-day as we shall drink tea at the Mayor’s, +where the Patroon and wife will probably be. I am every moment reminded +of your affectionate kindness, which I hope never to be insensible to. + +You wrote Mamma, I suppose. I have not received a line from anybody; +shall depend on finding letters at Pittsfield or Lebanon; do write me +everything. I have so much to tell you that I cannot write. Mrs. Derby, +I cannot tell you how much I owe her. She treats me with so much +affection, and she says she believes Mr. Derby feels as much interest in +me as if I were his daughter—wishes everything I wear should be +becoming, and indeed they both treat me with all the attention and +affection my most sanguine expectation could desire. I do not wish to be +treated with more affection; think then, dear Ellen! how sensibly I must +feel it, how gratifying to my feelings. I can never forget the +obligation I owe to you and them. My best love to your husband; tell him +when I return I shall have a whole world of news for him. I long to hear +from you, do write soon. At Balston I will write again. Many people will +be talking about my going this journey; many will censure me perhaps; if +you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill-natured remarks you could +not do me a greater favor than to vindicate my conduct. I have never for +one moment since I left Salem regretted I came. The affectionate +attention of Mr. and Mrs. Derby delights my very heart, ’twas more than +I had a right to expect. I have received much delight in this tour, seen +much elegant company, variety of character and manners. I am sensible it +will be a source of great improvement, as well as pleasure. I shall have +seen that style and splendor, which has so many magic charms when viewed +at a distance, divested of its false place, we find it mingled with as +many pains as any other situation in life, nay, more poignant pain. I +feel that I shall not be at all injured by this life; though I enjoy +myself highly and mingle with these people with much delight, I shall +return happy and content. Mr. Derby is quite unwell, has taken nothing +but milk since we left Salem, his stomach refuses everything else. I +have strong hopes that the Balston waters will have a good effect. +Everyone tells him so. A gentleman just from Balston says there is a +great deal of company at the Springs, dance every other night. If the +waters agree with Mr. Derby we shall stay a week or ten days. I have +written home a number of times, which together with my journal take up +all my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hrs. devoted to sleep. +I would give anything for one line from you this moment. How delighted I +shall be when I return! Any news from Martha? If any letter arrives for +me send it on to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if we were all +together going to the Springs! I have not time to write anything about +Albany fine society—I believe full of Dutch houses. Adieu, love to all +friends. + + ELIZA. + + Mrs. Eleanor Coffin. + + + Salem, September 9, 1802. + + My Dearest Mother: + +Once more I am safe in Salem and my first thoughts turn toward home. I +arrived last night. The attention I have received from Mr. and Mrs. +Derby has been of a kind that I shall look forward with delight to a +time when I may be able to return it as I wish. I am in perfect health +and spirits and have enjoyed the journey more than I can express to you. +I don’t know that I have had an unpleasant hour since I have been gone, +and what is still more pleasing, I look back on every scene without +regret or pain. At Leicester I went to Uncle Southgate’s, and Cousin +William helped me into the carriage when I left the tavern the next +morning. We did not return thro’ North-Hampton, and I consequently +missed seeing Aunt Dickenson. I regret it extremely, but Mr. Derby was +in such haste to return, that he left us at Worcester and took the +stage. I therefore could not say a word of Hadley. I found two letters +from Octavia on my return here; felt really grieved at Eliza Wait’s +death; she must feel it sensibly as they were such intimate friends, yet +time blunts the sharp pangs of affection, and when I return she will +feel that happiness has only fled for a while to make its return more +delightful. I have received more attentions at the Springs than in my +whole life before, I know not why it was, but I went under every +advantage. Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, and they are such +charming people and treated me with so much affection, it could not be +otherwise! Among the many gentlemen I have become acquainted and who +have been attentive, one I believe is serious. I know not, my dearest +Mother, how to introduce this subject, yet as I fear you may hear it +from others and feel anxious for my welfare, I consider it a duty to +tell you all. At Albany, on our way to Ballston, we put up at the same +house with a _Mr. Bowne_ from New York; he went on to the Springs the +same day we did, and from that time was particularly attentive to me; he +was always of our parties to ride, went to Lake George in company with +us, and came on to Lebanon when we did,—for 4 weeks I saw him every day +and probably had a better opportunity of knowing him than if I had seen +him as a common acquaintance in town for years. I felt cautious of +encouraging his attentions, tho’ I did not wish to _discourage_ +it,—there were so many _New Yorkers_ at the Springs who knew him +perfectly that I easily learnt his character and reputation; he is a man +of _business_, uniform in his conduct and _very much respected_; all +this we knew from report. Mr. and Mrs. Derby were very much pleased with +him, but conducted towards me with peculiar _delicacy_, left me entirely +to myself, as on a subject of so much importance they scarcely dared +give an opinion. I left myself in a situation truly embarrassing. At +such a distance from all my friends,—my Father and Mother a perfect +stranger to the person,—and prepossessed in his favor as much as so +short an acquaintance would sanction,—his conduct was such as I shall +ever reflect on with the greatest pleasure,—open, candid, generous, and +delicate. He is a man in whom I could place the most unbounded +confidence, nothing rash or impetuous in his disposition, but weighs +maturely every circumstance; he knew I was not at liberty to encourage +his addresses without the approbation of my Parents, and appeared as +solicitous that I should act with strict propriety as one of my most +disinterested friends. He advised me like a friend and would not have +suffered me to do anything improper. He only required I would not +discourage his addresses till he had an opportunity of making known to +my Parents his character and wishes—this I promised and went so far as +to tell him I approved him as far as I knew him, but the decision must +rest with my Parents, their wishes were my law. He insisted upon coming +on immediately: that I absolutely refused to consent to. But all my +persuasion to wait till winter had no effect; the first of October he +_will come_. I could not prevent it without a positive _refusal_; this I +felt no disposition to give. And now, my dearest Mother, I submit myself +wholly to the wishes of my Father and you, convinced that my happiness +is your warmest wish, and to promote it has ever been your study. That I +feel deeply interested in Mr. Bowne I candidly acknowledge, and from the +knowledge I have of his heart and character I think him better +calculated to promote my happiness than any person I have yet seen; he +is a firm, steady, serious man, nothing light or trifling in his +character, and I have every reason to think he has well weighed his +sentiments towards me,—nothing rash or premature. I have referred him +wholly to you, and you, my dearest Parents, must decide. Octavia +mentioned nothing about moving, but I am extremely anxious to know how +soon we go into Portland and what house we shall have. Write me +immediately on the subject, and let me know if you approve my conduct. +Mr. Bowne wishes me to remain here until he comes on and then let him +carry me home: this I objected to, but will depend on your advice. I +shall be obliged to stay a few weeks longer,—Harriet Howards expects me +a week in Cambridge, Mrs. Sumner a week in Boston, and Mrs. Hasket Derby +another week. I am now with Ellen and shall stay till Mrs. Coffin comes +up, then according to promise go to Mrs. Lucy Derby’s. I feel extremely +anxious to hear you have moved into town, and shall most probably be +here until then; write me immediately. If you wish any furniture, Mrs. +Sumner will assist me in purchasing whatever you wish. I mentioned in my +letter, when I set out on this journey I borrowed 15 dollars of Ellen; I +wish you to send it to me immediately after receiving this, if you have +not already sent it. I shall likewise stand in need of a little, as I +have unavoidably incurred many expenses in this journey which I should +not otherwise have done. Mr. Derby has loaded me with obligations, all +my expenses he defrayed as if I was his daughter, and in such a manner +as endears him more than I can express. You cannot imagine how +interested they both are in the subject I have been writing you upon,—my +nearest friends cannot feel more, they have witnessed the whole +progress, and if you knew them, would be convinced they would not have +let me act improperly, they both approve my conduct. I wish my Father +would write to Mr. Derby and know what he says of Mr. B.’s character. I +don’t know but ’tis a subject too delicate to give his opinion, but I +can conceive that my Father might request it without any impropriety; +and do, my Dear Mother, beg him to say any thing in his power to +convince him that we all feel sensibly their great attention to me. You +know not how anxious I feel for my Father to write him something of that +kind, not that they appear to expect it, but on the contrary insist that +they have been more obliged than I have, and really seem to think so; +but this rather strengthens than lessens the obligation, nothing should +have induced me to receive such from people who felt they were +conferring favors. I long to hear when we move into Portland, _do_ write +me. My best love to Horatio and Octavia, and tell them I shall write as +soon as possible. I found a large packet of 5 sheets from Martha, dated +Paris, June 28th; tells me every thing, speaks almost in raptures of +Buonaparte, says Uncle Rufus has a little son[42] about 12 years old at +school there, one of the finest boys she ever saw. I find most of the +Southern people whom we met at the Springs, think Uncle Rufus stands as +good a chance of being President as any one spoken of. I have listened +for hours to his praises when not one knew how much I was interested; it +was known from Mrs. Derby I was his niece, and it really gave me great +consequence. I thought of Mrs. Dewitt and laughed. Judge Sedgwick told +me had letters from him as late as June, and that he was determined on +returning in the Spring. I long to hear from home. My love to all my +friends, and believe me, with every sentiment of _duty_ and _affection_, + + Your daughter ELIZA. + +[Illustration: + + Mr. WALTER BOWNE + + From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B. Lawrence + + ARTOTYPE. E BIERSTADT, N. Y. +] + + +Martha sent me a most elegant Indispensable, white lutestring spangled +with silver, and a beautiful bracelet for the arm made of her hair; she +is too good—to love me as she says, more than ever. + + Portland, Nov. — Friday, — 1802. + +Mr. Davis is going on to Boston and will have a letter for you. I am +delighted to hear that Mamma is better. I send you some of Miss Homer’s +wedding cake; married on Monday. You say Rufus Emerson has returned and +tells them a great many stories; when you write next tell me what he +says, and where he heard, and all about it, for everything interests me. +Mr. Bowne has not arrived, I am out of all patience, cannot imagine what +detains him,—4 weeks to-morrow since he took Mr. Codman’s letter. These +Quakers are governed by such a _slow spirit_—I wish the deuce had them. +I shall be really uneasy if he don’t come soon. I want some _money_, my +last dollar I gave Horatio to buy Mamma’s _oranges_. I have written to +Mrs. Derby to buy me a _winter gown_; in her last she says she has +bought it but does not mention the price. I wish the money to send to +her soon as I hear; a little likewise for occasional expenses, ’tis not +pleasant to be without. I have been in but one party since Mamma’s +sickness; shall certainly not go out more than I can possibly avoid. +Mrs. Derby is quite out at Mr. B.’s not coming. I’ll not be so +ungenerous as to condemn him without giving an opportunity of +vindicating himself, some circumstances I know not of may detain him. +All our friends are well. Send me the money as soon as possible; and +don’t forget to tell particularly what Rufus says, whom he saw, what +they told him, and when he heard all. In some cases trifles acquire +importance—mole hills become mountains. Adieu. + + ELIZA. + +Love to Mamma, and tell her I am out of all patience. + + Miss Octavia Southgate. + + + Boston, May 30, 1803. + + Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter’s Boarding House, and + tho’ we have endeavored to keep ourselves as much out of the way as + possible, a great many people have called to pay their respects to Mr. + and Mrs. Bowne. The first person we met driving thro’ Salem was Mr. + _Lee_ just coming in town; he bowed very low and pass’d. We went to a + public house and had not been there 3 minutes before Mr. Lee came in + determined to be the first to call on us; he shook hands very + cordially, congratulated us, and went with us up to Ellen’s. We + promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Mrs. H. Derby; spent a + charming hour and returned to Ellen’s, dined, and all went to Lucy + Derby’s to tea, Mr. Lee and a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself + called on Mrs. Grey, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen’s + and stayed the night, and the next morning, which was Wednesday, came + into Boston,—’twas _election day_ and all the world was in motion. I + could not bear to come to Mrs. Carter’s, but Mr. Bowne thought he + ought to. Mr. Lee got to Boston as soon as we did and came immediately + to see us and offer his services; he has been here again this morning + and is going to ride into the country with us to show us some fine + seats. Doctor Boice, Mr. Davis, Mr. Cabot, Charles Bradbury, Tom + Coffin and a dozen other gentlemen, whose names I have forgot, and who + came with the Miss Lowells and Miss Russells. We have prevented all + invitations on, by constantly saying we were going out of town + immediately. Mr. Lee insisted, when I expressed a wish to see Miss + _Wyre_, on letting her know I was in town,—he went and she came + immediately back. I was very glad to see her and she appeared so + herself at seeing me. Some ladies and gentlemen came in; and after + they were gone, Alicia, Mr. B. and myself went a-shopping;—the + fashions for bonnets, Octavia, are very ugly; Alicia had a large, + white glazed cambric one made without pasteboard. But I have not told + you how Gen. Knox[43] found us out at Newburyport. We always kept by + ourselves, but in passing the entry Gen’l Knox, who had just come in + the stage, met Mr. B. and asked where he was from—(Mr. Bowne kept here + with Mrs. Carter when Gen’l Knox was here last winter); he told him + from the Eastward.—Alone?—no.—Who is with you?—_Mrs. Bowne._ So plump + a question he could not evade, so the General insisted on being + introduced to the bride. I was walking the room and reading, perfectly + unsuspicious, when the opening of the door and Mr. Bowne’s + voice—“Gen’l Knox, my love,” quite roused me; he came up, took my hand + very gracefully, pres’t it to his lips and begged leave to + congratulate me on the event that had lately taken place. After a few + minutes’ conversation—“And pray, sir,” said he, turning to Mr. + Bowne—“when did this happy event take place?” I felt my face glow, but + Mr. Bowne, always delicate and collected, said—“’Tis not a fortnight + since, Sir.” The stage drove to the door, and after hoping to see us + at Mrs. Carter’s he took his leave, and this morning—(he was out all + day yesterday)—I found him waiting in the breakfast room to see me. He + introduced me to General Pinckney[44] and his family from + Carolina,—Gen’l Pinckney, they say, is to be our next President. “_Mr. + Bowne_,” said Gen’l Knox to Gen. P., “has done us the honor to come to + the District of Maine for a bud to transplant in New York.” He was + very polite and said “he must find us out in New York.” Only think, I + never thought of the _wedding-cake_ when I was at Salem. You would + laugh to hear “_Mrs. Bowne_” and “Miss Southgate” all in a breath—“How + do you do, Miss Southgate?”—“I beg pardon, _Mrs. Bowne_,” and do it on + purpose I believe; when I hear an old acquaintance call me “Mrs. + Bowne” it really makes me stare at first, it sounds so very odd. Mr. + B. will be in, in a moment—and if I don’t seal my letter, he will + insist on seeing it, so love to all. I depend on finding letters at + New Haven. I have a thousand things to say,—(some ladies enquire for + Mrs. Bowne, so says the servant,—I’ll tell you who they are when I + come up,)—Mrs. Bartlett and Alicia; they insist on our taking tea and + spending the evening; we promised if we did not leave town after + dinner that we would. Adieu, adieu. Mr. Bowne sends a great deal of + love. + + Your affectionate sister, + ELIZA BOWNE. + +[Illustration: + + THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM +] + + New Haven, June 1, 1803. + + Your letter, my dear Octavia, was the first thing to welcome me on my + arrival at this City. I cannot describe to you my sensations when it + came. I can rarely think of home without more pain than pleasure, and + yet if there is a being on earth perfectly _blest_ ’tis your sister + Eliza. How infinitely more happy than when I left you. You cannot + imagine how delightful has been our journey. We have stop’t at every + pleasant place, enjoyed all the beauties of the Spring in the richest + and most luxuriant country I ever saw. I wrote you last from + Boston.—The afternoon following Mr. Lee called to accompany us a few + miles out of town; he had requested Mr. Lyman’s permission to go out + to his seat in Waltham that Mr. Bowne and myself might have an + opportunity to see it, as it is the most beautiful place round Boston. + We set out about 4 o’clock—had a most charming ride. Mr. Lee was + remarkably sociable, attentive and polite, both to Mr. Bowne and + myself. He talks just as sociably, and called me “Miss Southgate” and + “Mrs. B.” all in a breath as fast as he could talk. I have no time to + tell you of this elegant place of Mr. Lyman’s, great taste in laying + out the grounds. It surpasses everything of the kind I ever saw; + beautiful serpentine river or brook thickly planted with trees, and + elegant swans swimming about—you can’t imagine—’twas almost like + enchantment. After Mr. Lee had gathered me a bouquet large enough to + supply a ballroom—of the most elegant and rare flowers,—full blown + roses—buds—everything beautiful, we jumped into the carriage, he shook + us cordially by the hand, wished us every happiness, and hoped to see + us in New York ere long. Sunday morning we got to Springfield, stayed + the day, it recalled so many pleasing sensations. When we parted + there—how different were our feelings—our happiness was augmented by + the contrast. From Springfield to Hartford was charming; much pleased + with Hartford, stayed a day and night there. From Hartford to New + Haven is the most elegant ride you can possibly imagine,—a fine + turnpike about 30 miles, and such a picturesque, rich, luxuriant + country, such variety and beauty—oh ’twas charming! Mr. Bowne is + waiting for me this full hour to walk in the Mall,—What shall I do, he + hurries so? Well, I never saw a place so charming as New Haven; we + have been all over it,—visited the College, everything, and I give it + the preference to any place I know of—a particular description I + defer. I have no time to say a word of your letter; write me + immediately on receiving this to New York, where we shall be on + Saturday. Mr. Bowne’s best love with mine to all the family. Adieu—I + have ten thousand things more to say but can’t. Write me immediately. + + Ever your affectionate + ELIZA BOWNE. + + New York, June 6, 1803. + + I sit down to catch a moment to tell you all I have to before another + interruption. I have so much to say, where shall I begin—my head is + most turned, and yet I am very happy; I am enraptured with New York. + You cannot imagine anything half so beautiful as _Broadway_, and I am + sure you would say I was more romantic than ever if I should attempt + to describe the Battery,—the elegant water prospect,—you can have no + idea how refreshing in a warm evening. The gardens we have not yet + visited; indeed we have so many delightful things ’twill take me + forever; and my husband declares he takes as much pleasure in showing + them to me as I do in seeing them; you would believe it if you saw + him. Did I tell you anything of Brother John? handsome young man, + great literary taste; he is one of the family; nothing of the + appearance of a Quaker. Mrs. King, another sister, they all say looks + like me. Mrs. Murray, who is very sick now, has a daughter, a + charming, lively girl, about 19, and the little witch introduced me in + a laughing way last night to some of her friends as _Aunt Eliza_. I + protest against that; her brother Robert 17 years old too; I + positively must declare off from being Aunt to them. Caroline and I + went a-shopping yesterday, and ’tis a fact that the little white satin + quaker bonnets, cap-crowns, are the most fashionable that are + worn—lined with pink or blue or white; but I’ll not have one, for if + any of my old acquaintance should meet me in the street they would + laugh, I would if I were them. I mean to send sister Boyd a quaker + cap, the first tasty one I see; Caroline’s are too plain, but she has + promised to get me a more fashionable pattern. ’Tis the fashion. I see + nothing new or pretty,—large sheer muslin shawls put on as Sally Weeks + wears hers are much worn, they show the form thro’ and look pretty; + silk nabobs, plaided, colored and white, are much worn, very short + waists, hair very plain. Maria Denning has been to see me, I was very + happy,—several spring acquaintance. Expect Eliza Watts and Jane every + moment, they did not know where I was to be found. Last night we were + at the play—“The way to get married.” Mr. Hodgkinson[45] in _Tangent_ + is inimitable. Mrs. Johnson a sweet, interesting actress in Julia, and + Jefferson,[46] a great comic player, were all that were particularly + pleasing; house was very thin so late in the season. Mr. and Mrs. + Codman[47] came to see me. I should have known her in a moment from + her resemblance to Ellen and the family,—appeared very happy to see + me,—Mr. Codman was happy, Mrs. Codman would now have somebody to call + her friend, etc., etc. Maria Denning told me Uncle Rufus [King] was + expected every day; we have such contradictory accounts, we hardly + know what to believe. As to housekeeping, we don’t begin to talk + anything of it yet. Mr. Bowne says not till October, however you shall + hear all our plans. I anticipate so much happiness; I am sure if any + body ought to I may. My heart is _full_ sometimes when I think how + much more blest I am than most of the world. At this moment there is + not a single circumstance presents itself to my mind that I feel + unpleasant to reflect on: the sweet tranquillity of my feelings—so + different from any thing I ever before felt—such a confidence—my every + feeling reciprocated and every wish anticipated.—I write to you what + would appear singular to any other.—You can easily imagine my + feelings.—I see Mr. B. now where he is universally known and + respected, and every hour see some new proof how much he is honored + and esteemed here; the most gratifying to the heart you can imagine, + cannot but make an impression on mine. We talk of you when we get to + housekeeping, how delightful ’twill be—what a sweet domestic circle!—I + must leave you; Caty says—“Mrs. Walter (for so the servants call me to + distinguish), a gentleman below wishes to see you.” Adieu. Who can + this said gentleman be? + + Mr. Rodman was below, whom I saw at the Springs, and for these two + hours there has been so many calling I thought I should never get up + to finish my letter. Mrs. Henderson,[48] whom I mentioned to you as + one of the most elegant women in New York, and Maria Denning, her + sister, came in soon after. Engaged to Mrs. Henderson’s for Friday. + + Thursday Morning:—I have been to two of the Gardens, Columbia,[49] + near the Battery, a most romantic beautiful place; ’tis enclosed in a + circular form and little rooms and boxes all around, with tables and + chairs, these full of company; the trees all interspersed with lamps + twinkling thro’ the branches; in the centre a pretty little building + with a fountain playing continually, the rays of the lamps on the + drops of water gave it a cool sparkling appearance that was + delightful. This little building, which has a kind of canopy and + pillars all round the garden, had festoons of colored lamps that at a + distance looked like large brilliant stars seen thro’ the branches, + and placed all round are marble busts, beautiful little figures of + Diana, Cupid, Venus, by the glimmering of the lamps, which are partly + concealed by the foliage, give you an idea of enchantment. Here we + strolled among the trees and every moment meet some walking from the + thick shade unexpectedly, and come upon us before we heard a sound, + ’twas delightful! We passed a box that Miss Watts was in; she called + us, and we went in and had a charming, refreshing glass of ice cream, + which has chilled me ever since. They have a fine orchestra and have + concerts here sometimes. I can conceive of nothing more charming than + this must be. + + We went on to the Battery: this is a large promenade by the shore of + the North River; very extensive rows and clusters of trees in every + part, and a large walk along the shore, almost over the water, gives + you such a fresh, delightful air, that every evening in summer it is + crowded with company. Here too they have music playing on the water in + boats of a moonlight night. Last night we went to a garden[50] a + little out of town, Mount Vernon garden,—this too is surrounded by + boxes of the same kind, with a walk on top of them. You can see the + gardens all below; but ’tis a _summer playhouse_—pit and boxes, stage + and all, but open on top; from this there are doors opening into the + garden, which is similar to Columbia Garden, lamps among the trees, + large mineral fountain, delightful swings, two at a time,—I was in + raptures as you may imagine, and if I had not grown sober before I + came to this wonderful place ’twould have turned my head. But I have + filled my letter and not told you half—of the Park—the public + buildings,—I have so much to tell you, and of those that have called + on me—I have no room to say half. Yesterday Mrs. Henderson came again + to see me and brought two of my Aunt King’s most intimate friends to + introduce—Mrs. Delafield[51] and Miss Lucy Bull. Mr. and Mrs. + Delafield are Uncle and Aunt’s very intimate friends, she is called + the most elegant woman in New York. I was delighted with her and very + much gratified at Mrs. Henderson’s attention in coming again on + purpose to introduce them, they were so attentive, so polite, and Mrs. + Delafield said so many things of Aunt King, how delighted they would + be to find me settled near them, how much I should love them and + everything of the kind, that was very gratifying to me. Miss Denning + has been to see me 3 or 4 times; several invitations to tea, but we + declined as our family friends were visiting us this week. This + morning we go to make calls. I have got a list of names that most + frightens me. All our brothers and sisters say—“Why, Eliza does not + seem at all like a stranger to us,”—indeed I feel as easy and happy + among them as possible, which astonishes me, as I have been so + unaccustomed to Quakers, but their manners are so affectionate and + soft, you cannot help it. Mrs. King (sister) is a beauty—She would be + very handsome in a different dress; she looks so much like Alicia + Wyer, you would love her,—just such full sweet blue eyes, charming + complexion and sweet expression, and her little quaker cap gives her + such an innocent, simple appearance, I imagine Alicia with a quaker + dress—and you will see her exactly. Adieu. I am expecting to hear from + you every day. Mr. Bowne is out, would send a great deal of love if he + were here. Kiss dear little Mary and all the children. I never go by a + toy shop, or confectionery, without longing to have them here. Love to + all. Our best love to my Father and Mother, Horatio, Isabella and all. + I mean to write as soon as I am settled a little. Adieu. + + Miss Southgate. + + New York, June 18, 1803. + + I am just going to set off for Long Island and therefore promise but a + short letter. I have a mantua maker here making you a gown which I + hope to have finished to send by Mrs. Rodman. The fashions are + _remarkably plain_, sleeves much longer than ours, and half + handkerchiefs are universally worn. At Mrs. Henderson’s party there + was but one lady except myself without a handkerchief,—dressed as + plain as possible, the most fashionable women the plainest. I have got + you a pretty India spotted muslin,—’tis fashionable here. _My husband_ + sends a great deal of love, says we shall be travelling about all + Summer, settle down soberly in October, and depend on seeing you as + soon as we are at housekeeping. Sister Caroline has made Sister Boyd a + tasty quaker cap, which I shall send with the gown. How could you + mistake what I said of Caroline so much? Far from being “_stiff and + rigid_,” she is most affectionate, attentive and obliging,—nothing was + more foreign to my thoughts, and you must have taken your idea from + what I said of her dress, which, you may depend upon it, with quakers + is no criterion to judge by. I never was more disappointed in my + life—to find such a stiff, forbidding external covered so much + affability and sweetness. + + You must give my love to Miranda. I wish I had time to write to her, + Horatio, my Mother and all, but I expect the carriage every moment. + Tell Horatio he must write to me. At present my letters to you must + answer for all, till I am more settled. Mrs. Codman has promised to + call at our house and tell you all about me. Malbone[52] has just + finished my picture; I have done sitting; he was not willing I should + see it, as ’tis unfinished. When you return ’twill be done, then I’ll + tell you whether ’tis like. I have told you in a former letter we + shall go to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and perhaps to the Springs. My + trunk arrived safe. I shall send a little ring to Cousin Mary Porter; + ’tis not the kind I wanted, but I had not time to have one made to + send by Mrs. C. Is mine with sister Mary’s hair done? Send it to her + by the first opportunity. Adieu. Best love to all friends, and all the + children. Tell mamma I mean to write her as soon as I have leisure, + that I am very, _very_ happy, that Uncle Rufus has _not_ arrived, tho’ + every day expected, and that I look to the time when we shall see her + and my Father in New York. Mr. Bowne and myself both will be + delighted. Give my best love to Lucia,[53] Zilpah and John, and ask + the latter if he has discovered on whom my _mantle rested_. Tell + Zilpah we pass her friend Mrs. Bogert’s house every day, and never + without thinking of her. The City air has not stolen my _country + bloom_ yet, for every one says—“I need not ask you how you do, Mrs. + Bowne, you look in such fine health.” Dr. Moore[54] would not + inoculate me for the Small Pox, after examining my arm, as he was sure + from what I told him I had had the Kine Pox well, and he would insure + me against the Small Pox. But Mr. Bowne seems to wish I should be + inoculated, tho’ I care nothing about it now. Adieu. My best love to + Aunt Porter and Nancy, Mary Porter and all the other friends. We are + going to _Flushing_ to see our cousins before we return; you know how + Mary laughed about the name. Yesterday we were at Belvidere, the most + beautiful place, the finest view in the world, the greatest variety. I + never shall have done. Kiss dear little Mary; I think of her every + time I see a sweet little sight. + + Your affectionate sister ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + P. S. Remember and put an S in my name to distinguish; there are 2 or + 3 Eliza Bownes in the family. + +[Illustration: + + LUCIA WADSWORTH +] + +[Illustration: + + ZILPAH WADSWORTH +] + + New York, June 30, 1803. + + Uncle Rufus[55] has just landed. The Hussas have ceased, the populace + retired, and I hasten to give you the earliest information. Several + thousand people were on the wharf when he landed, my Husband among the + number. As he stept from the vessel they gave 3 cheers and escorted + him up into Broadway to a Mr. Nicholas Lowe’s[56] (his friend); then + three more cheers as he entered the door. He stood at the door, bowed, + and they dispersed—all but a dozen particular friends, who accompanied + him into the house, and Mr. Bowne with them. Was introduced by Mr. + Watson,[57] and immediately after Mr. Henderson[58] said, “A niece of + yours, Mr. King, was lately married in New York to Mr. Bowne.” My + Uncle immediately came up to him, shook hands a second time, and said, + “_Miss Southgate_, I presume.”—He staid but a few moments; the + acclamations of the people had rather embarrassed him (uncle). Aunt + King had not landed. This evening we are going to see them. Imagine me + entering, presented by Mrs. Henderson, Miss Bull, or Mrs. + Delafield,—all her intimate friends; think what a mixture of + sensations! I’ll tell you all about it. I returned from Long Island + this morning: delightful sail, beautiful country, and pleasant visit. + Malbone has finished my picture, but is unwilling we should have it as + the likeness is not striking,—he says not handsome enough—so says Mr. + B. But I think ’tis in some things much flattered. It looks too + serious, pensive, soft,—that’s not _my_ style at all. But perhaps + ’twill look different; ’twas not quite finished when I saw it; + however, he insists on taking it again as soon as he returns from the + Southward, and told Mr. Bowne, if he _must_ have one he might keep + this till he returned and he would try again. Uncle Rufus brings news + that _war_ has actually taken place, hostilities commenced. The + King[59] on the 14th sent a message to Parliament that he was + determined to use every effort to repress the overbearing power of + France, and hoped for their united assistance and exertions.—So much + for _Father_.—The whole City seems alive, nothing else talked of but + the arrival of Mr. King and the news of War. Adieu. I’ll write again + soon. Best love to all the family. + + We are in expectation of great entertainment on fourth of + July—_Independent_ day! as they laugh at us Yankees for calling + it,—the gardens, the Battery, and every thing to be illuminated, + fire-works, music, etc., etc. Col. Boyd called to see me; and Mr. + Grelett, whom I was introduced to in Boston, brought the handsome Miss + Pemberton, whom you have heard Col. B. speak of—to call on me; she’s + from Philadelphia. I was out. I hope none of my acquaintance will come + to New York, pass thro’, or any thing, without finding me out. I just + begin to make memorandums of tables and chairs, spoons and beds, and + everything else; most turns my brain, so many things to think of; but + I am well and happy, and ’tis a pleasant task. Adieu. + + Yours affectionately, ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + 10 o’clock, evening. + + Just returned from Uncle Rufus’. Mr. B. introduced me to Uncle; he + took my hand, introduced us to his wife, and they both seemed much + pleased to see us. Uncle is so easy and graceful and pleasing, I was + delighted with him. Looks very like _Mr. Parker_ instead of _Mr. + Davis_; enquired particularly after the family; was surprised at my + being here,—said everything that was pleasant, hoped we should be very + sociable, etc., etc.; and after a pleasant half-hour we returned home. + I broke the seal of my letter to tell you; ’tis late, I can’t be + particular. + + E. S. B. + + Miss Southgate, Portland. + + + New York, July 4, 1803. + + Dear Mother: + + I have written generally to Octavia, but as I meant my letters for the + family, ’tis not much matter to whom they were directed. I wrote you + of Uncle Rufus’ arrival and our calling on them the evening after. + Sunday they called on us with Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, their friends, with + whom they are staying till their own house is ready. They both kissed + me very affectionately, said everything that pleased me, and were very + solicitous that we might get houses near each other in the winter, + that we might be sociable neighbors. Uncle Rufus says I remind him of + Martha very much; he inquired particularly after all the family, and + asked if I did not expect you would come on to see me, and both + appeared much pleased when I assured them I depended on seeing you + here. Aunt King told Mr. Bowne he must bring me to see them _very + often_, and look upon her as a _Mother_. + + July 8. + + My letter will be an old date before I finish it. You must have + perceived, my Dear Mother, from my letters, that I am much pleased + with New York. I was never in a place that I should prefer as a + situation for life, and nothing but the distance from my friends can + render it other than delightful. We have thus far spent the summer + delightfully: we have been no very long journeys, but been on a number + of little excursions of 20 or 40 miles to see whatever is pleasant in + the neighborhood. Mr. Bowne’s friends, tho’ all very plain, are very + amiable and affectionate, and I receive every attention from them I + wish. I have a great many people call on me, and shall have it in my + power to select just such a circle of acquaintance as suits my + taste,—few people whose prospects of happiness exceed mine, which I + often think of with grateful sensations. Mr. Bowne’s situation in life + is equal to my most sanguine expectations, and it is a peculiar + gratification to me to find him so much and so universally esteemed + and respected. This would be ridiculous from me to any but my Mother, + but I know it must be pleasing to you to know that I realize all the + happiness you can wish me. I have not a wish that is not gratified as + soon as ’tis known. We intend going to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and a + watering place, similar to the Springs, about 30 miles beyond + Philadelphia; shall probably set out the latter part of this month. At + present we have done nothing toward housekeeping, and Mr. Bowne won’t + let me do the least thing towards it, lest I get my mind engaged and + not enjoy the pleasure of our journeys.—’Tis very different here from + most any place, for there is no article but you can find ready made to + your taste, excepting table linen, bedding, etc., etc. One poor bed + quilt is all I have towards housekeeping, and been married two months + almost. I am sadly off, to be sure. We have not yet found a house that + suits us. Mr. Bowne don’t like any of his own, and wishes to hire one + for the present until he can _build_, which he intends doing next + season; which I am very glad of, as I never liked living in a hired + house and changing about so often. Uncle and Aunt King want we should + get near them; they have hired a ready furnished house about 2 miles + out of the city for the summer, and intend hiring a house in town in + the winter. I have been very busy with my mantua-maker, as I am having + a dress made to wear to Mrs. Delafield’s to dine on Sunday; they have + a most superb country seat on Long Island, opposite Hell-Gate;—he is + Uncle Rufus’ most intimate friend and a very intimate one of Mr. + Bowne’s. We shall probably meet them there; I have not seen them to + ask. My picture is done, but I am disappointed in it. Malbone says he + has not done me justice, so says Mr. Bowne; but I think, tho’ the + features are striking, he has not caught the expression, particularly + of the eyes, which are excessively _pensive_: would do for Sterne’s + Maria. The mouth laughs a little and they all say is good,—all the + lower part of the face; but the eyes not the thing. He wants me to sit + again, so does Mr. Bowne. Malbone thinks he could do much better in + another position. I get so tired, I am quite reluctant about sitting + again. However, we intend showing it to some of our friends before we + determine. How do all our friends at Saco and Topsham do? I often + think of them, and Mr. Bowne and myself are talking of coming to see + you next summer very seriously. How comes on the new house? We are to + come as soon as ever that is finished. If you choose to send so far, I + will purchase any kind of furniture you wish, perhaps cheaper and + better than you can get elsewhere. Adieu. Remember me to all the + children. Dear little Mary,—I can’t help crying sometimes, with all my + pleasures and amusements; ’tis impossible to be at once reconciled to + quitting all one’s friends. I thought a great deal of the children. I + never thought I loved them so much; I never pass a toy-shop or + confectionery without wishing them here. How does Horatio succeed in + business, as well as he expected? How comes on Father’s turnpike and + diking? Tell him I yesterday met a woman full broke out with the + small-pox; I was within a yard of her before I perceived it; the first + sensation was terror, and I ran several paces before I recollected + myself. As soon as I arrived in town Doctor Moore examined my arm, + enquired the particulars, and refused to inoculate me again; that he + would venture to insure me from the small-pox; that he had inoculated + hundreds and never had one take the small-pox after the kine-pox. + Adieu. + + Your affectionate daughter + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + P. S. All the family desire to be remembered particularly. Mr. B. is + out to dine. + + Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough, District of Maine. + +[Illustration: + + SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE + + Hell Gate, Long Island +] + + New York, July 14. + + Friend Greene from Portland is here and will dine with us to-day; a + fine opportunity for me to write to my friends. I have quite a packet + of newspapers which I shall send by him to amuse you; they contain all + the public amusements and shows in celebration of 4th July. The + Procession passed our house and was very elegant. In the evening we + were at Davis Hall Gardens; the entertainment there you will see by + the papers; ’twas supposed there were 4,000 people there; tickets half + a dollar; and ’tis said he made very little money, so you may think + what the entertainment was. Indeed there is every day something new + and amusing to me. Whenever we have nothing particular in view, in the + cool of the evening we walk down to the Battery, go into the garden, + sit half an hour, eat ice-cream, drink lemonade, hear fine music, see + a variety of people, and return home happy and refreshed. Sunday we + dined at Mr. Delafield’s near Hell Gate, Long Island; the most superb, + magnificent place I ever saw, situated directly on the East river, the + finest view you can imagine. I was delighted with our visit, so much + ease, elegance and hospitality. I am very glad you liked your gown. + Long sleeves are very much worn, made like mitts; crosswise, only one + seam and that in the back of the arm, and a half drawn sleeve over and + a close, very short one up high, drawn up with a cord. I have just + been having one made so. All Mrs. Delafield’s daughters, even to + little Caroline, no older than our Mary, had their frocks made exactly + like the gown I sent you, only cut open in the back, a piece of bone + each side and eyelet holes laced,—long sleeves as I mentioned above; + short sleeves and open behind. I should admire to be in Portland, now + all the Coffin family are there. Give my best love to Mrs. Coffin and + Ellen Foster; the others will have returned. I am astonished at what + you say about my calling on Mrs. Sumner, and what Mrs. Coffin said. + When I got to Boston I determined to call nowhere but at Mrs. + Sumner’s, as my intimacy in the family was such and I was fearful she + might not hear of my being in town and should not see her; accordingly + the day I got in town we went out purposely to call there, and to + prevent any one calling on us (for I did not wish to see much company) + we said we expected to go out of town immediately. However, there were + a great many called to see me notwithstanding. In Cap hill we met Mr. + Sumner. I introduced Mr. Bowne, said we were just going to call on + Mrs. Sumner, enquired how she did, etc., and Mr. Sumner said they were + just going out to ride, but if I would go immediately with him I could + see her. I was fearful of detaining them, and thought I should + certainly see her, now she knew I was in town and had set out to call + on her; and Mr. Sumner particularly asked where we were to be + found,—we told him Mrs. Carter’s, and parted. From that time, every + time I heard the bell, I supposed ’twas Mrs. Sumner. We staid 2 days, + and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sumner called. I felt amazingly hurt, as so + many ladies I was very little acquainted with called on me + immediately. Late in the evening before we left town, Tom Coffin + called in, appeared rather formal, never mentioned Mrs. Sumner or any + reason why they did not call, nor any apology. As I could no way + account for such mysterious conduct, it greatly mortified me. This is + the true statement, which you may mention to Mrs. Coffin, and then ask + her who has a right to feel offended. The great dinner given in honor + of Uncle Rufus I have not yet mentioned; ’twas very superb, and 200 of + the most respectable citizens of New York attended. Mr. Bowne says, + tho’ he has been at many entertainments given in honor of particular + persons, yet he never saw one that was so complimentary, and never a + person conduct himself on such an occasion with such ease, elegance, + and dignity in his life. He returned quite in raptures,—such + insinuating manners—such ease in receiving those presented and + introduced,—he is a most amazing favorite here. Democrats and + Federalists and all parties attended. French Consul on his + right—English Consul on his left. When Mr. Bowne went up, he held out + his hand with all the ease of an old friend, without even bowing, and + said, “How! is it Bowne? How’s your wife?”—so familiar. I went to see + the tables: very novel and elegant—there was one the whole length of + the Hall and 4 branches from it; there was an enclosure about 2 feet + wide, filled with earth, and railed in with a little white fence, and + little gates every yard or two ran thro’ the centre of all the tables, + and on each side were the plates and dishes. In this enclosure there + were lakes, and swans swimming, little mounds covered with goats among + little trees,—some places flocks of sheep, some cows laying down, + beautiful little arches and arbors covered with green,—figures of + Apollo, Ceres, Flora, little white pyramids with earth and sprigs of + myrtle, orange, lemon, flowers in imitation of hothouse + plants,—nothing could have a more beautiful effect in the hot weather; + those opposite to you were divided, their plates quite hidden. Adieu; + some ladies have just called. We are going about 20 miles to enjoy the + sea, Rockaway, a place of fashionable resort; ’tis intensely hot, + exceeded only by Ballston Springs. We don’t go to Bethlehem till the + last of the month. Mr. Bowne’s business detains him in the City only + one or two days in a week perhaps, yet prevents a long journey just + now. We ride out every day or two, go into the baths whenever we + please, they have very fine public ones. Adieu. The ladies will think + I am Yankee. Love to all. + + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + + Sally Weeks remember me to—and all other friends; Betsey Tappan—tell + her Mr. Bowne often speaks of that sweet little Miss Tappan. How comes + on Father’s house, Octavia? We both depend on its being finished next + season. We think very seriously of coming next summer. Mr. Bowne wants + to go almost as much as myself. + + Love to Sister, hope she is well again. Uncle Rufus told me Mr. Boyd + had been very sick, but I did not mention it, lest it might alarm + sister. Adieu. Love to Zilpah and Lucia. Tell Zilpah Mrs. Bogert came + to see me last week and is in hopes she will come on with her father. + Remember me affectionately to all Mrs. Davis’ family. I sometimes + treat myself with telling my Husband all about our charming frolics. + Does not Mr. Davis talk anything of coming to New York? Louise is + quite a belle I suppose. + + Miss Southgate. + + New York, July 23, 1803. + + I have sent a few sugar toys to the children, which you must + divide,—the cradle for Mary, the basket for Arixene, etc., etc.,—pair + shoes apiece, two little dogs I put up in the music—one looks like + Sancho; a little frock I send as a pattern for Miranda, Arixene, and + Mary, long or short sleeves as you please, whalebone in the back, + laced. I have sent another box of things to Isabella’s children: the + paper box I mean for them; two little fans for Arixene and Mary, with + their names on them, you’ll find in the bottom of the box. The two + songs I sent you are all I could find that struck me; for the “Death + of Allen,” I never heard it, and bought it because it was a + composition of Floyd’s; “The Wounded Hussar” I admired and knew you + could not get it set for the Piano,—I don’t know but ’tis different + from Miss Sandford’s. I write in great haste—we are going to dine at + Uncle Rufus’ out of town; ’tis past eleven. They have a delightful + place on the North River; took tea there last week. Mr. Bowne joins me + in love to Father and Mother and all. How comes on the house, + Octavia?—we want to come very much next Summer. Adieu. + + Yours, E. S. B. + + P. S. I have some fine peaches and apricots on the table before me; + Mr. Bowne brings me a pocketful of fruit every time he comes home. I + have ate as many as I want to, and have been thinking how much I would + give to get them to you, but this early fruit won’t keep at all. I was + at the theatre night before last—at Mount Vernon Garden; Hodgkinson is + a fine fellow. We commence our Southern journey in about 10 days. Oh, + I am sorry—Mr. Bowne just came to tell me the vessel has sailed—well, + I must wait for another. Love to Mary Porter, and give her the ring I + enclose of my hair; tell her I long to see her, and ask if she means + to be _Mary Porter_ when I next come to the Eastward. Love to all + friends. + + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Miss Octavia Southgate. + + + Bethlehem, August 9, 1803. + + I intended writing before I left New York, but was so much engaged in + preparing for our journey, I had no time. My great wish to see this + famous Bethlehem[60] is at length gratified. You can scarcely imagine + any thing more novel and delightful than every thing about here, so + entirely different from any place in New England. Indeed, in + travelling thro’ the State of Pennsylvania, the cultivation, + buildings, and every thing are entirely different from ours,—highly + cultivated country, looks like excellent farmers. Barns twice as large + as the houses, all built of _stone_; no white painted houses, as in + New England. We crossed the famous Delaware at Easton. It separates + New Jersey and Pennsylvania. We saw some beautiful little towns in New + Jersey likewise, but in Pennsylvania the villages look so many + clusters of _jails_, and the public buildings like the Bastile, or, to + come nearer home, like the New York State prison,—all of _stone_, so + strong, heavy, and gloomy, I could not bear them; the inhabitants most + all Dutch, and such _jargon_ as you hear in every entry or corner + makes you fancy yourself in a foreign country. These Bethlehemites are + all Germans, and retain many of the peculiarities of their + country—such as their great fondness for music. It is delightful: + there is scarcely a house in the place without a Piano-forte; the Post + Master has an elegant grand Piano. The Barber plays on almost every + kind of music. Sunday afternoon we went to the Young Men’s house to + hear some sacred music. We went into a hall, which was hung round with + Musical Instruments, and about 20 musicians of the Brethren were + playing in concert,—an organ, 2 bass viols, 4 violins, two flutes, two + French horns, two clarionets, bassoon, and an Instrument I never heard + before, made up the Band; they all seemed animated and interested. It + was delightful to see these men, who are accustomed to laborious + employments, all kinds of mechanics, and so perfect in so refined an + art as music. One man appeared to take the lead and played on several + different instruments, and to my great astonishment I saw the famous + musician enter the breakfast room this morning with the razor-box in + his hand to shave some of the gentlemen. Judge of my surprise; and + some one mentioned he had just been fixing a watch down-stairs. + Yesterday, Daddy Thomas (who is a head one, and who comes to the + tavern every few hours to see if there are any strangers who wish to + visit the buildings) conducted us all round. We went to the + Schools,—first was merely a _sewing school_, little children, and a + pretty single sister about 30, with her white skirt, white, short, + tight waistcoat, nice handkerchief pinned outside, a muslin apron and + a close cambric cap, of the most singular form you can imagine. I + can’t describe it; the hair is all put out of sight, turned back + before, and no border to the cap, very unbecoming but very singular, + tied under the chin with a pink ribbon,—blue for the married, white + for the widows. Here was a Piano-forte, and another sister teaching a + little girl music. We went thro’ all the different schoolrooms—some + misses of 16,—their teachers were very agreeable and easy, and in + every room was a Piano. I never saw any embroidery so beautiful; + Muslin they don’t work. Make artificial flowers very handsome, paper + baskets, etc. At the single Sisters’ house we were conducted round by + a fine lady-like woman, who answered our questions with great + intelligence and affability. I think there were 130 in this house; + their apartments were perfectly neat,—the Dormitory or sleeping-room + is a large room in the upper part of the building, with “Dormont” + opposite the whole length. A lamp suspended in the middle of the + ceiling, which is kept lighted all night; and there were 40 beds, in + rows, only one person in each,—they were of a singular shape, high and + covered, and struck me like people laid out—dreadful! the lamp and + altogether seemed more like a nunnery than any thing I had seen. One + sister walks these sleeping-rooms once an hour thro’ the night. We + went to a room where they keep their work for sale,—pocket-books, pin + balls, Toilette cushions, baskets, artificial flowers, etc., etc. We + bought a box full of things, and left them much pleased with the + neatness and order which appeared thro’out. The situation of the place + is delightful. The walks on the banks of the Lehigh and the mountains + surrounding—’tis really beautiful. The widows’ house and young men’s + is similar to the one described; there were many children at the + school, from Georgia, Montreal, and many other places as far. There + are some genteel people from Georgia at the tavern where we are, and + Philadelphia. We intended leaving here for Philadelphia to-day, but it + rains. We shall spend a few days there and go to Long Branch. If the + alarm of the fever[61] continues in New York we shall not return there + again, but go in the neighborhood. Send in for a trunk, which I packed + up for the purpose, in case I feared going in the City—and set off for + the Springs or somewhere else. ’Tis very uncertain when we go to + housekeeping; the alarm of the Fever hurried us out of town without + any arrangement towards it, and may, if it continues, keep us out till + middle of Autumn. But at any rate you must spend the winter with us, + we both depend on it. You can certainly find some opportunity. Give my + best love to all friends, and expect to hear from me frequently while + I am rambling about. My husband is so fond of roving, I don’t know but + he’ll spoil me. We both enjoy travelling very much, and surely it is + never so delightful as in company with those we love. Only think, ’tis + just _a year_ to-day since we first saw each other, and here we are, + Married, happy, and enjoying ourselves in Bethlehem. Memorable day! + Horatio’s and Frederick’s _birthday_, too; mine will soon be here. I + long to see you all more than you can imagine; hope to, next summer, + and _depend_ on your spending the winter with us. Love to Miranda, + when you write, and tell her I mean to write myself. Mr. B—— often + talks of her. Is Mr. Boyd[62] _arrived_? I want much to hear. Love to + Sister[63] and the children. Adieu. + + Affectionately, + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough. + + + Ballston Springs, Sept. 4, 1803. + + Once more do I write you from the _Springs_, where I enjoyed so many + delightful moments last year. We recall so many charming things to our + recollection by this visit to the Springs that ’tis of all places the + most pleasant for us to visit. A description of the place, amusements, + etc. I gave you last year; they are the same now. We arrived yesterday + morning, found the place much crowded, and were fearful of not getting + good accommodations, but in that respect were agreeably disappointed. + They dance much as usual; a fine ball to-morrow evening. I wish you + were here to help us dance,—a great many New Yorkers have taken refuge + here from the fever. I was quite sorry when I found Mr. Derby had been + here and gone again. Tell Louise the _Bussey_ family from Boston are + here, and Miss Putnam appears as much delighted with the _picturesque + steeps_ of Ballston as she was with those of _Freeport_, and with + about as much reason. We have an abundance of queer, smart people + here. Last night at tea I found myself seated alongside _Beau + Dawson_,[64] “_Nancy Dawson_,”—our envoy to France—you remember! Gen. + Smith of Baltimore and family, who it was said would succeed Uncle + Rufus; Mr. Harper and wife—the fine speaker in Congress; _Herssa + Madame_ Somebody—French lady; and a nobleman from nobody knows where, + and a parcel of strange people, making a variety that I like once in a + while. But, let me see, I have hurried you along to the Springs from + Long Branch in a much easier manner than I got here myself. Oh the + tremendous Highlands![65] I thought to my soul I should never hold out + to get over them—such roads! But I lived over it, tho’ it made me sick + fairly, with fatigue. I went to see Maria Denning, whose father’s + country seat, Beverly, is in the midst of the Highlands—on the North + River, directly opposite _West Point_. It does not look much like + Louisa’s picture; ’twould make one of the most sublime and beautiful + pictures imaginable if the objects were selected with judgment. It + rises with sublime and picturesque grandeur directly from the North + River. Who would have thought of taking a view of it without + water?—that is the greatest beauty when united with the others. We got + to Mr. Denning’s Saturday night,—left the neighborhood of New York, + Thursday,—where we staid only one night, dined at Uncle’s, drank tea + at Sister Murray’s, and set off that evening for the Springs. The + romantic and beautiful scenery on the North River as we rode up was + most charming to me. I admire the wild diversity of nature—here we had + it in perfection. I am sure the _Hudson_ wants nothing but a Poet to + celebrate it. The Thames and the Tiber have been sung by Homers and + Popes, but I don’t believe there can be a greater variety, more + sublimity or more beauty, than are to be found on the banks of the + Hudson. The Delaware did not strike me at all—I crossed it several + times. We were in hopes Uncle and Aunt would come here with us, but + Uncle said he must go _East_ if anywhere, but he wanted to be at rest + a few months, now he was settled. Mrs. Codman told me she saw you all; + we called a moment to see her. Mrs. Sumner has a son too. Poor Mrs. + Davis, how much sickness she has! On our return from Long Branch we + went to _Passaic Falls_ with a Baltimore family; had a charming little + jaunt about 20 miles from New York. The falls—the rocks—the whole + scenery partakes more of the sublime—almost terrific—than Glens Falls, + but not so beautiful. I am much delighted to hear of Mr. Boyd’s + arrival; Sister must be very happy. Martha is coming this month; the + fever would prevent her coming to New York—I am sorry. Love to Mrs. + Coffin. My mother is quite well, Mrs. Codman tells me. + Horatio,—Miranda, there’s half a dozen wild girls here that would romp + to beat her—they are as old as you, but sad romps. We shall stay here + about a week, then go to _Lebanon_, where I wish you to direct a + letter to me immediately on the receipt of this. I want to hear much, + so does Mr. Bowne. He teases me to death to write home that we may + hear from you. We depend on your coming on this winter. When we shall + be to housekeeping Heaven knows; not even a napkin made, just getting + a woman to work,—fixed the things already, when the fever came and we + all left the city; so here I am—perfectly unprepared as possible. + Adieu. Tell Horatio he has more time than I have, he ought to write me + immediately to Lebanon. Lebanon has been quite deserted. Poor Hannah + Hamilton’s Mamma died three or four weeks since. The servants at the + other house where I kept last summer, wished me joy,—heard Miss + Southgate was married to Mr. Bowne. Oh, I have not told you!—saw the + tree Major Andre was taken under, and the house where _Arnold_ fled + from, left his wife and family,—indeed, ’tis the very house Maria + lives in. We staid two nights there and promised to go and see them on + our return; charming place, such fruit, ’tis delicious. In the + Jerseys,—don’t laugh at travellers’ stories,—but we really rode over + the peaches in the road; we always kept our case full, William brought + us some off the finest trees that hung over the road. Peaches and + cream!—they laugh and say Boston people cry out, “’tis _so_ good!” + Well, what have I not wrote about? A little of everything but + sentiment; a dash of that to complete. I am most tired of jaunting; + the mind becomes satiated with variety and description and pants for a + little respite of domestic tranquillity. I’ve done; I have most forgot + how to write sentiment. I have had no time to think since I was + married. I don’t expect to, this 2 or 3 months, so good-bye. + + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Miss Octavia Southgate. + + + Lebanon Springs, Sept. 24, 1803. + + Your letter, my dear Octavia, has set my head to planning at a great + rate. By all means come on with Mr. Cutts; I am impatient to see you, + and I cannot give up the pleasure of having you with me this winter. + We shall be at Housekeeping as soon as _possible_ after the fever + subsides. My husband thinks the plan a very good one. I will write + immediately to Aunt King, say that it is uncertain when you arrive, + but I have taken the liberty to request Mr. Cutts to leave you with + _her_ until I demand you. This settled, I proceed. Tell my good Mother + not to be afraid. I am as anxious as herself to be settled at home. I + am most tired of roving; it begins to grow cold, and I long for a + comfortable fireside of my own. What a sweet circle! Octavia, my dear + Husband, and myself; when we are alone we’ll read, and work like old + times. I have spent a most delightful 3 weeks at Ballston and Lebanon. + We had a charming company at Ballston, danced a few nights after I + wrote you, and I was complimented as Bride again.—Manager bro’t me No. + 1,—quite time I was out of date. + + Lebanon is delightful as ever; we have a small party, ride to see the + Shakers, walk, and play at Billiards, work, read, or anything. Tell + Mamma, Eunice Loring that was, is here,—she talks a great deal of my + Mother and Aunt Porter, wants to see them very much, etc., etc. She is + married to a _Mr. Neufville_ of Carolina. She is much out of health, + talks of going to England in the Spring. She wants to see you, as she + says my Mother talk’d of naming you for _her_; she wishes she had, as + she has no children. The box I mentioned was full of sugar things, + toys for the children; two little fans—a little frock for a pattern, + and another for Isabella’s children, The Children of the Abbey, and + Caroline of Lichfield for Mamma,—all in a package together; a letter + for Mrs. Coffin and several others. When we left New York Mr. Bowne + sent it to a Commission Merchant who does business for several + Portland people, and requested him to send it by the first vessel. As + you haven’t received it, I suppose the fever which broke out + immediately after induced him to shut up his store, or perhaps + prevented any Portland vessel from coming near the City, and that it + now lies in his store. Write me when you set out, and when ’tis + probable you will be in New York; direct to New York, probably I shall + be near New York in a fortnight. I have but a few moments to write as + the stage passes the village at 11. You alarm me about Ellen; pray + enquire particularly and tell me all; go to see yourself, and tell her + I can imagine no reason why I have never received a line from her + since I have been in New York,—nor Lucy Derby, neither Mrs. Coffin. I + wrote to, but it seems she did not receive my letter; love to her and + all Portland friends. I am expecting every day to hear Martha has + arrived. My best love to Sister Boyd and husband. I wrote a line of + congratulation to her, but that too is in the package. Adieu. I shall + soon see you, and then we will talk what I have not time to write. My + husband’s best love. + + Yours, ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + New York, October 23, 1803. + + I have waited till my patience is quite exhausted. What can have kept + you so long in Boston? Mr. Bowne has been at the Stage Office a dozen + times, and I have staid at home every forenoon this week to receive + your ladyship. I expect to get to housekeeping next week; and am so + busy. Mercy on me, what work this housekeeping makes! I am half crazed + with sempstresses, waiters, chambermaids, and every thing else—calling + to be hired, enquiring characters, such a fuss. I cannot possibly + imagine why you are not here. I should have wrote immediately after + receiving your letter, but Mr. Bowne was sure you would be here in + less than a week. It is possible you may be in Boston to receive this; + if not, you will be here or on the way. If you are troubled about a + Protector, Mr. Bowne says there has been several _married_ gentlemen + come on lately, which if you had known of, would have been proper. + Perhaps Mr. Davis may hear of some one. At any rate come as soon as + possible, for I am very impatient to see you. My best love to Louisa; + tell her I should be much delighted to see her in New York this + winter, and my Husband frequently says he should like to have Mr. + Davis’ family near us in New York. I am sure I should with all my + heart. Say everything to Mr. and Mrs. Davis for me that bespeaks + esteem. + + Adieu. Yours always, + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Miss Octavia Southgate. + + + Bloomingdale, Nov. 2, 1803.[66] + + Mr. Bowne has just bro’t me a letter from you in which you mention + coming on with Mr. Wood. I am fearful my answer will arrive too late, + as your letter has been written nearly a fortnight. At any rate, come + on with Mr. Wood if he has not set out. You should not wait for an + answer from me—I shall be ready to receive you at any time, at + housekeeping or not. We go in town next Monday, every body is moving + in; for the last 3 days there has been no death, and for 5 no new + cases. If, unfortunately, Mr. Wood should have gone and you not + accepted of his protection, come the very next opportunity without + consulting me or waiting a moment. I hope to get to housekeeping very + soon. We have just returned from Uncle’s, where we had been to meet + Mr. and Mrs. Paine (Mrs. Doble) from Boston; she is less beautiful + than I expected,—charming little daughter. I am more and more + delighted with Aunt King, she is so unaffected, easy and ladylike. + Margaret and Mr. Duncan married? I expect to hear still stranger + things from Portland—now Ellen Foster is married. I _suppose_ she is, + tho’ I have not heard. I am hourly and impatiently expecting to hear + from Martha. How unfortunate! What would I give to be nearer! Adieu: + ’tis late; come as soon as possible. Give my love to all friends. + + Yours affectionately, ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + + New York, Dec. 24, 1803.[67] + + My Dear Mother: + + Eliza received a letter yesterday from you, where you say you have not + received a letter from either of us a long time. I am really surprised + at it, as I wrote you very frequently from Boston, and am determined + to let you have a letter now every fortnight to let you know what we + are doing and whether I am happy. I begin to feel quite at home and + certainly never was happier in my life. It is true I sometimes sigh + for home, but it is generally when I am in a crowd that I am most + there in imagination. But when I am _here_ and none but our own + family, I have not a single wish ungratified. I am much more pleased + with New York on every account than with Boston. As a City it is much + superior, the situation is every way as delightful as possible. The + inhabitants to me are _much more_ pleasing, more ease, more + sociability and elegance, yet not so ostentatious,—they dress with + remarkable simplicity; and I think I could spend the winter here and + not expend half the money that I must unavoidably do in Boston. There + every one dresses, and a person would look singular not to conform; + but here there is such a variety, and the most genteel people dress so + plain that one never appears singular. To-morrow is Christmas and we + dine at Uncle’s; he is a charming man, looks amazingly like you, so + much so that I admire to look at him. She is a very affable, pleasing + woman, and they both appear to be fond of Eliza. We were at a concert + last evening; the most delightful music I ever heard. We wished for + Horatio all the evening. There is not much gaiety, they tell me, till + after the holydays, that is Christmas and New Year. We have been into + no parties yet, but have made many sociable visits, which I very much + admire. I am very much pleased with all the _friends_ we have visited. + Old Mrs. Bowne is a fine, motherly old lady; she treats Eliza with as + much affection as an own mother,—they all appear to be very glad to + see me, and I really feel sometimes as though I was at home; how I + long to see you all! How is Arixene and Mary? How I want to see them! + How is Papa this winter? Ah! if you were all here! But next spring we + shall all be with you. I am afraid you are solitary—if you are, do, my + Dear Mother, tell me, find any opportunity, and I’ll be with you as + soon as you say,—depend on it, I shall never get so attached either to + the inhabitants or the gaieties of New York, as to feel reluctant to + return home; even in my happiest hours I think of the time with + extreme pleasure. This family is the only thing that would root me to + the spot, and there is a charm in that which nothing but home can + equal. I have promised Eliza a page for you, so I suppose I must + close. Give my best love to Father and the children, and believe me + your affectionate child, + + OCTAVIA SOUTHGATE. + + + Octavia has reserved me a page in her letter which I hasten to + improve. I thank you, my Dear Mother, for yours, and beg you will + often write me, now Octavia is with me and cannot tell me about home. + I am at length settled at housekeeping very pleasantly, and do not + find it such a tremendous undertaking. I have been fortunate in + servants, which makes it much less troublesome; the house we have + taken does not altogether please us, but at any time but May ’tis + extremely difficult to get a house. In the Spring we shall be able to + suit ourselves. Mr. Bowne wishes to build and is trying to find a lot + that suits him,—if so, we shall build the next season. Almost + everybody in New York hire houses, but I think it much pleasanter + living in one’s own. I am more and more pleased with New York, there + is more ease and sociability than I expected. I admire Uncle and Aunt + more and more every day, and Mr. Bowne thinks there never was Uncle’s + equal,—such a character as he had often imagined, though not supposed + existed. I believe I shan’t go to the next Assembly; Octavia will go + with Aunt King. You say Mr. Bowne must write you, and as a subject + mention the dividends from the Insurance Office. In the Summer there + was no dividend, no profits; the next dividend will be soon. Mr. + Codman thinks there will be a tolerable one,—you shall hear as soon as + it takes place; we have received nothing as yet. Uncle and Aunt always + inquire particularly about you, and desire to be mentioned. Make my + best love to all friends, kiss the children and tell them not to + forget sister Eliza. I live in the hope of seeing you next + Autumn—Heaven grant I may not be disappointed! Remember me with my + best love to my Father and all the family. Adieu; write me soon, and + believe me + + Your affectionate ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Mrs. Robert Southgate. + + + New York, March. + + Dear Miranda: + + I have been talking of writing to you so long that I think it is quite + time I should talk no longer, but act; but you should not have waited + for me to write. You knew both Mr. Bowne and myself would have been + very glad to have heard from you,—all about your school, your + acquaintance, amusements or anything, and I have a thousand things to + take up my attention that you have not. Do you return home this + Spring? We shall find you at home when we come. I have got one or two + trifles I want to send you, but can’t find an opportunity; there are + so few people from our way come to New York, that ’tis very difficult + to send anything. I hear a strange story about Isabella Porter: she is + a silly little girl, and when she is older, will think she acted very + foolishly,—one ought to know more of the world before she decides on a + thing of so much importance; she is a mere baby and has seen nothing + of life. Do you often hear of Caroline, Miranda? I feel anxious lest + she should not conduct with as much discretion as she ought, as she + never knew the blessing of having a kind, indulgent mother to watch + over her and guard her from harm. + + When I was in Bethlehem last summer, I got some little caps such as + the girls at school wear, and such as the sisters of members of the + Society wear. I want to find an opportunity to send them to you. Did + you ever read a description of Bethlehem? If you never did, you may + find one in some of the Boston Magazines. We had a little book called + a “Tour to Bethlehem,” which if I can find I will send you. It will + give you a very correct idea of the place, society and customs. When I + was there, there were 83 girls, from 4 to 16, at the school, from + almost every part of the United States. They all wear these little + caps tied with a pink ribbon, which looks very pretty where you see so + many of them together,—they learn music, embroidery, and all the + useful branches of education,—likewise to make artificial flowers and + many little things of that kind. Do you ever attempt painting?—’tis a + charming accomplishment, and if you have any taste for it, should + certainly cultivate it. Write me soon, and tell me when you are going + home and of anything else that interests you. Mr. Bowne often talks of + you and now desires to be particularly remembered. + + Adieu; remember me to any of my friends who enquire, and believe me + + Your affectionate sister, ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + Miranda Southgate. + + + Rockaway, August 24, 1804. + + Dear Girls: + + I enclose you a piece of Mr. Blovell’s poetry on the Miss Broomes’ + country seat at Bloomingdale; as you both know him, I think it will + amuse you. I expect Eliza and Jane Watts down here in a few days and + should be delighted if you could be here at the same time. I wrote to + you, Octavia, on Monday last a long letter,—answer it soon and tell me + how far you mean to comply with my proposals. I spent several days at + Flushing last week; they all enquired very affectionately for you; but + I don’t know but Miranda is your rival—she is a monstrous favorite + among some of them. I believe Mary Murray is engaged and all matters + settled. I met the Murrays and Mrs. Ogden at Miss Curtis’s; they came + up from New York the same day we did from Rockaway,—very fortunate + meeting them, for it rendered my visit doubly pleasant. ’Twas the + season for peaches, we feasted finely. I shall attend to your + memorandums as soon as possible. Give my best love to Horatio and + Nabby, if I may be allowed to connect the names, and tell him my plan. + Mr. Bowne says I must write another letter to urge it more strongly; + it must be so. + + Yours ever, + E. S. BOWNE. + + [New York, November 9th, 1804 (?).] + + I have been in daily expectation of a letter from you ever since my + return and none has yet come. I have not heard a word from Isabella, + tho’ I have been very anxious. The trunks arrived yesterday with an + old letter for me enclosed by Horatio in a _blank_ cover, not a word + to say how all the family did, particularly Isabella. We are still at + our Mother’s, and shall probably remain a fortnight longer; the house + would be ready in a few days, but we think it is too damp at present. + Every body expected you back, for the Murrays had told most of our + acquaintance you were to return with me. John and Hannah Murray came + to see me the day after I arrived. John rattles as usual, talks much + of getting married—his old tune, you know: he has completed his + thirtieth year now since we have been gone; he says, “I begin to feel + the approach of old age.” Mr. Newbold called to enquire particularly + after your ladyship, and Mr. Rhinelander[68] spent last evening with + us; I think he improves fast; he told me a deal of news. Miss Farquar + and Mr. Jepson[69] were married last night, Miss Blackwell and Mr. + Forbes, and one or two others. Rhinelander says half the girls in town + are to be married before Spring. Maria Denning for one; and the world + says Amelia and James Gillispie will certainly make a match,—that I + was surprised at. Miss Bunner[70] and John Duer are married; Sally + Duer is soon to be; and Fanny is positively engaged to Mr. Smith, whom + you saw several times last winter, of Princeton. So you see all the + girls are silly enough to give up their fine dancing days and become + old matrons like myself. Mrs. Kane is in town; looks older, paler, and + thinner. She has got a charming little girl,[71] fat and good-natured + as possible. Mrs. Ogden stays out of town all winter. We are engaged + at Mrs. Bogert’s this afternoon, but it storms so violently I believe + I shan’t go. She regrets very much your not coming, and Lucia + [Wadsworth] she would be delighted to have. Our things arrived + yesterday, but are not out of the vessel yet. At present there is no + gaiety, quite dull; there will be a revival soon, I suppose. Mr. + Poinsett has been to see me several mornings; he goes on Monday to + Carolina. Miss de Neufville spends the winter in New York with her + Aunt Stowton. I meant to call on her this morning, but it was stormy. + The few days I was in Boston I was constantly engaged. We dined at + Sheriff Allen’s with a very large party,—Lady Temple,[72] Mrs. + Winthrop and daughters, Mrs. Bowdoin, Mrs. G. Green, Mrs. Stouton and + daughter, and many others,—about 30; and we were at Mrs. G. Blake’s at + a tea-party, she enquired particularly after you; she is a very fine + woman I think. Our journey on was tolerably pleasant. We arrived + before Uncle and Aunt. Eliza Watts told me she had a letter from you + after I left home. Adieu; write me soon and tell me all the news. Give + my best love to Father, Mother, and all the family. I am very well and + grow fat; everybody says I am wonderfully improved. Write me soon. + + Yours ever, + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + +[Illustration: + + THE BOWNE HOUSE—FLUSHING + + Erected 1661 +] + + New York, July 30, 1804. + + I received your letter, my Dearest Mother, three days since, and every + moment of my time and attention since has been taken up with our dear + Eliza. I am grieved that you are so low-spirited about her, tho’ as + you predicted her trouble has again ended, I yet feel confident if we + once get her home, that she will gain strength and do well. Her + Physician has been in great hopes that she would get through this time + without any difficulty, indeed the first week we were in the country + she was so finely, that we all felt encouraged about her. She had been + as prudent as possible, and she can’t with any reason reflect upon + herself. The last week we were there she began to droop again, and Mr. + Bowne brought her into town with an intention of carrying her to + Flushing; now we shall set off for home as soon as she is strong + enough to travel. I am astonished at her spirits, they are as good + again as mine, and yet to-day she is so much better. I feel finely + myself. + + She has had no pain, but only suffers from weakness. We shall go in + three or four days to Flushing, which is a fine, bracing air, and stay + there a few days till Eliza is smart enough to travel 10 miles a day. + I place full confidence in this journey; I am sure that the change of + air and scene, and more than all, the prospect of home, will render it + truly beneficial. We are at Mr. Bowne’s mother’s, for we have shut our + house up. She is a fine old lady, and Caroline is perfectly amiable + and as attentive as possible. I am very glad we are here and in the + neighborhood of Mrs. Bogert, for she is all goodness. I grow more and + more anxious every hour to get home. The city is quite deserted, + though it never was more healthy. There are as few deaths as there + were in the winter. There has been two weeks of _very cool_ weather. I + go wandering about and see scarcely a face I know. I used to complain + last winter of our large acquaintance, and having the house full of + company, but now I exclaim out half a dozen times a day that “I wished + I could see some one I knew.” There are gentlemen enough, but no + ladies. Uncle and Aunt, I suppose, have nearly set out for + Scarborough. I wish we were to be there whilst they are with you. You + can have no idea how very anxious I am to return. Was I not so much + occupied I should be positively _homesick_, but I have no time to + _think_ but upon one subject. Kiss the dear children for us _all_, for + we are equally anxious to see you. Remember me very affectionately to + Sister Boyd and to the children. Before I leave here I shall be in + need of a little money. I won’t seal my letter to-night, but will + write you how she is to-morrow. + + July 31. + + I did not finish my letter this morning because Eliza did not feel as + well as usual, but this afternoon she is better. She is in charming + spirits and so very well that we are delighted. She gives her best + love to you; says _she_ don’t feel _at all_ obliged to you for your + wishes, and is determined not to join with you. The old lady desires + to be remembered, and says,—“If thee was here, thee could do no more + for thy child than we have.” Indeed she is the most tender, + affectionate of women. My best love to my Father. We are in the full + of seeing you soon. I shall not make it long before I write again. + + Yours affectionately, + O. SOUTHGATE. + + June 3, 1805. + + Dear Octavia: + + Mamma arrived safe and well on Wednesday morning to our great joy, + after having a pleasant passage from Newport, staying two days in + Boston, two in Newport, and one in Providence. We are going to Uncle’s + to dine to-day, and I can’t persuade Miranda to write a line to let + you know Mamma had come,—company coming in every minute, and can but + just steal a moment to write. Louise is with you,—I am more than half + vexed that I am to be disappointed of the charming winter I had + promised myself, with you and Louise to spend it with me, so you need + not be surprised if I am rather ill-natured at times. The secret is + out, and all your friends, beaux I mean, walk the other side of the + street when I meet them. Mary Murray called this morning; seemed + rather disappointed at not having a letter. Eliza Watts thanks you for + the wedding-cake as well as myself. Give my best love to Louise as + well as all my other friends. We go over into Jersey to-morrow,—E. + Watts and Susan go with us,—John Wadsworth. I wish you could have been + here while Mamma was. Adieu; write me soon, and expect a longer letter + as soon as I can command a little more time. + + Your affectionate + + E. S. BOWNE. + + P. S. Remember I don’t call this a _letter_, so no lectures on that + head. + + Jamaica, October 6, 1805. + + I am delighted, my Dear Octavia, to hear you are so finely, and the + more so as I hear it from _yourself_. I did not so soon expect such + fine effects from the new system of living; I am sure all will be well + now. A wedding I suppose next, for I conclude from the melancholy + pathos with which you say, you shall “neither have the independence of + a married woman, nor of a single,” that you don’t mean to try the + half-way being. However, let the man teaze if he will; do not think of + being married until your health is perfectly confirmed,—I would not + for the world. ’Tis so late in the season, ’tis not possible I can + come to see you this fall, even tho’ there should be two weddings in + November. And so you talk of spending the winter with me,—how you love + to tantalize!—and wish me to give you the pleasure of refusing me. You + know I should be delighted to have you, but you know you never mean to + visit New York as Miss Southgate again. Somebody would put on a graver + face than he did last fall on a like occasion, and as he had _as much + influence_ then as to counteract my wishes, I won’t subject myself to + the mortification of another defeat now I know his power to be much + greater. However I won’t ask, tho’ I shall be very happy to have you + with me. As for news, you give me more than I can you. We have left + Rockaway more than a week ago, still exiled from our home by this + dreadful calamity. We are at lodgings in Jamaica, where we shall + probably remain until ’tis safe removing to the City. Uncle and + Aunt,—Mr. and Mrs. Bogert,[73] have gone about 30 miles down the + Island, sporting for _Grouse_, and return to Jamaica until we can all + go in town. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (Cruger that was) have taken a house + in Jamaica during the fever; the next door to this I lodge in. Mr. and + Mrs. Hayward[74] are with them, but leave here for Charleston this + week. I am in there half of my time. We make a snug little party at + _Brag_ in the evening frequently, and work together mornings. Mr. + Bowne goes to Greenwich, where all the business is transacted, on + Mondays and Thursdays, but returns the same night, so I am but little + alone. As to news—Miss Charlotte Manden Heard was married last week to + a _gentleman_ from _Demarara_, whom nobody knew she was engaged to + until he came a few weeks since and they were married. John Murray, I + believe, is at last really in love, tho’ ’tis not yet determined + whether the lady smiles or not. A Miss Rogers from Baltimore, whom he + met at the Springs,—a sweet interesting girl, ’tis said. Wolsey + Rogers[75] and Harriet Clarke[76] were talked of as a match at the + Springs. Mrs. Kane[77] staid at the Springs till she was so late she + could not venture to ride to Providence with her Mother, and the fever + kept her from New York, so was obliged to stop at Mrs. Gilbert + Livingstone’s[78]—Mr. Kane’s sister—at Red Hook, until able to resume + her journey home, which will probably be in November. Mrs. Fish[79] + has a daughter; great joy on the occasion. Give my love to Cousin + Pauline,[80] and tell her I congratulate her on the birth of her son. + What do Mary[81] and Paulina call their boys—Nathaniel and Enoch? I + hope not, never keep up such ugly names. Mr. B. says you must spend + the winter with us,—he will come under bonds to somebody to return you + safe. Give my best love to Sister Boyd, Horatio, and all the family at + home. Has any progress been made in the new house? I am sorry to say I + fear not—’tis pity,—I had almost said ’tis wrong. I am half mortified + when I hear of any of my acquaintance visiting Portland,—’tis true, I + declare,—tho’ Husband would scold me for saying so. Pappa is an + affectionate Father, yet therein he acts not up to his character. I + must check my pen—I am too much interested in this subject. Adieu; + make my compliments to all acquaintances and write me again soon. Love + to Miranda—tell her Mrs. Bogert talks much of her, and remind her from + me of Aunt’s sleeves; are they finished?—if they are, I hope she will + send them by Mrs. McKersen. I am working me a beautiful dress,—it will + be when ’tis done. By-the-by, any purchases for the coming occasion + will be executed with pleasure. Give my best love to (sister I had + almost said) Nabby,[82] and tell her I shall feel myself flattered by + any commission she will give me either in clothes or furniture; do + away her modesty in this thing, if you think I can be of any service + in that way, for I assure you ’twill gratify me. Tell Horatio[82] I am + impatient to thank him for giving so pleasant an acquisition to our + family, but I could do it more heartily in person in New York, if so I + might be indulged. Since you won’t be honest and tell the truth, I + won’t tell you what I’ll say to you. Do ask Papa if he could send us 6 + or 8 barrels of potatoes, there is like to be a great scarcity in New + York; put them in the hold of the vessel or anywhere. Col. Barclay has + sent to Nova Scotia for a vessel load,—a housekeeper— + + What a romantic conclusion. + + Yours, E. B. + + New York, Nov. 10, 1805. + + Horatio is really married then; and we not married; and I suppose the + next account your ladyship will be added to the list. How swimmingly + you all go on! What a tremendous _marrying_ place Portland is. New + Yorkers don’t marry—sad sett of them. I am half angry to think you are + marrying in such an out-of-the-way season, that ’tis impossible any + one can come to see you. However, I hope to come early in the summer, + if nothing happens to prevent, and spend 3 or 4 months. I shall have + so many new relations that ’twill be necessary to come often to keep + an account. Robert Murray[83] came home quite delighted with his + eastern visit, but disappointed at seeing so little of Miranda. What + has been the matter with her, any thing more than a heavy cold? I wish + she was here with all my heart. I am quite alone and require a + companion more than ever, but I suppose Mamma could not hear of that. + I wish Arixene and Mary could have found a good opportunity to come + this fall, and we could take them home in the summer,—but I suppose I + must be content. We have been in town since the 31st of October, the + day your letter was dated; it has been a long time in coming. I got it + only last evening. Mr. Bowne had found out Capt. Libby, and we were + preparing to send the sheeting and diaper by him; he sails the last of + the week; the other things you wish we will send as many as can be + procured before the vessel sails, but ’twill be impossible to get any + _plate made_ to send for several weeks,—we will order it immediately, + and as it will not be bulky, there will probably be no difficulty in + finding a conveyance. We made a sketch of the articles you wished and + of the pieces, which cannot be very incorrect, as I took them all from + our own furniture book, and we calculated that the whole of Mamma’s + plate and another suit of curtains for Nabby included would come at + about 400 dollars. Mr. B. has 340 in his hands of Pappa’s, about the + sum that would buy all the things but Mamma’s plate and Nabby’s + curtains; however, that makes not the least difference to Mr. Bowne, + as he desires me to say he shall execute the commissions with great + pleasure, and ’twill be no inconvenience to him to purchase the other + articles, and I merely mentioned it as I did not know that you knew + the real sum in Mr. Bowne’s hands. ’Tis very lucky there is so direct + an opportunity to Scarborough; we shall endeavor to send as many + things as possible. Shopping at present is a prohibited pleasure to + me, but as all the things can be better procured at wholesale stores, + and my husband has both a great deal of taste and judgment in those + things, and makes better bargains than I do, you will be no sufferer + by the loss of my services in that,—and I can have anything sent to me + to look at, and therefore ’tis quite as well as if I went for them. I + don’t mean you shall understand because I don’t go shopping that I am + confined to the house. On the contrary, I am much better than could be + expected and hope with care to do very well. I shall go out very + little until the middle or last of the winter, when I hope, if I + continue well, to be most as smart as other people. My husband does + not allow me to go into a shop. I laugh at him and tell him I don’t + believe but the health of his _purse_ is _one-half_ his concern—a fine + excuse. Mrs. Bogert is in expectation of seeing Lucia Wadsworth when + the General comes on. I have been confined to the house with a severe + cold since Thursday,—Friday and Saturday was quite sick, and to-day + feel unfit for anything almost but my bed. Adieu; my best love to all + the family. You mentioned nothing of the Cypher on the Plate: O. S. or + B.—or your crest, or William’s crest, if you can find them out,—I + suppose we could here,—or what? Mamma’s I suppose will be S. only. I + have a great mind to tell you what a saucy thing my husband said on + your anxiety—that the bowls and edges of the spoons should not be + sharp; but I leave you to guess, or if you can’t, perhaps William may + help you to an explanation. + + Adieu. Yours ever, + E. S. BOWNE. + + Miss Octavia Southgate. + + + November 14, 1805. + + Capt. Libby sails to-morrow; we have got as many things as possible. + There is not a piece of embossed Buff in New York, nor of plain + either, there is not more than 2 pair alike, therefore I have done + nothing about the trimmings. I fancy Boston is a better place for + those things than New York. The most fashionable beds have draperies + the same as my dimity window curtains. However, if you think best I + will look farther, and perhaps there will be something new open in a + week or two. There is but one barrel urn in the city. Mr. B. was two + days in pursuit of one; he purchased this and sent it back: ’twas + brown, and no plate on it except the nose. I can get you one like mine + for $25. Let me know immediately respecting these things. Yesterday + the Silversmith came for instructions respecting the plate, and bro’t + patterns for me to look at. I ordered a set of tea-things for Mamma + the same as mine; I think them handsomer than any I see. The man is to + send me some patterns to look at which he thinks are similar to your + description. On the next page I will make a list of the goods and + pieces copied from the bills. + + 1 piece Irish sheeting, 48 yards, at 5 $30.00 + 1 piece Irish sheeting, 55 yards, at 6/6 44.69 + 6 yards Fine Linen, at 7/6 5.62 + 12 Damask Napkins, at 8 12.00 + 1 piece fine Diaper 27 yards, at 5/6 18.56 + 2 Breakfast Cloths, at 14 3.50 + 1 plated Castor best kind, 12.00 + 1 plated Cake Basket silver rims, 18.00 + 2 Pearl tea-pots, 2.25; 1 Trunk, 2.50 4.75 + ——————— + $149.12 + + The sheeting is quite as cheap as mine, the fine I like very much and + think it quite a bargain. The Diaper is not quite so cheap as mine, + but it has risen; the tablecloths are cheap, the linen is high I + think. The Cake Basket is very cheap, $2 cheaper than mine, and rather + handsomer I think. I could get no crimson marking, but send you a few + skeins of cotton which I procured with much difficulty. The napkins + are not the kind I wished, but there was none of those excepting at 2 + places, and they were 18/–22/ a piece. I thought these pretty and + would answer your purpose. I enclose the marking cotton and the key of + the trunk. Adieu. + + Yours ever, E. S. BOWNE. + + P. S. The bills are in Miranda’s book in the trunk. + +[Illustration: + + JAMES GORE KING + + From a miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq. +] + + Jan. 14, 1806. + + My dear Miranda: + + Mr. Abbot is here from Brunswick and will take a letter for me to any + of my friends. I should not have been surprised any more to have seen + the cupola of the college itself walk into the room than I was to see + Mr. Abbot, I could hardly believe my eyes; but I could not but _know_ + him, as I know nobody like him: he always seems like a frightened + bird—so hurried in his manner and conversation. How much he looked + like some of Timothy Dexter’s wooden men—at commencement last year; it + came across my mind while he was sitting by me yesterday,—’twas well I + was alone, or I should have certainly laughed. Frederic,[84] I + suppose, is at home, tho’ Mr. A. could not tell me. John[85] and + Charles King have some thought of going to Portland. I have told them + they had better go some other time, as they will find Portland so dull + and none of you in quite so good spirits. James is here and they + return with him. You ask about Jane Watts—nobody sees her, she is + entirely confined to her room. Doctor Burchea attends her now; her + cough they think a little better, but she is not able to sleep at all + without laudanum. I have no expectation she will recover, the family + seem to have. + + As to news—New York is not so gay as last Winter, few balls but a + great many tea-parties. I believe I told you Mrs. Gillespie[86] has a + daughter, and still more news. You never wrote me anything about the + muslin for Arixene to work her a frock, ’tis so good an opportunity to + send it that I have a great mind to get it notwithstanding. If you + can, send the things I left to Louisa Davis in Boston. John and + Charles would bring them on to me. Walter[87] will want the shirts as + soon as the weather becomes warm. You say I have said nothing of + Walter in any of my letters; he is so hearty and well I hardly thought + of him when I wrote; he has not had a day’s sickness since I returned. + I send him out walking frequently when ’tis so cold it quite makes the + tears come; he trudges along with leading very well in the street, he + never takes cold. He goes to bed at 6 o’clock, away in the room in the + third story you used to sleep in, without fire or candle, and there he + sleeps till Phœbe goes to bed to him. You know I am a great enemy to + letting children sleep with a fire in the room; ’tis the universal + practice here, and as long as I can avoid it I never mean to practice + it; it subjects them to constant colds. They think I am very severe to + suffer such a child to be put in the third story to sleep without a + fire. I presume Aunt King and family are all well; they are going to + have a fine _waffle_ party on Tuesday. I wish you were here to go, for + the boys want to have a fine frolic. Kitty Bayard[88] is to be married + in April to Duncan Campbell; all engaged since Wolsey and Susan were + married. Mary Watts[89] is engaged to the big Doctor Romaine,—that is + quite a surprise to every one: this is rumor. And now I have written + all the trifling, I come to what is nearer my heart. You are not half + particular enough about Octavia. Does Isabella live in the same house + she did when we were there? Has Octavia nobody with her to take care + of her child? I am very glad to hear they are so cheerful. Pappa you + say has been sick but is quite recovered. How is Mamma this winter, + quite recovered her health? + + Adieu. E. S. B. + + Feb. 15. + + And so I must hear of all the important events of the family from + anybody who casually may have it in their power to communicate them. + Horatio has a fine son, I hear, of which I am very glad; congratulate + them for me—do they mean to call him the same name as their other + little boy? I suppose you have heard from John and Charles King[90] + since they have been in Boston. If you would send the little bundle + for them to bring on I should be very glad, and I wish you to get me 3 + pr. of Mr. Smith’s little white worsted socks, such as I bo’t for + Walter, only two or three sizes larger, big enough for him next + winter,—don’t neglect it, for I wish for them very much. Let them be + full large for a child 3 years old. How are all the family? Octavia, I + don’t hear from anybody; you ought to write once a fortnight + certainly. Poor Jane Watts is very low, confined to her bed,—I fear + she will never go out again. Adieu; love to all. This is my second + letter since I heard from you. I write more particularly that you may + send those things by the boys. + + Yours ever, E. S. B. + + To Mrs. Octavia Browne. + + + New York, March 30, 1806. + + My Dear Mother: + + I am most impatiently looking for Miranda and hoping, tho’ I dare not + place too much dependence on seeing my Father. I am better than when I + wrote you before, tho’ still subject to these faint turns. I have + become more used to them and they don’t alarm me. I ride frequently + and take the air every fine day in some way or other. I have been free + from a return of the nervous headache for a fortnight, till the night + before last I had a return of the numbness and pain, tho’ not so + severe as the last. I have a very good appetite and look very fat and + rosy, but really am very weak and languid. I don’t know why I look so + much better than I feel. Mary Murray is to be married a week from next + Wednesday; she is very desirous that Miranda should get here; I really + hope she may. Perhaps I may get courage enough to go myself if she + comes in time, otherwise I don’t believe I shall venture; however, + ’twill depend upon my feelings at the time. I shall look out the last + of the week for Pappa and Miranda very seriously. I hope they are on + their way now. Uncle’s oldest son, John Alsop, arrived here about a + week since; he seems a very fine young man, rather taller than his + Father,—he will be a second Uncle William, for he does not appear to + have half got his height. Charles King has gone to Holland. + + E. S. B. + + Mrs. Mary Southgate. + +[Illustration: + + CHARLES KING + + From a miniature in the possession of his daughter, Mrs. Martin +] + + New York, April 27, 1806. + + My Dear Mother: + + Before you receive this my Father will be with you. He says I need not + fear any thing, that I am in a very fair way of doing well; he will + tell you all the particulars better than I could write. He got quite + homesick, we could not prevail on him to lengthen his visit or go to + the Springs and return here. I promised to let you hear from me once a + week how I got along. For the last 3 days I have been finely, for me; + the fore part of the day I am often very faint—all the forenoon, but + generally better towards evening. ’Tis a great comfort to me to have + Miranda with me, as I am a great part of the time unfit for anything. + My head has been much more clear and comfortable for the last few days + than for some time past. Tell Father there was a meeting called last + evening of the Federalists in the city, to make some further + remonstrances on the defenceless state of the Port of New York, + occasioned by an accident that has set the whole City in an uproar. + There are 3 British Frigates at the Hook, a few miles from the City, + that fire upon all the vessels that come in or go out, and search + them. They have sent several on to Halifax, and yesterday they fired + in a most wanton manner upon a little coaster that was entering the + harbor with only three men on board, and before they had time to come + to as they were preparing to do, they fired again, and killed one of + the men dead upon the spot,—he was brought up and the body exposed to + view on one of the wharves, where several thousand people were + collected to see it,—it put the City in great confusion, and this + meeting was called in consequence—where Uncle made a very elegant + speech. I am very sorry Father had not been here, it would have + gratified him. ’Tis the first time he has spoken in public since his + return to this Country. The British Consul had sent several boats of + provisions down to the frigates—which as soon as ’twas known the + Pilot-boats went after and brought them all back,—they were loaded + upon carts and carried in procession thro’ the streets to the poor + house, attended by a prodigious mob—huzzaing, and the English and + American colors fixed on the carts; they demanded the Commander of the + frigate to be given up as a murderer by the British Consul,—he replied + he had no power over him. It has made a prodigious noise in the City, + as you may imagine. So much for Father;—I shall expect to hear + to-morrow when he got to Providence. Adieu, my dear Mother. + + Ever your affectionate E. S. BOWNE. + + May 18. + + By way of punishment, if it is any, I have denied myself the pleasure + of answering your letter till I thought you would begin really to wish + for a letter. However, I quite want to hear again, and as there is + little hope of that until I answer yours, I’ll e’en set about it at + once. William Weeks told me he saw you in Portland the day before he + left there. I wonder he did not tell you he was coming to New York. + Mr. Isaac McLellan is here too from Portland. You did not write to me + half particulars; you said nothing about Arixene. + + Sunday, May 25, 1806. + + After a week has elapsed I resume my pen to finish my letter. I was + expecting Mr. Isaac McLellan to call and let me know when he should + return, as I intended writing by him, but he has left town without my + knowing it. Now for news, which I suppose you are very anxious to + hear. In the first place—Miss Laurelia Dashaway is married to Mr. + Hawkes. On Saturday morning, 8 o’clock, Trinity Church was opened on + purpose for the occasion; something singular, as it would not be like + Miss Laurelia. But what do you think—Mr. Grellet has taken French + leave of New York—sailed for France about a fortnight ago, without + anybody’s knowing their intention till they were gone. There are many + conjectures upon the occasion not very favorable to the state of their + finances. ’Tis said his friends were very averse to her going with + him. If she had not, I suspect she must have sympathized with Madame + Jerome Buonoparte and many other poor Madames that have founded their + hopes on the fidelity of a Frenchman. Poor Mrs. Ogden has another + little petticoated little John Murray—4 daughters!—I am sorry it was + not a boy. What should you think to see me come home without Mr. + Bowne? I strongly fear he won’t have it in his power to leave the + office more than once in the Season; if so, I would much prefer him to + come for me in the Autumn. However, we have made no arrangements yet. + Walter grows such a playful little rogue, he is always in mischief; I + am just leaving off his caps; I want his hair to grow before his + Grandmamma sees him; he won’t look so pretty without his caps. He + creeps so much I find it impossible to keep him so nice as I used to. + Poor Harriet Beam I think is going rapidly in a decline, she has been + confined to her room 5 or 6 weeks. I have not seen the Wattses this + some time; they are gone to Passaic Falls with a little party,—Maria + Laight, Mr. Delort, Robert Harney, etc. My love to all; write me soon + particularly. I hope soon to be with you. How is Sister Boyd’s infant? + + Yours ever, E. S. BOWNE. + + Miss Miranda Southgate. + + + New York, Nov. 8, 1806. + + My Dear Octavia: + + I am quite anxious to hear good news from you. Miranda has been in + Jamaica this fortnight; she has taken a frock and cap along with her + to work for you; I hope she will have it finished when she returns. + Maria Denning is married, and William Duer has returned to New + Orleans; left her with her friends for the winter. Amelia was married + to Mr. Gillespie in the spring; lives at home yet. + + Miss Pell was married last week to Robert MacComb; they are making a + prodigious dash. I went to pay the bride’s visit on Friday; they had + an elegant ball and supper in the evening, as it was the last day of + seeing Company; 7 brides-maids and 7 Bride-men, most superb dresses; + the bride’s pearls cost 1,500 dollars; they spend the winter in + Charleston. Adieu! Love to all friends, and tell your husband to write + me immediately after this great event. I am looking forward to a happy + summer spent among you. Best love to Isabella and family, Horatio and + family. How is Robert Southgate junr.? That is as it ought to be. + Pappa is pleased I dare say. + + Yours ever, + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + My Dear Mother: + + I find it quite in vain to wait for a letter from Miranda, and she has + left me to chance and uncertainty to know whether she has ever arrived + at Providence, but luckily, from constant enquiries, I have learnt she + did arrive safe, and from some other accidental information, that she + was to leave Boston last Thursday for home, with Judge Thatcher. I + presume by this she is with you. As the Spring opens I begin to look + forward to my Eastern visit. Octavia’s boy is as beautiful as a + cherub, I hear. + + + Saturday, 18th. + + Miranda: + + Mrs. Derby has returned from Philadelphia, and intends leaving here + for Boston on Tuesday. She spent a long sociable day with me yesterday + and I found it quite a treat; I have seen so little of her but in + mix’t parties that it hardly seems like a visit. She is almost worn + out with dissipation, and I greatly fear her constitution has suffered + an injury from this kind of life it will never recover. She has + absolutely refused all invitations since her return, and means to rest + for a few days while she remains here; she takes one of our _belles_ + on to Boston with her,—Miss Fairlie;[91] Miranda knows her. Martha had + a letter from Mrs. Sumner yesterday, where she mentions Miranda + leaving there for home the Sunday before with Mr. and Mrs. Kinsman; I + am really hurt at her unaccountable silence. I promised to tell her + all the news and account of all the parties after she left me, but I + was quite provoked at her not writing. Tell her, however, that there + seems no end to the gaiety this Spring; it does not abate as yet at + all. The day after she left me I paid the bride’s visit to young Mrs. + Murray; there was a prodigious crowd, a hundred and fifty at least, + and many never sat down at all. Madame Moreau[92] wore a long black + velvet dress with Pearl ornaments, looking elegantly. The next day I + dined at Uncle Rufus King’s with company; on Tuesday following, went + to a ball at Mrs. Stevens’;[93] next day, a ball at Miss Murray’s, + very pleasant; they very much regretted her not being here; she was + intended to be one of the Bridesmaids; and the day after the last + Assembly, as you may suppose, was completely tired dancing three + nights in succession. Last Friday I was at a ball at the Watts’s, and + the week before at Miss Lyde’s[94] to a ball, and Mrs. Turnbull’s to a + monstrous tea-party. Yesterday at Mrs. Morris’. On Monday next Aunt + King has a very large party. On Tuesday I go to Mrs. Stoughton’s, on + Thursday to Mrs. Hopkins’, and on Friday dine at Mrs. Bogert’s, and + this evening to Mrs. Henderson’s to a _ball_. I think it will be one + of the most elegant we have had this winter. I wish Miranda was + here,—so much for Miranda. Adieu! I have promised to go shopping with + Mrs. Derby this morning and ’tis growing late. I look forward with + delight to the approaching summer spent amidst all my family. + + Give my affectionate regard to all. + + Ever yours, E. S. BOWNE. + + New York, Dec. 1, 1807. + + You won’t write a line I find without a punctual answer, letter for + letter. Could not you make any allowance for domestic engagements, + etc., etc., and write me at present two for one, or were you afraid of + the precedent; I might claim as a right hereafter what I owed merely + to your indulgence. I have anxiously wished to hear again from little + William Brown, for, notwithstanding your flattering accounts of his + returning health, I felt so fully persuaded he would never recover + that I could not but think he would relapse again. How happy I shall + be to hear that my fears are groundless! If you have not written again + before this reaches you, lose no time but write at once. I do not + write to Octavia till I know whether she is in Boston or Portland. You + must make it a rule, Miranda, to write me once a fortnight whether I + answer or not. Charles King will tell you all the news of the + fashionable world. I have been in no parties yet. The Theatre is quite + the rage. I have been several times,—you have no idea how much it is + improved, entirely altered,—looks light and gay,—a perfect contrast to + its former appearance. Cooper draws crowded houses every night—I have + been much delighted. Mr. Wolsey Rogers’ approaching nuptials seem + anticipated as the opening of the winter campaign; of course the event + is much talked of, not a mantua-maker in the city but will tell you + some particulars of the bride’s wardrobe,—length of her train, etc., + etc.;—a fine lady here, as Mustapha says, is estimated by the length + of her tail. If it was not for using a most homely proverb, I would + say “Every dog has his day.” Here was our friend John Murray and his + bride last winter, making all ring; this winter quietly settled in + Nassau St., just what I call comfortable, (you have not seen this new + play about _comfortable_.) Poor Sterlitz, who has no way to discover + his taste or judgment but by finding fault with everything, seems + quite in a _fuze_ (is there such a word?) that Mr. Murray prefers his + own comfort to dashing in high style. I suppose, Mrs. B. begins to + feel all the palpitations and trepidations of a doating anxious mother + in introducing her favorite daughter to the world. The next winter is + the all-important era for the exhibition. Miss A., in my opinion, will + make a little coquette—the bud seems expanding even now,—that extreme + simplicity, which her mother encouraged by always talking of it before + her, as if she was too young to understand, is now changing for an + affectation of simplicity. I hope she will correct it; time will + convince her that simplicity is only charming in inexperienced youth, + or rather the kind of simplicity which she possesses. There _is_ a + simplicity which gives a softness, a _tone_ (as a painter would say) + to the whole character, but it springs uncontaminated from the + guileless purity of the mind; all affectation of this serves but as a + tattered veil thro’ which you constantly penetrate to the original + deformity—Where have I rambled? Poor Mrs. Greene is dangerously ill, + her friends have little hope of her recovery. On Saturday she was not + expected to live the day,—bled several quarts at the lungs; she is a + favorite with all who know her, a most valuable woman. On + business:—Mamma told me something about getting muslin for Arixene—a + frock to work, but I have forgotten whether she afterwards told me to + get it or not. I can get very pretty for 2 dollars or 2 1–2; let me + know. Tell Octavia I received the little hat which Mr. Browne bo’t for + me in Boston, and shall send the little _tub_ and the rest of the + money, as soon as I know she is in Boston. Fashions:—Ladies wear + fawn-colored coats and bonnets of the same trimmed with velvet + trimming, same color with lappets, cape and inner waistcoat. If I + could find an opportunity I should send you a bonnet and Mamma a cap. + Adieu,—tell Arixene to write to me. James King writes to Charles King + he liked Arixene best of all the Cousins. + + To Miss Miranda Southgate. + + + New York, Dec. 13, 1807. + + I have been waiting some time to hear you were in Boston, but as I + have not heard from any of the family for some weeks I shall write you + and direct to Portland. I am rejoiced to hear that little William + continues to recover fast, for Mrs. Derby writes me still later than + Miranda that he is almost recovered. How happy you must feel! None but + those who have suffered the anxiety can conceive the happiness of such + a change. I don’t hear half often enough from you. Miranda writes but + seldom. Charles King told me last evening, in his last letter from her + she says she is going to spend part of the winter in Boston with + you,—from that I conclude you intend going to housekeeping before + Spring. I have been making a plan for you to make me a visit next + Spring. I think there can be no objection to it; your husband can make + arrangements to leave Boston for a month or a few weeks, I am sure. + The accommodations in the stage to Providence are so good, you can go + in half a day—take passage in a Packet and be in New York in three + days with ease. You can either bring William with you, which I should + wish you to, or leave him if you prefer it. Indeed I can see no + objection to the plan. Your friends in New York have made particular + enquiries respecting you. Mary Murray says you have quite given her + up, that she has not received a line from you for some time—I don’t + remember how long. I believe I told you Mrs. Ogden had lost her + youngest child, about 5 months old. Harriet Beam, whom I believe you + knew, died last week,—melancholy, so young. Mrs. Derby writes me her + Father is still far from strong and firm, tho’ much better; very + probable his constitution will never entirely recover this shock. I am + much obliged to Mr. Browne for purchasing the little hat for Walter. + It was not the kind I meant, however,—those here are worn only by + girls, square crowns altogether for boys. Give my best love to Horatio + and Nabby, Isabella and husband, Arixene—I want to send her a pattern + to work a frock in; I have a very pretty one, with but little work on. + Adieu; write me very particularly about William. + + E. S. BOWNE. + + To Mrs. Wm. Browne (Octavia Southgate). + + + New York, Jan. 13, 1808. + + I have been in daily expectation of hearing farther from you, my dear + Miranda. I received a letter from Octavia by the same mail that + brought me yours, informing me of the melancholy change in their + prospects, which I answered immediately and used every argument I + thought could console her at such a time. Her firmness and resolution + in relating the particulars, her reasoning on the subject, displayed + the real superiority of her mind. She has had severe trials; the + danger of her child, and now this stroke; I tremble when I think with + how much less firmness I should probably have acted in the same + trials. I am extremely anxious to hear all the particulars of their + failure, how Mr. Browne bears it, where they will spend their winter. + I wish with all my heart Octavia and her child would come and stay + with me until Mr. Browne could arrange his affairs a little. But I + suppose ’twould be in vain to urge her to leave her husband at this + time. You mention that you were in hopes Papa would secure Octavia’s + furniture for her. I wish you would write me particularly if he did. + Octavia writes me he attached all the personal property he knew of at + the time. Pappa too I fear will be quite a sufferer by their failure. + I hear Webster is gone,—he, I think, had money of my Father’s. Mr. + Bowne has always thought he played rather a hazardous game in letting + out money in that way. I hope he is not materially injured,—he will, + at any rate, have the consolation to know that the education of his + children is principally accomplished; he will always have enough to + live with comfort and ease, and as to leaving a great deal, I think + ’tis very immaterial. I am glad to find his stock here has produced a + very good dividend this month. I hope this won’t depress his spirits + any,—old people feel the loss of property much more than younger ones. + However, Papa’s is nothing to mention at these times, as he is not in + debt, has a good farm, and will always have all the comforts of life; + indeed, I think ’twill have a good effect. He has always been + determined on leaving such a sum untouched, and from that darling + object has deprived himself of the comfort of a comfortable house for + many years past. Accident has interfered with the fulfilment of his + plan; he will now enjoy what he has left without thinking of leaving + just so much; his children are, or soon will be grown up, and he ought + to have no other care but to enjoy what he has dearly earned, now in + his old age. I am sure all his children most heartily wish it, if he + should not leave a farthing for them. Old Mr. Codwise has failed, a + dreadful thing for so old a man. Mr. Macomb [Ann and Robert’s father] + is gone too; all the Franklins too, and a great many others I do not + now recollect. Adieu; write me immediately and tell me every + particular. My love to Arixene; is she at Miss Martin’s, for I have + never heard? + + E. S. BOWNE. + + Miss Miranda Southgate. + + + Boston, December 21, 1808. + + My best Friends: + + In consequence of a letter from Mr. Bowne, received this day, I have + to inform you that instead of proceeding to Scarborough, my next + journey is to New York. He writes me that by the advice of Mr. King + they have concluded it will be best for Eliza to go to Charleston, + South Carolina, in order to avoid the severity of our winter; that he + is under the necessity of remaining in New York till February himself, + and that he wishes me to return and go on with Eliza and Octavia as + soon as I can. As I have nothing of consequence to prevent me, I shall + leave this in a day or two for New York, and shall be fully satisfied + if I can render them the least service by my attentions. With + sentiments of the highest esteem and regard, + + I am your obedient servant W. BROWNE. + + To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate. + + + New York, Dec. 27, 1808. + + You are anxious, my Dear Mother, to hear from my own hand how I am. + Octavia has told you all my complaints: my cough is extremely + obstinate, I have occasionally a little fever, tho’ quite irregular + and sometimes a week without any. I have a new Physician to attend me; + he is a Frenchman of great celebrity, particularly in Pulmonary + complaints, and has been wonderfully successful in the cure of coughs; + he keeps me on a milk diet, but allows me to eat eggs and oysters. He + does not give any opiates; Paregoric and Laudanum he entirely + disapproves of; he gives no medicine but a decoction of Roots and + Flowers;—the _Iceland Moss_ or _Lichen_ made in a tea he gives a great + deal of, and for cough I take a white Pectoral lotion he calls it, + made principally of White Almonds, Gum Arabic, Gum Tragacanth (or + something like it), the Syrup of Muskmelon seeds. He thinks I am much + better already. I have no pain at all, and have not had any. My cough + seems to be all my disorder. He thinks he can cure that; indeed he + speaks with perfect confidence, and says he has no doubt as soon as I + get to warmer weather, my cough will soon leave me. Mr. Browne got + here last night, and we shall probably sail by Sunday at farthest. + Octavia will write particularly. You will hear from me, my Dear + Mother, often,—at present my mind seems so occupied; leaving my + children, preparing to go, and making arrangements to shut up my + house. ’Tis quite a trial to leave my little ones; I leave them at + their Grandmother’s. My little Mary[95] has a wet-nurse; she is a + fine, lively child, and thrives fast. Adieu, my Dear Mother; I did not + think I could have written half as much; love to all my friends. + + ELIZA S. BOWNE. + + + Charleston, South Carolina, Jan. 1, 1809. + + Our most esteemed Friends: + + We have now been in the City a week. We find that Eliza has gained a + little strength since she arrived, and that her cough is not quite so + distressing as before we left New York. She complains of no pain, but + her fever and night sweats continue to trouble her every other day and + night, as was the case before. She can walk about her room with ease; + and she rides when the weather is fine, which she is much pleased + with, and no doubt it is of great service to her. The streets are + entirely of sand, as smooth as possible, no pavements, not a stone to + be seen, which renders it very easy riding for her. It is as warm as + our first of May, (if not the middle,) and when the weather is fair, + the air is clear, very mild and refreshing. The change is so great + between this and New York that I cannot help thinking it must have a + great and good effect on Eliza. I find as to myself that my cough is + done away entirely, and I had a little of it most all the time at home + in winter. Octavia has certainly grown fat, and our little Frederic is + very well indeed. Eliza eats hominy, rice and milk, eggs and oysters + cooked in various ways, vegetables too, which we find in great + perfection here; fruit is plenty of almost every description. The + oranges raised here are not sweet but are very large. Their olives, + grapes, and figs are excellent. Their meats and fish are not so good + as ours. Their Poultry is fine; a great plenty of Venison, wild ducks, + and small sea-fowl; green peas we shall have in about a month; so + that, beside the change of climate, we have many of the luxuries of a + Northern summer. Uncle King gave us letters to Gen. C. C. Pinckney and + his brother Major Thomas Pinckney,—both of them being out of town at + their plantation; their sister, Mrs. Hovey, received the letters and + has been very attentive and kind to us all. She is a widow, about 55 I + should judge, of the first respectability, and appears a very + pleasant, amiable and cheerful old lady. She sends some nice things to + Eliza almost every day. Her daughters, Mrs. Rutledge, two Miss + Pinckneys (daughters of the General), Mrs. Gilchrist and daughter, Mr. + and Mrs. Mannigault, Mrs. Middleton, Mr. and Mrs. Izard,[96] Mr. and + Mrs. Dessault and Mr. Heyward make an extensive acquaintance for us. + They all seem very kind and hospitable to us, plain and open in their + manners, and yet the most genteel and easy. Eliza has seen only Mrs. + Hovey, Mrs. Rutledge, and the two Miss Pinckneys, but she thinks in a + few days to be able to receive short visits from a few of her friends, + and even thinks it may be of consequence to enliven her. She rides + whenever the weather is fine, and is very much pleased with the + appearance of everything growing in the gardens here so like our June. + We have had one visit from a Physician only; he thinks taking a little + blood from her would be of service, but she has not yet consented. He + approved of her diet and of the Iceland Moss tea which was recommended + at New York, and which is said here to have had a great effect in + removing complaints of the cough. Mrs. Mannigault told us yesterday + she found immediate relief from it after she had been sick a long + time. We expect Mr. Bowne in the course of a fortnight, and then I + expect to return toward Scarborough immediately. We hope to hear from + you in a few days; not a word have we yet from New York since we + arrived. Our darling boy we think we see every day playing about us, + without thinking who admires him at the distance of 1100 miles. + + Our best wishes attend you always. + + Affectionately, W. BROWNE. + + To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate. + + + Charleston, Jan. 28, 1809. + + Dear Caroline, I send by Capt. Crowel a little pair of shoes for Mary, + a little Cuckoo toy for Walter, and a tumbler of Orange Marmalade for + Mother. I have had only one letter from New York since I have been + here, and that from Mary Perkins, not one line from my husband. I can + tell you nothing flattering of my health: I am very miserable; at + present I have a kind of intermittent Fever; this afternoon I shall + take an emetic, and hope a good effect. How are my dear little ones?—I + hope not too troublesome. Octavia is in fine health and grows quite + fat for her. Frederic has been unusually troublesome. My dear little + Walter!—I hardly trust myself to think of them,—precious children—how + they bind me to life! Adieu. I have a bad headache and low-spirited + to-day. + + ELIZA. + + Caroline Bowne (with 2 small parcels), + No. 288 Pearl Street, + Blazing Star. New York. + + This appears to be the last letter written by Mrs. Bowne. (M. K. L.) + + + From Mrs. William Browne to Mrs. King. + + Charleston, February 2, 1809. + + I have been waiting day after day, my Dear Aunt, in the hope of having + something pleasant to communicate to you, but I do very much fear I + shall now have nothing, if ever, to say about our Dear Eliza but will + give you pain. I sat down to write to you without knowing what to say. + I have been so in the habit of dissembling lately that I can hardly + throw it off, for when I write my Father and Mother everything is so + glossed over, ’tis impossible to come at the truth. You know not how I + am affected, my Dear Aunt. I fear I am doing wrong in deceiving them, + for it is my firm opinion she never will be well. Do advise me, tell + me what I ought to do. I think to you I may say the truth—I think she + has been growing sicker every hour since she left New York. Her voyage + had a singular effect upon her: she suffered but little from + seasickness, but every bad symptom she had before seemed increased; + she coughed a great deal and very hard, her fever and night sweats + were excessive. You may imagine she was much weakened; but I hoped + this was a temporary thing, and a few days of quiet and of rest would + restore her; but instead of that, directly after our arrival a sort of + intermittent fever took place, she had a regular chill and fever every + day, she lost her strength very much, no appetite at all. This last + four or five days her disorder wears another appearance. ’Tis now + Thursday. On Sunday Dr. Irvine ordered her to take Quashy in order to + prevent a chill; she took it according to his direction—it brought on + her fever at 1 o’clock in the morning, and it never left her till 12 + o’clock at night, it absolutely raged all day. Since then she has had + no night sweats, no chill, but her cough and fever very much + increased. Her nerves are extremely disordered; such a tremor that + to-day she cannot feed herself at all. She is so weak and exhausted + that she cannot walk alone. ’Tis now 11 o’clock—I am sitting by her + side, and she is still coughing and in such a hot fever she can bear + nothing to touch her. I have not asked her Physician’s opinion + concerning her; ’tis unnecessary I feel, I know what it must be. Yet + is it not strange she keeps up her spirits? She is looking forward + with the greatest anxiety to warm weather. God grant it may not be too + late! Dr. Irvine was the Physician Mrs. Hovey recommended; he is + indisposed and has left his patients in the care of Dr. Barrow. The + exchange has pleased us very much, for Dr. Barrow is considered quite + as skilful, and is extremely kind and fatherly in his manners, indeed + he reminds us so strongly of our Dear Father that we already love him + very much. + + February 3. + + Poor Eliza had a most distressing night last night. She coughed so + long that she was entirely exhausted; her fever was very high, and she + has scarcely spoken a loud word to-day. Her nerves are in a dreadful + state. I inquired of Dr. Barrow what he thought of her situation; he + says he can say nothing encouraging. He said the disorder had taken + great hold upon her, and had shattered her nerves in a terrible + manner. He very much fears a nervous fever,—that her pulse was very + bad, as nearly as he could count up to 150. Is it not very evident + from his being so candid, my Dear Aunt, that he has but little or no + hope of her recovery? And yet so strongly do I sympathize in every + feeling of hers, that seeing her easier and more comfortable this + evening has renewed my hopes and put me quite in spirits. She has been + much better this afternoon and evening, less fever, less tremor upon + her nerves, and since she has been in bed has had no bad coughing + spell. The mail went to the Northward to-day. I have so little time to + write that I have missed it. I will let you know to-morrow how she is, + and the next day is post-day again. I know what a kind interest you + and my uncle take in our dear Eliza, and I know I cannot be too + minute. Our friends here are kinder than I can express to you. It + seems sometimes as though we were among our own relations. They think + of every little thing for Eliza’s comfort and convenience that I could + myself. + + Monday, February 6. + + This morning Eliza was better, my Dear Aunt, than she has been for a + week past. Her voice has returned and she appears stronger in every + respect. Yesterday and last night she had a little fever, this morning + is delightful and she is going to ride. You shall hear again from us + before long. I know Mrs. Bogert will need no apology, I am sure, for + my not writing. The repetition of such symptoms are distressing to me + beyond expression. + + Your affectionate niece O. S. BROWNE. + + + To Mrs. Bowne. + + New York, Feb’y 4, 1809. + + Your letter, my love, of the 13th and 14th has comforted me. You must + keep up your spirits; you will do well, Dr. Bergere says; attacks + similar to yours are not of the dangerous kind that some think; he + approves of your taking the Lychen again. I have sent a bundle from + Mr. King by Capt. Slocum, who sails to-morrow. I am distressed I + cannot go with him, but so it is. It is next to impossible I should + leave here till about the 25th of this month. Mr. Jenkins, my + assistant, is absent, and I cannot leave the office until he returns + without relinquishing it altogether, and I have most of my houses to + let this month, those I have lately built included, and which are not + finished, but I am determined to leave here in all this month. I hope + you have a comfortable place now; what abominable lodgings the first + were! Don’t mind the expense: get everything and do everything you + like, we can afford it. I wish my presence in this place could as well + be dispensed with, but so it is. I think it right you should have a + Physician. I will bring the things you mention; our children are well. + + Ever, WALTER BOWNE. + + The Ship—General Eaton—has not yet arrived, I will write to Mr. Brown + by this vessel if I have time; if not, by mail on Monday or Tuesday. + + (With a bundle of Lychen for E. S. B.) + + + The following letter from Mr. Rufus King to his nephew Horatio + Southgate, will show how much alarm was felt about Mrs. Bowne’s + health. + + New York, February 9, 1809. + + Dear Sir: + + I have to beg your excuse that I have so long delayed my answer to + your letter written I believe in November. The Plants were a long time + on their way, and did not arrive till Christmas, when we had a few + days of mild weather, which enabled us to put them in the ground. Mr. + Mars is entitled to credit for the manner and care with which the + Plants were packed, and altho’ they were much longer out of the ground + than they sh^d have been, I am in hopes that many of them were saved. + Inclosed I send you a Post-note (payable to your order) on the Boston + Branch Bank for 47 dollars, being the amount of Mars’s account, and I + beg you to accept my acknowledgments for the trouble you have given + yourself in this Business. Should there be an opportunity direct from + Portland to N. York in the Spring, any time in Ap^l or May would do + (for that is the true season, even on to the middle of June, to remove + evergreens), I wish Mars to send me a few more spruces, one moderate + sized Box, together with some of the small Evergreen shrubs found in + the woods and pastures, and which I remember abounded in the Pasture + of Knight’s Farm, and which we called laurel, or sheep poison. Any + other small plants may be added to fill up the Box. + + We yesterday heard from Mrs. Bowne, who had recovered from the fatigue + of her voyage, and thought herself something better. I am in hopes + that the soft weather of an early spring will do more for her than + medicine could have effected in the rude weather of our winter and + spring. I ought not to conceal from you, tho’ I think you sh^d not + unnecessarily increase the anxiety of your mother, that I am not free + from apprehensions regarding your Sister’s complaint; it is so + flattering and insidious, that I do not place the same Reliance upon + favorable Reports w^h in any other case I sh^d be inclined to do. I by + no means think that she has no chance of recovery. On the contrary, I + have the satisfaction to believe and expect that she will regain her + accustomed good health. Mrs. Browne’s being with her is a very + important circumstance in a case in which good nursing and careful + attention is of so much consequence. + + With sincere Regards, I remain, D^r Sir, + + Y^r obliged serv’t, RUFUS KING. + + Horatio Southgate, Esqr., Portland, Maine. + + + Charleston, February 21, 1809. + + I will permit no one but myself to transmit to you the dreadful + intelligence this letter will convey to you, my dear Parents. A good + and merciful God will not forsake you at this awful moment. Our dear + Eliza is freed from her earthly sufferings and I humbly trust is now a + blessed spirit in Heaven! I offer you no consolation; I commit you + into the hands of a Good God, who has supported me when my strength + failed me. She had her senses at intervals for the few days last of + her illness. She spoke of her approaching change with great composure, + said she had thought much of it, that she trusted in God for future + happiness with great satisfaction and confidence; wished her time + might come speedily that she might be relieved from the pain of seeing + her distressed friends. She suffered with wonderful patience; never + murmured. At the very last she looked the satisfaction she had not the + power to speak. At 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon was this most + afflicting scene. Octavia had great fortitude to sit by her when she + could speak only with her eyes. She knew us, and listened with + apparent satisfaction to a prayer I read only an hour before the sad + moment. It was a day of trial with us most severe. + + With much affection and regard to all, + W. BROWNE. + + Poor Mr. Bowne has not arrived. + + To Mr. & Mrs. Southgate. + + + Charleston, March 12, 1809. + + I hope, my dear Miranda, this will be the last letter you will receive + from me at Charleston. Poor Mr. Bowne arrived here on Thursday. Not a + word had he heard, and owing to his having left New York he had not + received a single very alarming letter. He was entirely unprepared for + the shock which awaited him; never did I pity any one so. He is indeed + borne down with the weight of his grief. But the violence I dreaded I + see nothing of. There is no judging from the effect little troubles + have upon people, how they will bear great ones. I know it by myself—I + see it in him. He is more composed to-day, and we are making + arrangements to get away. He is much gratified that we waited here for + him, which we had some doubt about on account of the great expense in + these houses. The Minerva, a very fine Packet, arrived from New York + yesterday. We shall return in her. She will go in the course of a week + or ten days. What a melancholy voyage! But yet I will not think so. I + am going to my dear father and mother, my kind sisters,—indeed, ’tis a + delightful thought. + + Your sister, + O. BROWNE. + + Among the letters which were so carefully preserved by her daughter, + Mrs. Lawrence, was found the following extract from a daily paper:— + + Died at Charleston, S. C., on the 19th ult., Mrs. Walter Bowne, + consort of Walter Bowne, Esq., of New York, and daughter of the Hon. + Robert Southgate, of Scarborough, Maine, aged 25 years. The Bereaved + Husband and infant children, the afflicted parents, Brethren and + sisters, and the numerous respectable friends and acquaintances by + whom she was so justly respected and beloved for her talents and + virtues, will deeply mourn this early signal triumph of the King of + Terrors. But they will not “sorrow as those without hope.” Her + immortal spirit, liberated from the body, is, we trust, already + admitted to a clear and perfect, an immediate and positive, a + soul-transforming and eternal vision of God and the Redeemer. Why + the most endearing ties of nature should be dissolved almost as soon + as formed, why the dreadful law of mortality should be executed on + the most worthy and dearest objects of conjugal, parental, and + social love, in the moment of sanguine expectation of reciprocal + enjoyment, is among the dark and mysterious questions in the book of + Providence. The ways of God are inscrutable to man, “clouds and + darkness are round about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the + habitation of his throne.” All afflictive events are readily + resolved into the wisdom of God. To his sovereign will, reason and + religion, duty and interest require us to bow with reverence. What a + dark and gloomy veil is spread by the early death of our friends + over our earthly enjoyments! How tenderly are we hereby admonished + not to expect satisfaction in this empty, fluctuating, and + transitory state! How strongly urged to place our affections on + things above, to secure an immediate interest in those sublime and + durable pleasures which flow from the service and favor of God and + the prospect of complete and endless felicity in His presence. + + + Inscription on the monument in Archdale Churchyard, in Archdale + Street, Charleston, S. C.:— + + SACRED + + TO THE MEMORY OF + + ELIZA S. BOWNE + + Wife of Walter Bowne of New York, + Daughter of Robert Southgate Esqr., + of Scarborough, District of Maine, + who departed this life on the 19th + day of February, 1809, aged 25 years. + +----- + +Footnote 1: + + Mrs. Rowson’s story is well known. She was an Englishwoman, Susanna + Haswell, the daughter of an officer in the navy, and was brought to + America by her father in 1767, when she was only five years old. + Their ship was wrecked on Lovell’s Island, in Boston Harbor, and + they lived at Nantasket for nearly ten years, when they went back to + England. There she married William Rowson, a musician, and went upon + the stage. In 1795–96 we find her acting in Baltimore and Boston. + She published several comedies and a number of novels; one of these, + “Charlotte Temple,” gained great popularity. She died at Boston in + 1824. She taught school in several places—at Medford, at Newton, and + at Boston, and was very successful. + +Footnote 2: + + Joseph Coffin Boyd, of Portland, Maine. Married Isabella, oldest + daughter of Dr. Southgate. + +Footnote 3: + + Horatio Southgate, Dr. Southgate’s oldest son, followed the + profession of the law in the town of Portland, Maine, and was for + twenty-one years Register of Probate for Cumberland County, Maine. + Mr. Southgate married three times. His first wife was a friend of + his sisters and was Abigail McLellan, the daughter of Hugh McLellan, + a well-known East Indian merchant. Mary Webster was Mr. Southgate’s + second wife; she was the daughter of Noah Webster, whose name is + well known in connection with the dictionary that he wrote. Mr. + Southgate’s third wife was Eliza Neal of Portland. By his three + wives Mr. Southgate had a large family of children, among them being + the Rt. Rev’d Horatio Southgate and the Rev’d William Scott + Southgate. + +Footnote 4: + + Isabella Southgate had married to Joseph Coffin Boyd. She was Dr. + Southgate’s oldest child. + +Footnote 5: + + Mary Black, the second wife of Richard King, Mrs. Southgate’s + stepmother. She had married Mr. King soon after the death of his + first wife, who was her cousin, and had been a kind and devoted + mother to his three children. + +Footnote 6: + + Octavia Southgate, Dr. Southgate’s third daughter. She married, in + 1805, William Browne. + +Footnote 7: + + Sarah Leland was the daughter of Mrs. Southgate’s half-sister Dorcas + King, Mrs. Joseph Leland. + +Footnote 8: + + Arixene and Robert Southgate, Eliza’s younger sister and brother. + Arixene married Henry Smith, of Sacarappa, Maine. + +Footnote 9: + + William King, the son of Richard King by his second wife Mary Black, + was a large land-owner near the town of Bath. Mr. King was elected + the first Governor when the District of Maine was changed into a + State with a government of its own. + +Footnote 10: + + Eleanor Coffin, afterwards Mrs. John Derby, was the daughter of Dr. + Coffin, a neighbor of Dr. Southgate’s. Martha Coffin, another + daughter, had lately married Mr. Richard Derby. The Mrs. Codman + mentioned in the previous letter was a sister of Dr. Coffin’s. + +Footnote 11: + + Peony (vulgarly called Piny). Note by M. B. L. + +Footnote 12: + + Ann, daughter of Cyrus King (Mrs. Southgate’s half-brother) and his + wife Hannah Stone. She was named after her aunt, Mrs. William King, + Ann Frazier. She afterwards married Mr. Bridge. + +Footnote 13: + + Mr. Jewett married Sally Weeks, a friend and neighbor of the Misses + Southgate. He was a grandson of Aaron Jewett, who built the first + sawmill on Algers Falls, Dunstan, in 1727, and carried on what was + then considered an extensive lumber business. + +Footnote 14: + + Moses Porter was Eliza’s cousin. He was the oldest son of Mrs. Aaron + Porter (Paulina King). + +Footnote 15: + + Miranda and Arixene Southgate were at this time aged respectively + twelve and eight years. Their cousin Sally Leland was about the same + age. Frederic Southgate, born in 1791, became a tutor in Bowdoin + College, and died unmarried in 1820. + +Footnote 16: + + _Isabella Boyd_, second child of Isabella Southgate and Joseph + Coffin Boyd. She died of consumption, the fatal disease which + carried off so many of her aunts, sisters, and cousins. + +Footnote 17: + + _Rufus King_, oldest son of Richard King and Isabella Bragdon, and + brother of Mrs. Southgate. He was born in 1755 and married Mary + Alsop. He was delegated by the State of Massachusetts to the + Convention for framing the Constitution of the United States, was a + member of Congress from Massachusetts, Senator of the United States + from New York, and at this time Minister to the Court of St. James. + +Footnote 18: + + _Mary Alsop_ was born in 1786. She was the daughter of John Alsop + and Mary Frogat. + +Footnote 19: + + Mr. and Mrs. Southgate’s “profiles” hung in Mr. King’s house at + Jamaica until about 1875, when they were given by his granddaughter + to Mrs. Southgate’s grandson, Mr. Lawrence, of Flushing, L. I. + +Footnote 20: + + _Broads_, a tavern near Portland, to which gay parties of young + people went on frolics. + +Footnote 21: + + The manuscript which was under the seal was so torn as to make this + sentence illegible. + +Footnote 22: + + _Paulina Porter_, daughter of Dr. Aaron Porter of Portland. She + married, first Enoch Jones, and then Edward Beecher. Her sister + Harriet married Lyman Beecher. + +Footnote 23: + + _Miss Rice’s_ father was Joseph Rice; he raised a company of fifty + men and, after the receipt of the news of the skirmish at Lexington, + set out as soon as possible for Cambridge and joined Colonel + Phinney’s regiment. It was the first regiment that marched into + Boston after its evacuation by the British on the 17th of March, + 1776. In a letter from Rufus King to Dr. Southgate, dated August 6, + 1776, he says: “Phinney’s regiment is ordered from Boston to + Ticonderoga. I guess the pious Elder would as lieve tarry where he + is, but he was formerly fond of action—hope now he will be + satisfied.... Gen. Gates will doubtless make a stand at + Ticonderoga.” + +Footnote 24: + + Phippsburg. + +Footnote 25: + + This letter was never finished. + +Footnote 26: + + Mary King Porter (at this time twenty years of age) married Nathan + Coffin. + +Footnote 27: + + E. Hasket Derby, Jr., was born in Salem in 1766, and died in + Londonderry, H. N., in 1826. Mr. Derby married, in 1797, Miss Lucy + Brown. He was the son of E. Hasket Derby, who married Elizabeth + Crowninshield, a leading merchant of Salem, and founder of the East + India trade; known in the annals of Salem as “King Derby.” Mr. + Derby, the father, had four sons, who married and had families. They + were E. Hasket, Jr., just mentioned; John, who married Miss Barton + and secondly Miss Eleanor Coffin; E. Hersey, who married Miss Hannah + Brown Fitch; and Richard C., who married Miss Martha Coffin. The + father of E. Hasket Derby, Sen., was Richard Derby, merchant, a + delegate to the Provincial Congress in 1774–5. + +Footnote 28: + + The Rumford kitchen or Roaster was invented by Benjamin Thompson + (Count Rumford), a native of Salem. Mr. Thompson, after passing + through various phases of existence, went to Bavaria, where by his + powers of pleasing and wonderful inventive faculties he attracted + the attention of the king, and by him was created Count Rumford. One + of Count Rumford’s particular studies was the laws which govern heat + and cold, and to him we are indebted for great improvement in our + chimneys, fireplaces, and kitchen ranges. Before his time all + cooking was done over an open wood fire. In the “Life of Count + Rumford,” by Ellis, page 240, we find the following: “The Roaster, + if not the first, was the most simple, ingenious, and effective + apparatus of the kind which, by its arrangement of flues for + conveying hot air around the food in the oven as well as by + economizing fuel, allowed of the preparation of many articles by one + fire, and greatly facilitated the labors and added to the comfort of + the cook. They were especially popular in Salem, where many of the + flourishing citizens had occasion to recall over their dinners the + ‘apprentice boy in Mr. Appleton’s shop.’” + +Footnote 29: + + Mme. Milliken, probably the daughter of John Ayer. She was the wife + of John Milliken of Boston. + +Footnote 30: + + Dr. Southgate’s family resided at Leicester. + +Footnote 31: + + Woburn. + +Footnote 32: + + Billerica. + +Footnote 33: + + Dracut. + +Footnote 34: + + _Francestown_, named so after Gov. Wentworth’s wife. + +Footnote 35: + + Lady Nesbert, wife of Sir John Nesbert, celebrated for a race ridden + against John Randolph in 1719. + +Footnote 36: + + Joseph Allston, of South Carolina, had married, February 2, 1801, + Theodosia Burr, only daughter of Aaron Burr. + +Footnote 37: + + This was Mr. William Constable, who married, February 26, 1810, Miss + Mary Elizabeth McVickar, daughter of John McVickar, Esq. + +Footnote 38: + + The Patroon Stephen Van Rensselaer had lately married his second + wife, Cornelia Patterson. Miss Southgate spelt the name as it was + then usually pronounced. + +Footnote 39: + + Rensselaer Westerlo and his sister Catherine Westerlo, who + afterwards married Mr. Woodworth. Their mother was Catherine + Livingston, oldest daughter of Philip, commonly known as the + “Signer,” he having been one of the signers of the Declaration of + Independence. Miss Livingston had first married Stephen Van + Rensselaer, Patroon of the Manor, and by him had had three children: + Stephen, who succeeded his father; Philip, mayor of the city of + Albany; and a daughter. Mrs. Van Rensselaer remarried Dominie + Westerlo. + +Footnote 40: + + Walsh (?). + +Footnote 41: + + Oliver Kane, a merchant of New York. He married, at Providence, + Rhode Island, May 22, 1803, Miss Ann Eliza Clarke, daughter of John + Innes Clarke. + +Footnote 42: + + James G. King. + +Footnote 43: + + General Henry Knox was a general in the American army during the + Revolution. He entered it at the beginning of the war as a captain + of the Boston Grenadiers. He was the first Secretary of War of the + United States. He married the daughter of Secretary Flucker. General + and Mrs. Knox grew to be enormously stout and were perhaps the + largest couple in the city of New York at the time when Washington + was inaugurated as first President of the United States. General + Knox’s home was at Thomaston, Maine. + +Footnote 44: + + General Pinckney of South Carolina had served in the American army. + He had two daughters, one of whom married Col. Francis K. Huger. + +Footnote 45: + + Hodgkinson made his first appearance in New York as _Vapid_. He was + born in Manchester, England, 1767; his father was an innkeeper named + Meadowcraft. Young Meadowcraft ran away from home, took the name of + Hodgkinson, and joined the stage. His wife, to whom he was married + on his arrival in America, by Bishop Moore, was Miss Brett of the + Bath Theatre. She died in New York of consumption, September, 1803. + Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkinson received $100 a week for their services, + which was the highest amount yet paid to any two performers in + America. + +Footnote 46: + + This Joseph Jefferson was the grandfather of the present Joseph + Jefferson. + +Footnote 47: + + Mr. and Mrs. William Codman. Mrs. Codman was a Miss Coffin. William + Codman had at that time an insurance office at No. 28 South Street, + New York. + +Footnote 48: + + Mrs. Henderson and Miss Denning were daughters of William Denning, a + well-known New York merchant. + +Footnote 49: + + _Columbia Gardens_ were on the corner of Broadway and Prince Street. + +Footnote 50: + + _Mt. Vernon_ Gardens, afterwards called Contois’s Gardens, were on + the northwest corner of Broadway and Leonard Street. + +Footnote 51: + + Mrs. Delafield was a Miss Hallett. She married, December 11th, 1784, + Mr. John Delafield, an Englishman, who had arrived in New York in + 1783. They had twelve children. Among them were Major Joseph + Delafield, who married Miss Livingston; Mr. Rufus Delafield married + Miss Bard; Dr. Edward Delafield married Miss Floyd; Henry Delafield + married Miss Munson. + +Footnote 52: + + _Malbone_, a celebrated miniature painter. He was born at Newport, + Rhode Island, and when very young showed great taste for painting. + He travelled about the then known portions of the United States, + painting portraits of people in Charleston, Boston, Philadelphia, + New York, etc., many of which are now in existence. His price for + painting a head was $50. He died of consumption in Savannah, May 7, + 1807, in the thirty-second year of his age. + +Footnote 53: + + Lucia, Zilpah, and John were the children of Genl. Peleg Wadsworth. + Zilpah afterwards married Stephen Longfellow, and was the mother of + Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Genl. Wadsworth lived at Hiram, on the + Saco River. + +Footnote 54: + + Dr. William Moore was a celebrated physician of New York. He married + Miss Sarah Fish and had by her a numerous family. Among them being + Nathaniel Moore, President of Columbia College, and Dr. Samuel + Moore, also a favorite physician. + +Footnote 55: + + He was returning from his mission in London, where he had been + Minister to the Court of St. James from the United States. + +Footnote 56: + + Nicholas Low, a merchant in New York. Among his descendants are Mrs. + Eugene Schuyler and the wife of M. Waddington, at present ambassador + to the Court of St. James from France. + +Footnote 57: + + Mr. Watson was at this time a widower with one son, James Watson. + This son became a great beau in New York society, but died unmarried + and insane. + +Footnote 58: + + William Henderson, who had married Sarah Denning. + +Footnote 59: + + George III of England. + +Footnote 60: + + Bethlehem. This is a place originally settled by a religious sect + called Moravians. They were famous for their schools,—one for boys + kept by the Brothers, and a girls’ school kept by the Sisters. Young + ladies were sent to Bethlehem from New York, Philadelphia, and + distant parts of the country, to receive their education at this + place. In a letter from John Adams to his daughter, dated Monday, + Feb. 10th, 1823, he speaks of it: “I have seen a remarkable + institution for the education of young ladies at Bethlehem. About + 120 of them live under the same roof. They sleep all together in the + same garret. I saw 120 beds in two long rows in the same room. The + beds and bedclothes were all of excellent quality and extraordinary + neat. How should you like to live in such a nunnery?” + +Footnote 61: + + The yellow fever having broken out in New York, the city was + deserted by all who could leave it. Even the business was transacted + in the neighboring village of Greenwich, which is now incorporated + in the city itself and its boundaries lost in the surrounding + streets. The following advertisements have been copied from the + “Evening Post,” Thursday, Aug. 25, 1803, as being of interest, as + the advertisers were not only well-known New Yorkers, but personal + friends of Mrs. Bowne:— + + + Woolsey & Rogers’ Counting House is removed to No. 28 Courtlandt + Street. + + + REMOVAL. William Codman has removed his Counting House to the N. E. + corner room in the 2nd Story of the City Hotel, Broadway. + + + John G. Bogart, Attorney at law & Notary Public, has Removed his + office to the House of Judge Livingston, No. 37 Broadway, near the + Custom House. + + + John Murray & Sons have removed their Counting House to Mr. Murray’s + country seat on the Harlem Road, 3 1–2 miles from town. + + [This was at Murray Hill, about the corner of 37th Street and Fifth + Avenue.] + + + The Editor being obliged to be absent from town a few days, the + discussions respecting _yellow fever_ will, of course, be suspended + for a little time. + + +Footnote 62: + + Mr. Boyd, Mrs. Bowne’s brother-in-law, had been in England for some + months and was now expected to return to his home. + +Footnote 63: + + Mrs. Boyd, Isabella Southgate. + +Footnote 64: + + Beau Dawson, Mr. J. Dawson of Virginia. He had been sent out by + President Jefferson in April, 1801, as bearer of the Treaty or + Convention between France and the United States as ratified by the + latter. The ship in which he sailed was wrecked and the Treaty lost, + although the envoy was saved. Another treaty was drawn up and + dispatched as soon as possible, but there was great annoyance at the + delay. + +Footnote 65: + + Highlands. The hills about West Point on the Hudson are so called. + The road from Peekskill to Garrison’s over the hill called + “Anthony’s Nose” is particularly steep and stony. The Beverly Farm, + which was owned by Mr. William Denning, lay in the midst of these + hills. The house is still standing and is almost unaltered. + +Footnote 66: + + To Miranda Southgate, or, more likely, to Octavia. (M. K. L.) + +Footnote 67: + + From Octavia Southgate to Mrs. Southgate. + +Footnote 68: + + Mr. Newbold and Mr. Philip Rhinelander were well-known New Yorkers. + The latter married, December 22, 1814, Miss Mary Colden Hoffman. + +Footnote 69: + + Mr. Jephson was an Englishman who had lately arrived in New York. + +Footnote 70: + + John Duer married Miss Anne Bunner October 19, 1804, and his + brother, William Duer, soon after married Maria Denning. Mr. + Rhinelander engaged the two Miss Duers to the wrong men. Fanny + married Beverly Robinson, and Sally married, March 10, 1805, John + Witherspoon Smith, and died July 10, 1887, in the one hundred and + first year of her age. + +Footnote 71: + + Mrs. Kane’s “charming little girl” became Mrs. James King of Albany, + and the mother of many well-known New Yorkers. + +Footnote 72: + + Lady Temple was the daughter of Governor Bowdoin, and had married + Sir John Temple. Their daughter, afterwards Mrs. Winthrop, was the + mother of the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop. She was long the reigning + belle in Boston. + +Footnote 73: + + Mr. and Mrs. Bogert were intimate friends of Mr. and Mrs. Rufus + King’s, and they occupied adjoining places at Jamaica. + +Footnote 74: + + Mrs. Heyward was Mr. and Mrs. Rogers’ daughter. She married Mr. + Heyward of South Carolina. Miss Heyward married Mr. Cutting of New + York, and was the mother of Messrs. William, Heyward, and Brockholst + Cutting. + +Footnote 75: + + Wolsey Rogers married, Thursday evening, December 1, 1807, Miss + Susan Bayard. + +Footnote 76: + + Harriet Clarke, a daughter of John Innes Clarke of Providence, and + sister of Mrs. Kane. + +Footnote 77: + + Mrs. Oliver Kane had married, at Providence, R. I., May 22, 1803, + Mr. Oliver Kane, merchant of this city. Her children were Mrs. King + of Albany, Mrs. William Russel, Mrs. Nicholsen, John, De Lancey, and + Miss Lydia Kane. + +Footnote 78: + + Mrs. Gilbert R. Livingston (Martha Kane), a sister of Oliver Kane. + Her children were Mrs. Henry Beekman, Mrs. Codwise, Mrs. Constable, + the Rev. Gilbert R. Livingston, and James Kane Livingston. + +Footnote 79: + + Mrs. Fish (Miss Elizabeth Stuyvesant) had married, April 30, 1803, + Colonel Nicholas Fish. This daughter was Mrs. Daniel le Roy. The + Hon. Hamilton Fish and Mrs. Richard Morris were also children of + Colonel Fish’s. + +Footnote 80: + + _Pauline Porter_, daughter of Paulina King and Dr. Aaron Porter of + Portland, had married Edward Beecher. + +Footnote 81: + + Mary King Porter, her sister, married Nathaniel Coffin of Saco. + +Footnote 82: + + Horatio Southgate married his first wife, Nabby McLellan, September + 29, 1805. Mrs. Bowne is here alluding to her sister Octavia’s + engagement to William Browne. + +Footnote 83: + + Robert Murray, Mr. Bowne’s nephew. + +Footnote 84: + + _Frederic Southgate_, her youngest brother. + +Footnote 85: + + John, Charles, and James King, sons of Rufus King, Mrs. Bowne’s + cousins. James was at that time at Harvard College. + +Footnote 86: + + Mrs. Gillespie (Amelia Denning). This daughter died when a very + young girl of a putrid sore throat. + +Footnote 87: + + Walter Bowne, Jr. Eldest child of Walter Bowne and Eliza Southgate. + +Footnote 88: + + Kitty Bayard married Duncan Campbell. Her sister Susan had married + Woolsey Rogers, December 1, 1807. + +Footnote 89: + + Mary, oldest daughter of Robert Watts and his wife Lady Mary + Alexander, married Dr. Romaine, who left her a widow after a few + years of married life. At the age of seventy-three Mrs. Romaine + married her first love, Peter Bertram Cruger, a widower with eight + children. Miss Watts’s engagement to Dr. Romaine was a surprise to + her friends, who knew of her attachment to Mr. Cruger. + +Footnote 90: + + John Alsop King, oldest son of Rufus King and his wife Mary Alsop. + John A. King was twice governor of the State of New York. He married + in 1810 Mary Ray. Charles King, the second son of Rufus King, for + some time President of Columbia College, New York. He married twice: + first, Miss Gracie, and for his second wife Miss Low, the daughter + of his father’s intimate friend Nicholas Low. + +Footnote 91: + + Miss Fairlee was the daughter of Major Fairlee of the British army, + who was a noted wit. Many anecdotes are told of his odd sayings. One + of them was, that being on his death-bed he was told by his + physician to take yeast as medicine. “What for?” said the Major; “to + make me rise?” Miss Fairlee married Cooper the actor. + +Footnote 92: + + The wife of the French General Moreau. They came to the United + States in 1805, but he returned to fight with the Allies, and was + killed in 1813, some say by a bullet aimed by Napoleon himself. + +Footnote 93: + + Mrs. Stevens was Miss Rachel Coxe, of Philadelphia, and had married + Colonel Stevens, of Hoboken, New Jersey. + +Footnote 94: + + Miss Lyde married Jonathan Ogden. Among her children were Mrs. + Robert Goelet, Mrs. Dominick Lynch Lawrence, and Mrs. Joseph Ogden. + +Footnote 95: + + Mrs. John Lawrence. + +Footnote 96: + + Ralph Izard and his wife, the granddaughter of Etienne de Lanci, a + Huguenot nobleman who came to this country in 1686. Mr. Izard had + been appointed Commissioner from Congress to the grand-duchy of + Tuscany, and had performed other important diplomatic services. He + was one of the first United States senators from South Carolina. + Mrs. Mannigault’s husband was the grandson of Mr. and Mrs. Izard. + She was related to the Misses Watts of New York, and for their sake + was particularly attentive and kind to their friend Mrs. Bowne. Mr. + and Mrs. Heyward were the parents of the celebrated beauty Miss + Elizabeth Heyward, who married James Hamilton. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last + chapter. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to + individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like + 1^{st}). + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76799 *** diff --git a/76799-h/76799-h.htm b/76799-h/76799-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55c9ee4 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/76799-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10048 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>A Girl’s Life Eighty Years Ago | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + body { margin-left: 8%; 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page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; } + div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; } + .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; + page-break-before: always; } + .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; } + </style> + </head> + <body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76799 ***</div> + +<div class='tnotes covernote'> + +<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p> + +<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> + +</div> + +<div id='Frontispiece' class='figcenter id001'> +<img src='images/i_001.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mrs. WALTER BOWNE<br> <br> From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B. Lawrence<br> <br> ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='titlepage'> + +<div> + <h1 class='c001'>A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO<br> <span class='xlarge'>SELECTIONS FROM THE LETTERS OF ELIZA SOUTHGATE BOWNE</span></h1> +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c002'> + <div>WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY CLARENCE COOK</div> + <div class='c003'><em>ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS AND VIEWS</em></div> + <div class='c002'>NEW YORK</div> + <div>CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</div> + <div>1887</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c004'> + <div><span class='small'>Copyright, 1887,</span></div> + <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>By</span> CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'><em>The Riverside Press, Cambridge</em>:</span></div> + <div><span class='small'>Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.</span></div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span> + <h2 class='c005'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +</div> + +<table class='table0'> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MRS. WALTER BOWNE</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Frontispiece'>Frontispiece</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>Miniature by Malbone</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <th class='c006'></th> + <th class='c008' colspan='2'><em>Facing Page</em></th> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE—MRS. SOUTHGATE</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_5'>5</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Lawrence, Esq.</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MRS. JOHN DERBY</em> (<em>Eleanor Coffin</em>)</td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_22'>22</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss Rogers, of Boston</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>RUFUS KING</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_42'>42</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>From a painting by Woods</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MRS. RUFUS KING</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>After a portrait by Trumbull</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MR. E. HASKET DERBY, OF SALEM</em> (<em>Æt. 28, 1794</em>)</td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_110'>110</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>From a Miniature in possession of Dr. Hasket Derby, of Boston</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MRS. RICHARD DERBY</em> (<em>Martha Coffin</em>)</td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_116'>116</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs. Peabody, of Boston</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_130'>130</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>MR. WALTER BOWNE</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_140'>140</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>Miniature by Malbone</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_148'>148</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>LUCIA WADSWORTH—ZILPAH WADSWORTH</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_159'>159</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Lawrence, Esq.</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE, HELL GATE, LONG ISLAND</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_167'>167</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>THE BOWNE HOUSE, FLUSHING</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_195'>195</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>Erected 1661</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>JAMES GORE KING</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_206'>206</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr><td class='c009' colspan='3'><em>From a Miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq.</em></td></tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006' colspan='2'><em>CHARLES KING</em></td> + <td class='c007'><em><a href='#Page_210'>210</a></em></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c006'><em>From a Miniature in the possession of his daughter, Mrs. Martin.</em></td> + <td class='c007'> </td> + </tr> +</table> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_iii'>iii</span> + <h2 class='c005'>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c010'>Eliza Southgate, the writer of the letters here collected, +was the daughter of Robert and Mary Southgate, and was +born in Scarborough, Me., September 24, 1783. She was the +third in a family of twelve children. Her father came of English +stock, and was born in Leicester, Mass., where his family +had long been settled. Here he studied medicine, and when he +had finished his course he left his native place, where there appeared +to be no room for another practitioner, and settled in Scarborough. +We are told that, after the primitive fashion of the time, +he set out to seek his fortune on horseback, with all his worldly +goods in a pair of saddle-bags. In this way he entered Scarborough, +where his character and talents were not long in getting him +a good position. He had picked up some law, and in a new and +small community was able to make his knowledge useful, so that in +course of time he was appointed a Judge in the Court of Common +Pleas.</p> + +<p class='c011'>He had not been long in Scarborough before he married Mary, +the daughter of Richard King, a large landholder in the District +of Maine. “Pretty Polly King,” as Mary was familiarly called by +her friends, was the second daughter of Mr. King by his first wife. +The eldest child by this marriage was Rufus—well known for +the distinguished part he played in the early history of our country. +A third child, Pauline, married Mr. Porter; their son Moses, +whose name often occurs in these letters, was a young man of +great promise. He engaged his cousin Eliza in a correspondence, +after the somewhat formal fashion of the time; only her letters remain +to indicate its character, but they are among her best. In +her lively tilting on the well-worn subject of the education of the +sexes, the lady shows herself a clever mistress of the foils, and +there are not wanting indications that the combatants did not +escape from the encounter heart-whole. But however this may +have been, all was ended by the sudden death of Mr. Porter from +a fever caught in boarding an infected vessel in the transaction +of some necessary business.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Scarborough was not a large town, but its position as a seaport +gave it some importance, and the society was far above what is +ordinarily met with in such places. The Hunnewells, Bragdons, +Bacons, Emersons, Wadsworths, names that are distinguished in +the social history of New England, belong to the early settlers of +the neighborhood, and are still represented there. Zilpah, one +of the daughters of General Peleg Wadsworth, who are frequently +mentioned in these letters, married Stephen Longfellow, a cousin +of Mrs. Southgate, and became the mother of the poet, Henry +Wadsworth Longfellow.</p> + +<p class='c011'>The Southgates gave their children the best education to be had +in those times. They were first sent to school in Scarborough; +but, later, were placed—to be “finished,” as the old phrase was—at +boarding-schools near Boston. When she was fourteen years old, +Eliza was sent to a school at Medford, and a letter written from +that place gives a rather uncomfortable notion of her surroundings. +In these few childish lines, however, the character of the woman +is plainly prefigured—her observation, her power of clear, terse +statement, her playful humor, her cheerful submission to duty, and +her affection for her parents, making her willing to put up with +whatever was disagreeable rather than give them uneasiness. +However, Dr. Southgate, as a physician, could see that a school +where the pupils slept, four beds in a small chamber and two in a +bed, was not the place for a growing girl, and he therefore took +his daughter away and put her at the school at Medford, kept by +Mrs. Rowson. This, for its time, was an excellent school, and +Miss Southgate remained there until the day came when “studies” +were to be thrown aside, and “life” was to begin. She +seems by her letters to have been very happy while under Mrs. +Rowson’s care—the varied and somewhat romantic life led by +that lady perhaps fitted her, better than would have been thought, +to be the guide and friend of a girl of Eliza Southgate’s peculiar +character.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c012'><sup>[1]</sup></a></p> + +<p class='c011'>Her life after she left school is so fully described in her letters +that there is no need of following it in detail. She tells her own +story far better than another could do it, and much that would +inevitably be dull and commonplace narrated in plain prose, +sparkles with life under the swift pen of this lively girl. She tells +of her visit to Saratoga, with her friends Mr. and Mrs. Hasket +Derby; and no school-girl of our time, writing from Paris or London, +could describe the wonders of her tour with greater ecstasy. +She sees this new corner of the world with the miracle-working +eye of youth, and accepts everything with youth’s unquestioning +heart. Previous letters had described Salem in terms equally +ecstatic, and after her account of the country-seat of the Derbys, +there could be nothing left to say of Versailles or St. Cloud. But +what then? Was not this a fine old country-house, with its formal +garden, its provincial but still solid stateliness, and, above all, with +its hearty, cheerful hospitality? It was our heroine’s first glimpse +of the gay world of fashion of her time, and she enjoyed it to the full.</p> + +<p class='c011'>The story of her first meeting with her future husband, of her +engagement to him, of their wedding-journey, is told with the simplicity +and unaffected candor that were characteristic of her. The +letter to her mother in which she asks her consent to the marriage, +shows mother and daughter in the happiest light; it is the highest +praise that could be awarded the training the Southgates had given +their children. Perfect love had bred perfect confidence, and it +is certainly pleasant to know that the hearts and judgments of the +parents could only confirm the decision of their daughter. Mr. +Walter Bowne was everything that the most exacting parents +could wish as the husband of a daughter so dear to them.</p> + +<p class='c011'>But the new life of happiness thus entered upon was brief, and +in a few months more than six years it had come to an end. In +1803 Mr. Bowne and Miss Southgate were married. In 1806 +their first child, a boy, named Walter, after his father, was born; +and two years later, in July, 1808, came their second child, a girl, +named Mary, after Mrs. Bowne’s mother. After the birth of this +child, Mrs. Bowne did not recover her strength, and as winter was +coming on, the medical men recommended a sea-voyage and a +visit to a warmer climate. It was determined to send the invalid +to Charleston, S. C.; and accordingly Mrs. Bowne set out, accompanied +by her sister Octavia and her husband, Mr. Browne, +leaving Mr. Bowne in New York, where he had some business-affairs +to settle before he should join his wife later in the season. +Unhappily, the sea-voyage proved a disastrous experiment; and +when the party arrived at Charleston, Mrs. Bowne was in so enfeebled +a condition from its effects that her sister gave up all hope +of saving her life. She failed rapidly, and died on the 20th of +February, only two months after her arrival. Mr. Bowne, who, in +common with her family, had probably no idea of the serious nature +of his wife’s illness when she left New York, yet made all the haste +he could to follow her, but had the inexpressible grief to arrive too +late. His only consolation was in the fact that her suffering had +been brief, and that her departure was serene, while all that a +sister’s affectionate devotion could avail to comfort her had been +given without stint from a full heart; and even strangers in a +strange city had been moved, by the beauty and loveliness of +this young mother, and by her pitiful case, deprived of husband +and children, to shield her and cheer her with all that the warmhearted +Southern hospitality knows so well to bestow. She was +buried in Charleston and her grave was hid in flowers sent by the +people of the town and the neighboring plantations, many of whom +had only heard her name and story.</p> + +<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c010'>There is little need for an editor’s help in following the story +of the life which these letters portray. They are, in fact, an +almost complete diary of that life, for the earliest bears date when +the writer was a child at boarding-school, and the last was written +only a few days before she died. Of the years that came between, +the record is almost uninterrupted; so that the task confided to me +resolves itself into little more than a statement of the few facts connected +with the personal and family history of their author, that +naturally have no place in the letters themselves.</p> + +<p class='c011'>No doubt we have gained much, so far as the material convenience +of the great public life is concerned, from the inventions +that, for all practical purposes, have reduced time and space to +comparative insignificance. We have, however, lost some good +things, which those who lived in younger days must always regret, +and for which there is small compensation in the material gain we +have received in exchange. Among these losses, that of letter-writing +is perhaps the most serious. A whole world of innocent +enjoyment for contemporaries and for posterity has been blotted +out, and, so far as appears, nothing is taking its place. Is it the +newspapers? But how scattered, how disjointed, how impersonal, +the record they contain! We might as well hope to recall the +charm of some old garden loved in youth, by turning over the +leaves of a <em>herbarium</em> in which its flowers had been pressed, as to +make the domestic life of a time gone by, live again in reading +the files of a newspaper. Nor do memoirs or biographies give +us what we want. They are too formal, too self-conscious; they +want the spontaneity, the vividness of impression, the lightness of +the recording hand. These things letters give us, and letters alone.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Science has many fairy-tales to tell us, but the most magical of +all her inventions is that toy, the phonograph, invented by our own +Edison. It listens to the words that are whispered in its ear, to +the songs that are sung to it, to the gossip that buzzes about it, and +the record made on its revolving surface, replaced at any time +upon the cylinder—after the lapse of an hour, or of a hundred +years—will repeat what has been confided to it in the very voice of +the speaker, with every tone and every inflection as clear as when +first it spoke.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Familiar letters are privileged to play the same magical part. +To the readers of successive generations, they speak with the living +voice of the writer; they recall the fugitive emotions, the joys, the +sorrows, the whims, the passions, and as we read we persuade ourselves +that we are part and parcel of the times they record.</p> + +<p class='c011'>What a difference in our enjoyment it would make, were the letters +of Fanny Burney and Horace Walpole taken from us! Even +Hannah More becomes entertaining; for though her circle was a +narrow one, there were delightful people in it, and the letters make +us at home in her little world, as no formal biography could do.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Nowadays no one writes letters, and no one would have time +to read them if they were written. Little notes fly back and forth, +like swallows, between friend and friend, between parent and child, +carrying the news of the day in small morsels easily digested; it +is not worth while to tell the whole story with the pen, when it can +be told in a few weeks, at the farthest, with the voice. For nobody +now is more than a few weeks from anywhere. In the spring my +neighbor came home with his wife from the Philippine Islands, to +pass a few weeks with his friends and hers. Yesterday he ran +back to the islands, to buckle to business again. Why take the +trouble while here to detail the gossip of his home-circle to his +Philippine friends, in letters, when in a fortnight or so he would be +recounting it to them at their own tables?</p> + +<p class='c011'>The letters here printed have more than the interest of contemporary +records; they paint in words, with a thousand delicate +and expressive touches, the portrait of a lively and beautiful girl, +with a character as striking and individual as the face that Malbone +has drawn for us on ivory. Never was a reigning beauty +more spirited, never was a spirited girl of fashion more truly lovable, +than Eliza Bowne. Whether she be at boarding-school, writing +letters to her “honored parents,” and hiding her little homesick +heart in vain under the formal phrases dictated by the +starched decorum of the day; or stealing an hour for her pen +amid the whirl of the gay world in which she sparkled, such a +cheerful star, and rattling off to her mother the story of the day’s +doings—she is always the same generous, unselfish creature; impulsive, +but with her impulses well in hand; a heart brimming +over with mirth, its clear crystal clouded by no drop of malice; +witty, but with a friendly glint in her mischievous eyes, even when, +as now and then happens, she gives formality or presumption a +fillip. Love and friendship followed her wherever she went in her +too brief span of life, and fortune heaped her girlish lap with all +good things; but she showed herself worthy of her blessings, and +kept herself unspotted from the world.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Something should be said of the literary merit of these letters. +The name of Richardson has been mentioned; but Richardson +never wrote anything so fresh from the heart, so playful in their +sincerity, as some of the letters to her cousin, Moses Porter; nor +could Richardson have touched with so light a hand the story of +the drive home in the snow-storm after the Assembly ball, or the +account of the game of Loo, when, with a fluttering heart, she +stands, divided between the eager desire to read the letter she +has just slipped into her pocket, and the impatient calls of her +partners to join them at the game. Fanny Burney, and Fanny +Burney alone, could have written letters like these.</p> + +<p class='c011'>They are not, however, the letters of a practised writer, nor +was there ever in her mind any thought of publication. It was +the age of “epistolary correspondence:” all the girls of Miss +Southgate’s acquaintance were writing letters to their friends, +long ones, often, made up in the manner of a diary, with a week’s +doings recorded day by day; for postage was dear, and to send +blank paper an extravagance, and no doubt, like her friends, +she forgot her letters as soon as they were sent off. Her correspondents +were not so indifferent, however, and they kept her +letters carefully. Her mother, to whom the most of them were +written, left those sent to herself as a bequest to her granddaughter, +Mrs. John W. Lawrence, the “little Mary” of the later +letters. Mrs. Bowne died in the same year in which this daughter +was born; but her sister-in-law, Miss Caroline Bowne, who devoted +herself to the care of the little girl after her mother’s death, +instilled into her heart such an affection for her parent’s memory +that she came to cherish it with an almost religious devotion, and +guarded as a sacred relic everything that had belonged to her. +To the letters left her by her grandmother, Mrs. Lawrence added +all she could collect from other persons with whom her mother had +corresponded. They came to her in a sad state, from much reading +and passing about from hand to hand; and to preserve their +contents she copied the whole collection, with the greatest care, in +her neat, methodical handwriting, into two small books, and these, +in her turn, she bequeathed to her children, as her grandmother +had bequeathed the originals to her.</p> + +<p class='c011'>They are now given to the public, enriched with a considerable +number of contemporary portraits and other illustrations, +carefully reproduced from original miniatures and old prints; and +with an abundance of biographical notes, industriously collected +by a competent hand, which cannot fail to be of value to the social +chronicler of our time. While the importance of these letters as +illustrations of the domestic life of our country at a most interesting +time is considerable, their chief value, after all, lies in the +picture they give of the writer. It is a picture drawn, as we have +said, with a thousand graceful touches, and the natural girlish +loveliness of the portraiture shows best when it is read from end +to end. Then, as we look up from the printed page to Malbone’s +portrait, the vision takes shape:</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“A hair-brained, sentimental trace</div> + <div class='line'>Was strongly markèd in her face;</div> + <div class='line'>A wildly witty, rustic grace</div> + <div class='line in6'>Shone full upon her;</div> + <div class='line'>Her eye, even turned on empty space,</div> + <div class='line in6'>Beamed keen with honour.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>CLARENCE COOK.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Fishkill-on-Hudson</span>,</div> + <div class='line in4'>October 1, 1887.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> + <h2 class='c005'>A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO</h2> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c002'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Jan. 23, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Mamma:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I went to Boston last Saturday, and there I received +your letter. I have now to communicate to you only +my wishes to tarry in Boston a quarter, if convenient. +In my last letter to my Father I did not say anything +respecting it because I did not wish Mrs. Wyman to +know I had an inclination to leave her school, but only +because I thought you would wish me to come home +when my quarter was out. I have a great desire to see +my family, but I have a still greater desire to finish my +education.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Still I have to beg you to remind my friends and +acquaintances that I remain the same Eliza, and that I +bear the same love I ever did to them, whether they +have forgotten me or not.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Tell my little Brothers and Sisters I want to see them +very much indeed. Write me an answer as soon as you +can conveniently. I shall send you some of my work +which you never have seen,—it is my Arithmetic.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Permit me, my Honored Mother, to claim the title of</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate daughter,</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, May 12, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Honored Parents:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>With pleasure I sit down to the best of parents to +inform them of my situation, as doubtless they are +anxious to hear,—permit me to tell them something of +my foolish heart. When I first came here I gave myself +up to reflection, but not pleasing reflections. When +Mr. Boyd<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c012'><sup>[2]</sup></a> left me I burst into tears and instead of trying +to calm my feelings I tried to feel worse. I begin to +feel happier and will soon gather up all my Philosophy +and think of the duty that now attends me, to think that +here I may drink freely of the fountain of knowledge, +but I will not dwell any longer on this subject. I am +not doing anything but writing, reading, and cyphering. +There is a French Master coming next Monday, and he +will teach French and Dancing. William Boyd and +Mr. Wyman advise me to learn French, yet if I do at all +I wish you to write me very soon what you think best, +for the school begins on Monday. Mr. Wyman says it +will not take up but a very little of my time, for it is +but two days in the week, and the lessons only 2 hours +long. Mr. Wyman says I must learn Geometry before +Geography, and that I better not begin it till I have got +through my Cyphering.</p> +<div class='figcenter id002'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span> +<img src='images/i_021.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE      MRS. SOUTHGATE<br> <br> From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Lawrence, Esq.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>We get up early in the morning and make our beds +and sweep the chamber, it is a chamber about as large +as our kitchen chamber, and a little better finished. +There’s 4 beds in the chamber, and two persons in each +bed, we have chocolate for breakfast and supper.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate Daughter</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, May 25, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My dear Parents:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I hope I am in some measure sensible of the great +obligation I am under to you for the inexpressible kindness +and attention which I have received of you from +the cradle to my present situation in school. Many +have been your anxious cares for the welfare of me, +your child, at every stage and period of my inexperienced +life to the present moment. In my infancy you nursed +and reared me up, my inclinations you have indulged +and checked my follies—have liberally fed me with the +bounty of your table, and from your instructive lips I +have been admonished to virtue, morality, and religion. +The debt of gratitude I owe you is great, yet I hope to +repay you by duly attending to your counsels and to my +improvement in useful knowledge.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My thankful heart with grateful feelings beat,</div> + <div class='line'>With filial duty I my Parents greet,</div> + <div class='line'>Your fostering care hath reared me from my birth,</div> + <div class='line'>And been my Guardians, since I’ve been on earth,</div> + <div class='line'>With love unequalled taught the surest way,</div> + <div class='line'>And Check’d my passions when they went astray.</div> + <div class='line'>I wish and trust to glad declining years,—</div> + <div class='line'>Make each heart gay—each eye refrain from tears.</div> + <div class='line'>When days are finished and when time shall cease</div> + <div class='line'>May you be wafted to eternal peace</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Is the sincere wish of your dutiful Daughter,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Robert Southgate Esqr. & Lady.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, June 13, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>With what pleasure did I receive your letter and +hear the praises of an approving Mother! It shall be +my study to please and make you happy. You said +you hoped that I was not disappointed in learning +French; I hope you think that I have too much <em>love</em> +and <em>reverence</em> for my Parents to take any thing amiss +that <em>they</em> thought most proper for me. I was very happy +to hear that you had received the bonnets, and I hope +they will suit you. I have never received a letter from +Horatio<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c012'><sup>[3]</sup></a> since I have been here. I expect to begin +Geometry as soon as I have done Cyphering, which I +hope will be soon, for I have got as far as Practice. Tell +Isabella<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c012'><sup>[4]</sup></a> and Mama<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c012'><sup>[5]</sup></a> King, that some letters from them +would give me great pleasure and that I hope to experience +it soon. I should have written to Mama King, +but I had not time, but I intend to, the first opportunity. +I have found the nubs and sent them to Portland. I +received your letter by my Brother Boyd, and was very +much surprised to hear that Octavia<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c012'><sup>[6]</sup></a> was going to have +the small-pox. Please to give my love to Harriet Emerson, +and Mary Rice, and tell them that I intend to write +to them very soon and shall expect some letters from +them. Give my love to all my friends and tell them that +I often think on them, and I hope they will not forget +your affectionate daughter</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, August 11, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Parents:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>It is a long time since I received a letter from home, +and I have neglected my duty in not writing to you +oftener. I shall send you with this some of my Pieces, +and you will see if you think I have improved any: the +Epitaph on the Hon. Thomas Russell was the first one +that I wrote. My brother Boyd never came to see me +when he was up, only called and delivered me the letter. +I have never heard any thing since from Boston, nor +seen any of my acquaintance from there. I have not +been to Boston since Election. I expected to have gone +to Commencement, but I did not. I fear that the time +allotted for my stay here will be too short for me to go +so far as I wish, for I shall have to go much farther in +Arithmetic than I had an idea of, then go over it again +in a large book of my own writing; for my Instructor +does not wish to give me a superficial knowledge only. +He says if I am very diligent; he thinks that 9 months +from the time I came will <em>do</em>, if I can’t stay longer; I +should feel happy, and very grateful, if you thought +proper to let me tarry that time. I have Cyphered now +farther than Isabella did, for I have been thro’ Practice, +the Rule of Three and Interest and two or three rules +that I never did before.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I would thank you to write me word if you are willing +for me to stay so long. With wishing you health and +all the happiness which you are capable of enjoying, +permit me to subscribe myself</p> + +<p class='c011'>Your affectionate and most dutiful Daughter</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. & Mrs. Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Aug. 14, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am very sorry for your trouble, and sympathize with +you in it. I now regret being from home, more than +ever, for I think I might be of service to you now the +children are sick. I hope they will be as much favored +in their sickness <em>now</em>, as they were when they had the +measles. I am very sorry that Jane has broken her +arm, for it generally causes a long confinement, and I +fear she has not got patience enough to bear it without +a great deal of trouble. I suppose that Isabella will be +very much worried about her babe. I would thank you +to write me very often now—for I shall be very anxious +about the children. I believe I have got some news to +tell you, that is, I have found one of your acquaintance, +and relation; it is a Mrs. <em>Sawyer</em>, before she was married +she was Polly King, and she says that you kept at +their house when you was in Boston. I believe I have +nothing more to request, only for you to give my love +to all the children, and <em>kiss</em> each of them for <em>me</em>, and tell +them to be as patient as they can. Give my respects to +my Father and tell him I want to receive a letter from +him very much.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I am your affectionate and dutiful daughter</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, August 25, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I received your packet of things the 20th inst. and +was very glad of them. If you will be so kind as to +send me word whether Sarah’s<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c012'><sup>[7]</sup></a> ear-rings were in the +basket, I will be much obliged to you. I have forgotten +whether I did or not—write me word if you like your +bonnet and the children’s, I hope you do.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Give my love to Sarah and all the children, and kiss +Arixene,<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c012'><sup>[8]</sup></a> and Robert for me. Never did I know the +worth of good parents half so much as now I am from +them; I never missed our closet so much, and above +all things our cheese and Butter which we have but +very little of, but I am very contented. I wish you +would send me up my patterns all of them for I want +them very much indeed, for I expect to work me a +gown.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>I am with due respect</div> + <div class='line in12'>Your dutiful daughter</div> + <div class='line in24'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Sept. 30, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>You mentioned in yours, of the 16th inst. that it was +a long time since you had received a letter from me; +but it was owing to my studies which took up the +greater part of my time; for I have been busy in my +Arithmetic, but I finished it yesterday, and expect now +to begin my large manuscript Arithmetic. You say +that you shall regret so long an absence; not more certainly +than I shall, but a strong desire to possess more +useful knowledge than I at present do, I can dispense +with the pleasure a little longer of beholding my friends +and I hope I shall be better prepared to meet my good +parents towards whom my heart overflows with gratitude. +You mentioned in your letter about my Winter clothes +of which I will make out a Memorandum. I shall want +a coat and you may send it up for me to make, or you +may make it your self, but I want it made loose with a +belt. I wish you to send me enough of all my slips to +make long sleeves that you can, and I wish you would +pattern my dark slip to make long sleeves. I want a +flannel waist, and a petticoat, for my white one dirts so +quick that I had rather have a colored one. I have +nothing more to write, only give my love to all who ask +after me. I have just received a letter from Horatio, +he is very well.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your ever affectionate daughter</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Oct. 17, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Brother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Yours of the 11th of Sept. was gratefully received by +your affectionate Sister; and your excuse at first I +thought not very good, but now I think it very good, +for I have been plagued very much myself. William +Boyd came from Portland about a fortnight since and +by him I was informed that Sister Isabella’s child was +very sick and he was in doubt whether it would ever +get over it. I feel for Isabella much more than I can +tell you who is but just entered the bonds of Matrimony +should so soon have sickness, and perhaps Death, be +one of the guests of her family. I was also informed +that the children had all got over the hooping cough +and that Octavia was much healthier than she was before +she had the small-pox. By my last letter from +home Papa informed me that I might tarry all Winter +and I have concluded to. I suppose you would like to +know how I spend my time here. I shall answer, very +well; my going abroad is chiefly in Boston, for I don’t +go out much in Medford. It was vacation about a week +since and I spent it in Boston very agreeably.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I keep at Mr. Boyd’s when I am there, and Mrs. Little’s. +I go to Boston every public day as Mr. B. is so +good as to send for me. I am very fond of that family +and likewise Mrs. Little’s. You speak of my writing +and you think that I have improved. I am glad of it. +I hope I shall make as great progress in my other +studies and be an “Accomplished Miss.”</p> + +<p class='c011'>Horatio do write very soon; will you?</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Adieu! your affectionate Sister</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Horatio Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Nov. 10, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>You mentioned in your letter, my dear mother, that +Cousin Mary informed you that I expected to go to the +Ball. I did think that I should go but I altered my +mind; I had 2 or 3 invitations but I would not accept +of any of them. My cloak likewise you mentioned +something about, which I shall attend to when I go to +Boston. I expect to go to Boston at Thanksgiving, for +there is a vacation of a week. I had a letter from +<em>Horatio</em> yesterday, he was well. Isabella wrote me +word that my Father had got the Rheumatism very bad, +which I am sorry to hear. If the wishes or prayers of +Eliza would heal the wound, it would not long remain +unheal’d.</p> + +<p class='c011'>My love to all the children, tell them I don’t dare to +tell them how much I want to see them, nor even think. +My love to all that ask after me. May all the happiness +that is possible for you to enjoy be experienced is +the sincere wish of</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate Daughter</div> + <div class='line in28'><span class='sc'>Eliza S.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Dec. 16, 1797.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Father:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I received yours with pleasure and was happy to hear +that you were better. I hope you will continue growing +better until the complaint is entirely removed. I +came from Boston yesterday after spending vacation +there. I went to the theater the night before for the +first time, and Mr. Turner came into the box where I +was. I did not know him at first, neither did he me, +but he soon found me out. With this I shall send +some pieces. My respect is justly due to my good +Mother, and my love to all who ask after me, the +children in particular. I hope to improve to your +satisfaction, which will amply reward me for all my +pains.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I must conclude with wishing you health and happiness.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your ever affectionate daughter,      E. S.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Medford, Jan’y 9th, 1798.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Good Father:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The contents of your letter surprised me at first; it +may sometimes be of service to me, for while I have +such a monitor, I never can act contrary to such advice. +No, my Father, I hope by the help of Heaven never to +cause shame or misery to attend the grey hairs of my +Parents nor myself, but on the contrary to <em>glad</em> your +declining years with happiness and that you may never +have cause to rue the day that gave me existence. My +heart feels no attachment except to my family. I respect +many of my friends but <em>love</em> none but my Parents. +Your letter shall be my guide from home, and when I +again behold our own peaceful mansion then will I +again be guided by my Parents’ happiness,—their happiness +shall be my pursuit. My heart overflows with +gratitude toward you and my good Mother. I am +sensible of the innumerable obligations I am under to +you. You mention in your letter about my pieces, +which you say you imagine are purloined; I am very +sorry if they are, for I set more by them than any of my +pieces; one was the Mariner’s Compass, and the other +was a Geometrical piece. I spent Thanksgiving at +Mrs. Little’s and Christmas here. I have finished my +large Manuscript Arithmetic and want to get it bound, +and then I shall send it to you. I have done a small +Geometry book and shall begin a large one to-morrow, +such a one as you saw at Mr. Wyman’s if you remember. +It is the beginning of a new year; allow me then +to pay you the compliments of the season.—I pray +that this year to you may prove a year of health, prosperity, +and love. My quarter will be out the 8th day of +next month, it will be in about four weeks. I wish you +would write me soon how I am to come home—for I +wish to know.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I should be very glad if <em>you</em> could make it convenient +to come for me, for I wish <em>you</em> to come. Give my love +to Irene and tell her I believe she owes me a letter; if +you please you may tell her that part of my letter which +concerns school affairs.</p> + +<p class='c011'>My love is due to all who will take the trouble to ask +after me. Tell Mamma I have begun the turban and +will send it as soon as I finish it. When I see her I +will tell her why I did not do it before.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Accept my sincere wishes that My Parents may enjoy +all the happiness that ever mortals know.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Still I hope I am</div> + <div class='line in4'>Your <em>dutiful</em> Daughter,</div> + <div class='line in16'><span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Robert Southgate, Esq.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, Jan. 30, 1798.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Honored Father:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>By Capt. Bradbury I was informed that you wished +me to come home with him, which I should have complied +with, had not I have seen my Uncle William<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c012'><sup>[9]</sup></a> to-day, +and he informed me that you had concluded to let +me spend some time in Boston, which I was very glad +to hear. I shall now wait until I hear certain, which I +wish you to send me word by the next post.—I shall +enclose in this a card of Mrs. Rawson’s terms which +you may peruse; until then I remain with the same +affection,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your dutiful Daughter, <span class='sc'>Eliza S.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, February 13, 1798.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Hon. Father:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am again placed at school under the tuition of an +amiable lady, so mild, so good, no one can help loving +her; she treats all her scholars with such a tenderness +as would win the affection of the most savage brute, +tho’ scarcely able to receive an impression of the kind. +I learn Embroidery and Geography at present and wish +your permission to learn Musick. You may justly say, +my best of Fathers, that every letter of mine is one +which is asking for something more; never contented—I +only ask, if you refuse me, I know you do what you +think best, and I am sure I ought not to complain, for +you have never yet refused me anything that I have +asked, my best of Parents, how shall I repay you? You +answer, by your good behaviour. Heaven grant that it +may be such as may repay you. A year will have rolled +over my head before I shall see my Parents. I have +ventured from them at an early age to be so long a time +absent, but I hope I have learnt a good lesson by it—a +lesson of experience, which is the best lesson I could +learn.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I have described one of the blessings of creation in +Mrs. Rawson, and now I will describe Mrs. Wyman as +the reverse: she is the worst woman I ever knew of all +that I ever saw; nobody knows what I suffered from +the treatment of that woman—I had the misfortune to +be a favorite with Miss Haskell and Mr. Wyman, she +said, and she treated me as her own malicious heart +dictated; but whatever is, is right, and I learnt a good +lesson by it. I wish you, my Father, to write an +answer soon and let me know if I may learn music.—Give +my best respects to my good Mother, tho’ what I +say to my Father applies to my Mother as much as to +my Father. May it please the disposer of all events to +return me safe home to the bosom of my friends in +health safely. I never was happier in my life I think, +and my heart overflows toward my heavenly Father for +it; and may it please him to continue it and afford it to +my Parents, is the sincere wish of</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your <span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Robert Southgate, Esqr.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, May 12th, 1798.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My dear Parents:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Now at the end of the week, when my hopes are +almost exhausted of seeing my brother, I attempt to +address you,—a task which was once delightful but +now painful since my Mother’s last letter. I see my +errors, and if I can hope they will no longer be remembered +by my Parents, I shall again be happy.</p> + +<p class='c011'>My Mother’s letter greatly surprised me after having +received so different a one from my Father. Indeed, +my Parents, did you think I would any longer cherish a +passion <em>you</em> disapproved? After expressing your disapprobation +it was enough, your <em>wishes are</em> and ever shall +be my commands. I have spent a week of painful expectation; +no letter, no brother, no father have come, +and I am now in anxious expectation to receive a letter +to-night, but I dare not hope it to be so. Do, my +Father, as soon as you receive this send for me as soon +as possible, for my quarter at Mrs. Rawson’s was out +last Saturday, and as circumstances are, I thought it +proper not to go to Mr. Boyd’s. I beg of you to send +for me home directly, for I only board at Mrs. Rawson’s +now, for I am in expectation of seeing or hearing every +day and therefore I have not begun any more work. +My time is spending without gain. I am at Mrs. +Frazier’s and have been here ever since Thursday. I +shall go back to Mrs. Rawson’s to-night and there wait +for further orders. Time hangs more heavy than ever +it did before. I am with the most sincere Respect and +affection</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your daughter <span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>R. & M. Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, Dec. 16th.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am sorry to have given Aunt Porter such an opportunity +of charging me with neglect in executing her +commission, but I can easily convince her I did not deserve +censure; for until last Friday I never received +yours of Nov. 22nd, and I shall execute that part of +Aunt’s request which I can in Scarborough—the gown +patterns I shall enclose. The one with a fan back is +meant to just meet before and pin the Robings, no string +belt or any thing. The other pattern is a plain waist +with strips of the same sticked on, and for white, laced +between with bobbin or cord. I have a muslin done so +with black silk cord, which looks very handsome—and +I have altered my brown silk into one like the other +pattern. I was over at Saco yesterday and saw one +Mary [King] had made in Boston. It was a separate +waist, or rather the breadths did not go quite up. The +waist was plain with one stripe of cording let in behind +and the rest of the waist perfectly plain—the skirt part +was plaited in box plaits 3 of a side—which reached to +the shoulder strap and only enough left to meet strait +before, as is one of the patterns I have sent. You ask +so many questions that I hardly know how to answer +them. Isabella is almost recovered—her family well. +The baby I believe will be named Charles Orlando. +The assemblies begin next Thursday—as also do Saco +assemblies, and on Friday I go to the Saco assembly—probably +I shall go to next Portland assembly. You +ask how Mr. Little and Laura do? A strange question. +Laura is well or was last Thursday, and Mr. +Little is soon to be married to Miss Bowman of Exeter.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Papa has been confined to the house a week yesterday +by a wound on his leg which he made with an axe, +he wounded the tendon which leads from his great toe +up, he cut it a little above the ankle—it has been very +painful. Give my love to Aunt, tell her I shall not be +able to come down this winter, for my next visit will be +to Boston. Write me the next opportunity respecting +the sables, and the time and how Uncle goes to Boston +that I may be in readiness.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Family all well.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Octavia.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, Feb. 7th, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>After the toil, the bustle and fatigue of the week +I turn towards home to relate the manner in which I +have spent my time. I have been continually engaged +in parties, plays, balls, &c. &c. Since the first week I +came to town, I have attended all the balls and assemblies, +one one week and one the next. They have regular +balls once a fortnight, so that I have been to one +or the other every Thursday. They are very brilliant, +and I have formed a number of pleasing acquaintances +there; last night, which was ball night, I drew No. 5, & +2nd sett drew a Mr. Snow, bad partner; danced voluntarily +with Mr. Oliver, Mr. Andrews, Mr. McPherson; +danced until 1 o’clock; they have charming suppers, +table laid entirely with china. I had charming partners +always. To-day I intended going to Mrs. Codman’s, +engaged to a week ago, but wrote a billett I was indisposed, +but the truth of the matter was that I wanted to +go to the play to see Bunker hill, and Uncle (William +King) wished I should—therefore I shall go. I have +engagements for the greater part of next week. To-morrow +we all go to hear Fisher Ames’ Eulogy. And +in the morning going to look at some instruments; however +we got one picked out that I imagine we shall +take, 150 dollars—a charming toned one and not made +in this country. I am still at Mrs. Frazier’s, she treats +me with the greatest attention. Nancy is indeed a +charming girl,—I have the promise of her company +the ensuing summer. I have bought me a very handsome +skirt, white satin. Richard Cutts went shopping +with me yesterday morn, engaged to go to the play +next week with him. For mourning for Washington +the ladies dress as much as if for a relation, some entirely +in black, but now many wear only a ribbon with +a line painted on it. I have not yet been out to see +Mrs. Rawson and Miss Haskell, but intend to next +week. Uncle William [King] has been very attentive +to me—carried me to the play 3 or 4 times and to all +the balls and assemblies excepting the last which I +went with Mr. Andrews. Give my best respects to +Pappa and Mamma, and tell them I shall soon be tired +of this dissipated life and almost want to go home +already. I have a line to write to Mary Porter and +must conclude.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Octavia.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span> +<img src='images/i_044.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mrs. JOHN DERBY. (Eleanor Coffin.)<br> <br> From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss Rogers of Boston.<br> <br> ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Now Mamma, what do you think I am going to ask +for?—a wig. Eleanor<a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c012'><sup>[10]</sup></a> has got a new one just like my +hair and only 5 dollars, Mrs. Mayo one just like it. I +must either cut my hair or have one, I cannot dress it +at all <em>stylish</em>. Mrs. Coffin bought Eleanor’s and says +that she will write to Mrs. Sumner to get me one just +like it; how much time it will save—in one year we +could save it in pins and paper, besides the <em>trouble</em>. At +the assembly I was quite ashamed of my head, for nobody +has long hair. If you will consent to my having +one do send me over a 5 dollar bill by the post immediately +after you receive this, for I am in hopes to have it +for the next Assembly—do send me word immediately +if you can let me have one. Tell Octavia she must +write soon, and that there are many inquiries after her.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c015'>To Octavia Southgate—Mrs. Frazier’s.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line in4'>12th of June, 1800.</div> + <div class='line'>Hanover Street, Boston.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>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, <em>Miss Packman</em> 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 <em>sisterly +affection</em>. If you outshine me in accomplishments, will +it not be all in the family? Certainly. How I wish I +had a <em>balloon</em>, 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 <em>sister romp</em> +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 <em>mourning piece</em> with a figure in it, and +two other pictures, <em>mates</em>—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 <em>I</em> not a bit of a one, <em>Doc. Bacon</em> +excepted, and even <em>him</em>, <em>Cousin Mary</em>, selfish creature, +has lugged off his <em>heart</em> and left the remainder here, +so we might as well have a stump—poor soul, his face +looks like a <em>Piana</em>,<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c012'><sup>[11]</sup></a> 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 <em>delightsome</em> 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!</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Give my love, respects, everything, to all.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>July 3rd, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>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 +<em>habit</em> 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 <em>refining</em> +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.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Pray don’t forget to send some more shirts.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>July 17, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I must again trouble my Dear Mother by requesting +her to send on my spotted muslin. A week from next +Saturday I set out for Wiscassett, in company with Uncle +William and Aunt Porter. Uncle will fetch Ann<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c012'><sup>[12]</sup></a> to +meet us there, and as she has some acquaintance there +we shall stay some time and aunt will leave us and return +to Topsham; so long a visit in Wiscassett will +oblige me to muster all my muslins, for I am informed +they are so monstrous smart as to take no notice of any +lady that can condescend to wear a calico gown, therefore, +dear mother, to ensure me a favorable reception, +pray send my spotted muslin by the next mail after you +receive this, or I shall be on my way to Wiscassett. I +shall go on horseback,—how I want my habit,—I wish +it had not been so warm when I left home and I should +have worn it. I am in hopes you will find an opportunity +to send it by a private conveyance before I go, but +my muslin you must certainly send by the mail. Aunt +Porter’s little Rufus is very sick, poor child, he was born +under an evil star. I believe Pandora opened her box +upon him when he first came into existence. The +mumps, I believe, now afflict him; night before last we +were alarmed about him for fear of his having the +Quinsy, but I believe he is in no danger of that now. I +wish to hear from home very much.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I shall anxiously await the arrival of the next mail +after you receive this.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I suppose I ought to commence my letter with an +humble apology, begging forgiveness for past offences +and promising to do better in future, but no, I will only +tell you that I have been so much engaged since I got +home from Topsham that I could not write you. Martha +tells us you were in Boston last Sunday. Mamma thinks, +Octavia, you are there too much, we do not know how +often, but we hear of you there very often indeed. I +think, my dear sister, you ought to improve every moment +of your time, which is short, very short to complete +your education. In November terminates the period +of your instruction. The last you will receive perhaps +ever, only what you may gain by observation. +You will never cease to learn I hope, the world is a volume +of instruction, which will afford you continual employment,—peruse +it with attention and candor and you +will never think the time thus employed misspent. I +think, Octavia, I would not leave my school again until +you finally leave it. You may—you will think this is +harsh; you will not always think so; remember those +that wish it must know better what is proper than you +possibly can. Horatio will come on for you as soon as +your quarter is out. We anticipate the time with pleasure; +employ your time in such a manner as to make +your improvements conspicuous. A boarding-school, I +know, my dear Sister, is not like home, but reflect a moment, +is it not necessary, <em>absolutely necessary</em> to be more +strict in the government of 20 or 30 young ladies, nearly +of an age and different dispositions, than a private family? +Your good sense will easily tell you it is. No +task can be greater than the care of so many girls, it is +impossible not to be <em>partial</em>, but we may conceal our +partiality. I should have a poor opinion of any person +that did not feel a love for merit, superior to what they +can for the world in general. I should never approve +of such general love. I say this not because I think +you are discontented, far from it—your letters tell us +quite the reverse and I believe it. Surely, Octavia, you +must allow that no woman was ever better calculated to +govern a school than Mrs. Rawson. She governs by +the love with which she always inspires her scholars. +You have been indulged, Octavia, so we have all. I was +discontented when I first went from home. I dare say +you have had some disagreeable sensations, yet your +reason will convince you, you ought not to have had. +You had no idea when you left home of any difference in +your manner of living. I knew you would easily be +reconciled to it and therefore said but little to you about +it. Yesterday Miss Haskell’s letter, which I so much +wished for and so highly prize, was sent me; tell her to +trust no more letters to the politeness of Mr. Jewett,<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c012'><sup>[13]</sup></a> +for he will forget to deliver them; he has been studying +in the same office with Horatio ever since he returned +and never told him he had a letter for me till I told Horatio +to ask him. I did get it at last and will answer it +as soon as I have an opportunity, which I expect soon, +my letters are of too little consequence to send by Post. +Tell Miss Haskell how highly I am obliged to her for +every letter, and how much it gratifies me to have her +write thus. My love and esteem ever awaits our good +Mrs. Rawson, and hope she does not intend my last letter +shall go unanswered. Susan Wyman is still remembered +as the companion of my amusements in Medford. +Irene joins me in love to her. Betsey Bloom my love to +her likewise.—Family are all well, Octavia, Sister Boyd +is here, been with us several days. Let us hear from you +when you have an opportunity. I should like to know +how many tunes you play, but you have never answered +any of my enquiries of this kind, therefore I suppose I +ought not to make them. Your</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Octavia.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Tired, stupid, and sleepy, I feel that I can write nothing +instructive or amusing. Oh these <em>summer balls</em> are +not the thing, but it was much more comfortable than +I expected. My ears were continually assailed with +lamentations that you were not present. Mr. Kinsman +would certainly have gone out for you (so he said) had +he ever been at our house. He really asked one or two +gentlemen to go. He is a frothy fellow. He rattles +without a spark of fancy and stuns you with his volubility, +as anything hollow or empty always makes the +most noise. I told him I received a letter from you +yesterday. He gave a pious ejaculation to heaven, +turned gracefully on his heel and entreated in the most +humble manner that I would grant him a sight of one +line! I refused as I thought him too insignificant an +animal to be so much honored. Col. Boyd arrived last +night, I found him in the parlor when I went down to +breakfast, he enquired for you. Mr. Derby and Mr. +Coffin will leave town to-day or to-morrow for Boston, +they undoubtedly will call and see you. ’Twill be a +good opportunity to send me the money if Mamma +pleases. Harriet will sail to-morrow or next day, she +sends an abundance of love.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Octavia.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Bath, October, Sunday.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>After a fortnight very pleasantly spent in Wiscassett +I return to Bath. In my last I mentioned that Judge +Lowell’s family were expected in Wiscassett; they came +immediately after, and Eliza, the youngest, brought +letters from Ellen Coffin, thus I very readily got +acquainted with them. Judge Lowell appears to be +one of the mildest, most amiable men I ever saw. +Mrs. Lowell is a fine ladylike woman, yet her manners +are such as would have been admired 50 years ago, +there is too much appearance of whalebone and buckram +to please the depraved taste of the present age. +Nanny L., the oldest daughter, is animated, sensible, +enthusiastic, and very easy and pleasing in her conversation +and manners, you would be delighted with her +conversation—’tis elegant and refined, she has no airs. +Eliza is a little, charming, sweet creature, she is about +17 or 18, short, fat, and a blooming complexion, handsome +blue eyes, light hair, beautiful dimples, artless +and unaffected in her manners,—indeed I was delighted +with her, she is so perfectly amiable in her +appearance. I was much pleased at an acquaintance +with them. At Wiscassett I was invited to accompany +them to Bath, as they were going in a boat. I accepted +with pleasure. In the morning, which was Monday, +they called for me and I went with them as far as +Tincham’s where they kept; at last, after a long debate, +it was thought too hazardous to go by water while the +wind blew so violently, ’twas determined to go by land. +Mr. Lee took the two Miss Lowells and myself in his +carriage, which holds 4 very charmingly. Judge Lowell +and wife in a chaise with a boy to carry it back. Judge +Bourne in a chair with a boy, and Mr. Merrill on horseback. +About 5 miles on our way Mr. Lee took Mr. +Merrill’s horse and he sat in with us, and he sang us a +number of songs; we had a charming time. At the ferry +Mr. Lee, Mr. Merrill, and the boys with the chaise left +us; we then all got into a boat and landed at Uncle’s +wharf; ’tis about 3 miles, a most charming sail, indeed +we had a very pleasant time. They went directly to +Page’s, and in the evening I went up to see them; left +them at 8 and with real regret. I had passed several +pleasant hours in their society. They set out in the +morning for Portland. Only think of Eleanor going to +be married; ’tis no more than I expected and believed +at the moment I heard it. Poor Mrs. Sumner, what an +afflicting loss she has met with, my heart bleeds while I +think how <em>very fond</em> she was of the little creature, she +was a lovely child. How do all do at home? I long to +get home, I never wanted to see home more in my life, +yet I am very happy here. I wish Mamma would send +me two of my cotton shifts and my habit or great-coat +to ride home in; send them by Uncle. Pray get the +instrument tuned. If you see Moses<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c012'><sup>[14]</sup></a> soon tell him I +think it impossible to find words to express my obligation +to him for his many and long letters, yet I shall +endeavour to convince him I have a due sense of them. +I shall make all the return in my power. I was going +up to Topsham this week. I wish to very much, but +Mamma King and Uncle both going, Nanny would be +quite alone, I must stay to comfort her. As to Aunt +Porter I believe she will think I am never coming to +Topsham. I begin to think so myself, but what am I to +do? However I must. I shall go as soon as Uncle returns +and stay till I return home. I want to see Aunt +Porter very much. Write me soon and tell me what +news you hear. Love to all. Is Pappa gone to Salem?</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c002'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>My most charming Cousin! Most kind and condescending +friend—teach me how I may express the +grateful sense I have of the obligations I owe you; your +many and long letters have chased away the spleen, +they have rendered me cheerful and happy, and I almost +forgot I was so far from home.—O shame on you! +Moses, you know I hate this formality among friends, +you know how gladly I would throw all these fashionable +forms from our correspondence; but you still +oppose me, you adhere to them with as much scrupulosity +as to the ten commandments, and for aught I +know you believe them equally essential to the salvation +of your soul. But, Eliza, you have not answered +my last letter! True, and if I had not have answered +it, would you never have written me again—and I +confess that I believe you would not—yet I am +mortified and displeased that you value my letters so +little, that the exertions to continue the correspondence +must all come from me, that if I relax my zeal in the +smallest degree it may drop to the ground without your +helping hand to raise it. I do think you are a charming +fellow,—would not write because I am in debt, +well, be it so, my ceremonious friend,—I submit, and +though I transgress by sending a half sheet more than +you ever did, yet I assure you ’twas to convince you of +the violence of my anger which could <em>induce</em> me to +forget the rules of politeness. I am at Wiscassett. I +have seen Rebecca every day, she is handsome as ever, +and we both of us were in constant expectation of seeing +you for 2 or 3 days, you did not come and we were +disappointed.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I leave here for Bath next week. I have had a +ranting time, and if I did not feel so offended, I would +tell you more about it.</p> + +<p class='c011'>As I look around me I am surprised at the happiness +which is so generally enjoyed in families, and that marriages +which have not love for a foundation on more +than one side at most, should produce so much apparent +harmony. I may be censured for declaring it as my +opinion that not one woman in a hundred marries for +love. A woman of taste and sentiment will surely see +but a very few whom she could love, and it is altogether +uncertain whether either of them will particularly distinguish +her. If they should, surely she is very fortunate, +but it would be one of fortune’s random favors +and such as we have no right to expect. The female +mind I believe is of a very pliable texture; if it were +not we should be wretched indeed. Admitting as a +known truth that few women marry those whom they +would prefer to all the world if they could be viewed by +them with equal affection, or rather that there are often +others whom they could have preferred if they had felt +that affection for them which would have induced them +to offer themselves,—admitting this as a truth not to +be disputed,—is it not a subject of astonishment that +happiness is not almost banished from this connexion? +Gratitude is undoubtedly the foundation of the esteem +we commonly feel for a husband. One that has preferred +us to all the world, one that has thought us +possessed of every quality to render him happy, surely +merits our gratitude. If his character is good—if he +is not displeasing in his person or manners—what +objection can we make that will not be thought frivolous +by the greater part of the world?—yet I think +there are many other things necessary for happiness, +and the world should never compel me to marry a man +because I could not give satisfactory reasons for not +liking him. I do not esteem marriage absolutely essential +to happiness, and that it does not always bring +happiness we must every day witness in our acquaintance. +A single life is considered too generally as a +reproach; but let me ask you, which is the most despicable—she +who marries a man she scarcely thinks <em>well</em> +of—to avoid the reputation of an old maid—or she, +who with more delicacy, than marry one she could not +highly esteem, preferred to live single all her life, and +had wisdom enough to despise so mean a sacrifice, to +the opinion of the rabble, as the woman who marries a +man she has not much love for—must make. I wish +not to alter the laws of nature—neither will I quarrel +with the rules which custom has established and rendered +indispensably necessary to the harmony of society. +But every being who has contemplated human +nature on a large scale will certainly justify me when I +declare that the inequality of privilege between the +sexes is very sensibly felt by us females, and in no +instance is it greater than in the liberty of choosing a +partner in marriage; true, we have the liberty of refusing +those we don’t like, but not of selecting those +we do. This is undoubtedly as it should be. But let +me ask you, what must be that love which is altogether +voluntary, which we can withhold or give, which +sleeps in dulness and apathy till it is requested to +brighten into life? Is it not a cold, lifeless dictate of +the head,—do we not weigh all the conveniences and +inconveniences which will attend it? And after a +long calculation, in which the heart never was consulted, +we determine whether it is most prudent to love +or not.</p> + +<p class='c011'>How I should despise a soul so sordid, so mean! +How I abhor the heart which is regulated by mechanical +rules, which can say “thus far will I go and no +farther,” whose feelings can keep pace with their convenience, +and be awakened at stated periods,—a mere +piece of clockwork which always moves right! How +far less valuable than that being who has a soul to +govern her actions, and though she may not always be +coldly prudent, yet she will sometimes be generous and +noble, and that the other never can be. After all, I +must own that a woman of delicacy never will suffer +her esteem to ripen into love unless she is convinced +of a return. Though our first approaches to love may +be involuntary, yet I should be sorry if we had no +power of controlling them if occasion required. There +is a happy conformity or pliability in the female mind +which seems to have been a gift of nature to enable +them to be happy with so few privileges,—and another +thing, they have more gratitude in their dispositions +than men, and there is a something particularly gratifying +to the heart in being beloved, if the object is +worthy; it produces a something like, and “Pity melts +the heart to love.” Added to these there is a self-love +which does more than all the rest. Our vanity (’tis +an ugly word but I can’t find a better) is gratified by +the distinguished preference given us. There must be +an essential difference in the dispositions of men and +women. I am astonished when I think of it—yet—But +I have written myself into sunshine—’tis always +my way when anything oppresses me, when any chain +of thoughts particularly occupies my mind, and I feel +dissatisfied at anything which I have not the power to +alter,—to sit down and unburthen them on paper; it +never fails to alleviate me, and I generally give full +scope to the feelings of the moment, and as I write all +disagreeable thoughts evaporate, and I end contented +that things shall remain as they are. When I began +this it absolutely appeared to me that no woman, or +rather not one in a hundred, married the man she should +prefer to all the world—not that I ever could suppose +that at the time she married him she did not prefer him +to all others,—but that she would have preferred +another if he had professed to love her as well as the +one she married. Indeed, I believe no woman of delicacy +suffers herself to think she could love any one +before she had discovered an affection for her. For +my part I should never ask the question of myself—do +I love such a one, if I had reason to think he loved +me—and I believe there are many who love that never +confessed it to themselves. My Pride, my delicacy, +would all be hurt if I discovered such <em>unasked</em> for love, +even in my own bosom. I would strain every nerve +and rouse every faculty to quell the first appearance of +it. There is no danger, however. I could never love +without being beloved, and I am confident in my own +mind that no person whom I could love would ever +think me sufficiently worthy to love me. But I congratulate +myself that I am at liberty to refuse those I +don’t like, and that I have firmness enough to brave the +sneers of the world and live an old maid, if I never find +one I can love.</p> +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span> +<img src='images/i_068.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>RUFUS KING<br> <br> From a painting by Woods</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, Tuesday Night.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>We have got Miranda<a id='r15'></a><a href='#f15' class='c012'><sup>[15]</sup></a> all fix’t, only her clothes to +be washed, or rather ironed. You have undoubtedly +got all things ready for her, or you would not send for +her immediately. I suppose we shall send her over in +the stage, as the riding is as yet too bad to go in a +chaise; she wants some pocket handkerchiefs and a +pair of cotton gloves to wear to school; she had 3 pairs +of white mitts and I have given her another pair. I +think she must have another dimity skirt; her jaconet +muslin we could not fix, for it wants a new waist and +sleeves and a hem put on the bottom, and we could get +no muslin to pattern it; you can buy a piece and it can +be sent over any time, she won’t need it immediately. +Charles says you told him I must send over to you for +anything I needed. I want nothing so much as some +new linen and some English stockings; excepting the +two fine pairs I have none but homespun ones. I should +like a half dozen pair, 4 at least. If you see anything +that would be light and handsome for our summer +gowns, I should like you would get them. Why can’t +you go and see McLellan’s lace shades? Perhaps he +may let you have one reasonably. I think there are +some for 10, 6 and 12 shillings a yard, at 18 they would +not come to more than 9 or 10 dollars; you can look +at them at least. I should like one very much. Sally +Weeks has taken one of them. We do very well here, +all goes on charmingly, only Arixene loses her thimble, +her needle and anything to avoid working. Sally Leland +has been here ever since Miranda returned, and you +know when they are together there must be romping,—however, +Frederic has gone to carry her home to-day. +Miranda must have my little trunk. Octavia and I +both want little trunks, my old one is a good size. How +is Sister? give my love to her, kiss the children; I really +miss them, and our own don’t seem more natural than +they did. The little <em>Isabella</em><a id='r16'></a><a href='#f16' class='c012'><sup>[16]</sup></a> (so they say it is) is Aunt +Eliza’s darling. I love that little thing dearly. I never +loved an infant more in my life, Isabella says it is because +it has blue eyes; she <em>will</em> make me selfish. I had +a letter from Martha yesterday, the third since you have +been in Portland; she mentions Uncle Rufus<a id='r17'></a><a href='#f17' class='c012'><sup>[17]</sup></a> and family +in all of them. In her last but one she says Aunt King<a id='r18'></a><a href='#f18' class='c012'><sup>[18]</sup></a> +was confined; she had dined there the Sunday before, +and they requested her in a billet to bring yours and my +Father’s profiles,<a id='r19'></a><a href='#f19' class='c012'><sup>[19]</sup></a> which I gave her some time before she +went away. She carried them, and Uncle thought them +good likenesses. She admires Uncle Rufus; she says +when he first called on her he stayed two hours, but she +could have talked with him <em>two</em> days. In her last she +says she was to have been introduced at court, but Aunt +King’s confinement prevented; as soon as she gets out +she is to be introduced. She says she shall write by the +Minerva and send the fashions to me. Mr. Smith the +Russian was here last week, bro’t me some letters. I +am now writing to Martha, to send by William Weeks; +’twill be a fine opportunity, and I shall write as much +as I can; he will probably see her. Mrs. Coffin will be +delighted with such an opportunity. Don’t hurry home +until you have staid as long as you wish, for I don’t +know anything at present that requires your presence. +I think I make a very good manager, and tell Sister +Boyd I am astonished to find how I have improved in +my housewife talents this last winter. The children +won’t allow me absolute rule among them, but I have +the worst of it; they do pretty well, considering what a +young gay mistress they have. I sometimes get up to +dance and all of them flock up to help me, and when I +am tired I find it difficult to still them, so as I set the +example I am obliged to put up with it. I have not +been out of the yard since I came home till this afternoon. +I rode a mile or two on horseback just to smell +the fresh air. I never was more contented in my life; +tho’ I have not seen anybody but Mr. Smith these 3 +weeks almost, I have not had an hour hang heavily on +me; ’tis charming to get home after being gone so long! +I believe you will think I am never going to leave off.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate      <span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mrs. Mary King Southgate, Portland.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, March 18, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Thank you for being so particular in your description +of your eastern tour. I told you that Wiscassett would +delight you; ease and sociability you know always please +you. By the bye, Jewett thought <em>Saco</em> was the land of +milk and honey, such fine buxom girls! so easy and +familiar. Dorcas Stour charmed him much, her haughty +forbidding manners corresponded with the dignity of her +sentiments, so he says, something congenial in their dispositions +I think. But he has made his selection—Miss +Weeks is handsome, censorious, animated, violent in her +prejudices, genteel, impatient of contradiction, speaks +her sentiments very freely, has many admirers and many +enemies,—on the whole a pleasant companion amongst +friends.—How think they will do together? Jewett +you know.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Last evening I was out at Broads;<a id='r20'></a><a href='#f20' class='c012'><sup>[20]</sup></a> we had only 7 in +our party—a very pleasant one. Jewett, Horatio, William +Weeks, and Charles Little were our beaux. Miss +Weeks, Miss Boardman (from Exeter), and myself, the +ladies. Mr. Little is engaged to Miss Boardman; he is +an open, honest, unaffected, plain, <em>clever</em> fellow. She +has a pleasant face, an open guileless heart, plain unaffected +manners, a clumsy shape, easy in company—but +it is rather the ease which a calm, even temper produces, +than that which is acquired in polite circles. I +think they are as much alike as possible and ’twill be a +pleasant couple. We played cards, talked and wrote +crambo; after we had scribbled the backs of two packs +of cards, cut half of them up, and eat our supper, we set +out for home, about one o’clock. You say in your last +that if reports are true, I am on the highway to matrimony,—you +know what I always said with regard to +these things; if they are true, well and good—if they +are not, let them take their course, they will be shortlived. +I despise the conduct of those girls who think +that every man who pays them any attention is seriously +in love with them, and begin to bridle up, look conscious, +fearful lest every word the poor fellow utters should be +a declaration of love. I have no idea that every gentleman +that has a particular partiality for a lady thinks +seriously of being connected with her, and I think any +lady puts herself in a most awkward situation to appear +in constant fear or expectation that the gentleman is +going to make love to her. I despise coquetry,—every +lady says the same, you will say,—but if I know myself +at all—my heart readily assents to its truth—I think +no lady has a right to encourage hopes that she means +never to gratify, but I think she is much to blame if she +considers these little attentions as a proof of love; they +often mean nothing, and should be treated as such. +The gentleman in question I own pays me more attention +than any other gentleman, yet I say sincerely, I +don’t think he means any thing more than to please his +fancy for the present. I pride myself upon my sincerity, +and if I ever am engaged, I trust it will be to one whom +I shall not be ashamed to acknowledge. Our intimacy +has been of long standing. He and Enoch Jones were +Martha’s most intimate acquaintance, they were there +almost every evening. Here comes Enoch and William +[Weeks], we used to say as soon as we heard the knocker +in the evening. I was always at the Doctor’s a great +part of the time I spent in Portland, I could not but be +intimate with them. I liked them both, they were pleasant +companions, and I was always glad to see them come +in;—since that time, Enoch has been gone most of the +time, and William has been left alone;—true, he has this +winter been more attentive to me than usual; he lent +me books, drawings, and music; he used often to be my +gallant home from parties if I walked, and if I rode help +me to the sleigh, yet every gentleman does the same,—all +have a favorite, some for a month, some a little longer. +It seems like making you a confidant to talk thus, but I +say many things which would appear ridiculous if communicated +to a third person, and I know you would have +too much delicacy to communicate any thing which +might hurt my feelings. I have heard all these stories +before, yet I must act and judge for myself. I know +better than any other person can, how far they are true, +and I candidly confess that he never said a word to me +which I could possibly construe into a declaration of +love, not the most faint or distant. Then think for a +moment how ridiculous it would be for me to alter my +conduct towards him! No! while he treats me as a +friend, I shall treat him as such; and let the world say +what they will, I will endeavor to act in a manner that +my conscience will justify,—to steer between the rocks +of prudery and coquetry, and take my own sense of propriety +as a pilot that will conduct me safe. I should +not have been thus particular, but I felt unwilling that +you should be led into error that I could easily remove +from your mind; it would seem like giving a silent +assent, as I confess to write as I think to you, and to +speak openly on all occasions, I felt that I ought to say +more to you on this affair than I ever have to any other. +Let the world still have it as they will. I confess it +would be more pleasing to me if my name was not so +much<a id='r21'></a><a href='#f21' class='c012'><sup>[21]</sup></a> ... what Johnson says of an author may apply ... is much known in the world. That his name like ... must be beat backward and forward as it falls to +the ground. I recollect in a former letter you asked +why I did not say more of particular characters, and +among my acquaintance select some and give you a few +characteristic sketches. The truth is—I felt afraid to, +I did not know but you might mention many things +which would make me enemies. I am always willing to +speak my opinion without reserve on any character, because +I should take care that I spoke it before those who +would not abuse the frankness; but letters may be miscarried, +may fall into hands we know not of,—but I +never think of these, or I am sure I should burn this +in a moment,—another thing that it requires a quiet +discernment, a correct judgment and a thorough knowledge +of the world, of human nature, to form a just character +of any one that we are not intimately acquainted +with. However, we all of us form an opinion of every +person we see, and whatever I shall say and have said +you must recollect is only the opinion of one who is +oftener wrong than right, and you can form no correct +idea of my character from what I say.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, March, Sunday.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S.—Congratulate me, I am at home at last! +Come and see us,—we expect Miss Tappan to-morrow +and Paulina Porter<a id='r22'></a><a href='#f22' class='c012'><sup>[22]</sup></a> and Miranda Southgate. I wish +much to see Miss T. I think I shall like her; tell her +she does not know what she lost last week,—a young +gentleman came several miles out of his way only to see +her; she was not here and he returned to Portland with +a heavy heart. Jewett says she is rather shy.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I meant to have written more about Wiscassett, about +Miss R.,<a id='r23'></a><a href='#f23' class='c012'><sup>[23]</sup></a> but I must leave that for another letter. I +have a great deal to say on that head,—“exercise the +same coolness and judgment as in choosing a horse!” +I heard a gentleman make really the same observation, +and yet that very gentleman is raving, distractedly in +love,—he is a little calmer now, but he was a madman. +He, like you, always talks of his insensibility, his coldness +and discretion, and he, like you, is always upon +extremes, extravagant beyond all bounds. More hereafter.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Thursday, April 8th.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been thinking on that part of your letter +which interests me most, respecting the propriety of +conduct, opinion of the world, etc., etc. I don’t exactly +recollect what I wrote in my last, but I am positive you +have mistaken my meaning, or at least have taken what +I said on too large a scale;—as a general rule of conduct, +in so extensive a sense as you talk about, such +doctrine would indeed be pernicious. But whatever I +said I meant to apply to this particular case, and perhaps +did not express myself so clearly as I ought to +have done. You have described principles which I +have ever condemned—as those I now act upon. Perhaps +I shall find it impossible fully to explain my sentiments +on this subject—it is of a delicate nature; +and many things I shall say will probably bear a misconstruction. +However, I trust to your candor to judge +with lenity, and to your knowledge of my heart, to believe +I would not intentionally deviate from the laws of +female delicacy and propriety. Reputation undoubtedly +is of great importance to all, but to a female ’tis every +thing,—once lost ’tis <em>forever</em> lost. Whatever I may +have said, my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of +that boasted independence of mind which can stand collected +in its own worth, and let the censure and malice +of the world pass by as the “idle wind which we regard +not.” I have ever thought that to be conscious of doing +right was insufficient; but that it must appear so to +the world. How I could have blundered upon a sentiment +which I despise, or how I could have written anything +to bear such a construction as you have put upon +a part of my letter, I know not. When I said that I +should let these reports pass off without notice or pretending +to vindicate myself, ’twas not because I despised +the opinion of the world, but as the most effectual +method to preserve it!—<em>You</em> say as well as myself, that +whatever we say in vindication of ourselves, only makes +the matter worse. When I said, that I meant not to +alter my conduct while my conscience did not accuse +me, I had no idea that you would suppose my conduct +towards him had ever been of a kind that required an +alteration, or any thing more pointed than to any other +gentleman. I supposed you would infer from what I +said that it was such as propriety and a regard for my +reputation would sanction. I know not what you think +it has been, but if I can judge of my own actions,—their +motives I know I can, but I mean the outward +appearance,—I have never treated him with any more +distinction than any other gentleman, nor have appeared +more pleased with his attentions than with another’s; +believe me, I have kept constantly in view the +opinion of the world, and if you knew every circumstance +of my life, you would be convinced my feelings +were “tremblingly alive” to all its slanders. But +“something too much of this”; you, who know my disposition, +may easily conceive how often I subject myself +to the envenomed shafts of censure and malice, by +that gaiety and high flow of spirits, which I sometimes +think my greatest misfortune to possess,—sometimes +I err in judgment—don’t always see the right path,—sometimes +I see it, yet the warmth and ardor of my +feelings force me out of it. Yet in this affair I feel confident +I have acted from right principles,—there are +a thousand trifling things which at times influenced my +conduct, which you cannot know, and you may be surprised +when I say that his attentions were of a kind +that politeness obliged me to receive, nor should I ever +have suspected they meant any thing more than gallantry +and politeness, had not the babbles of the world +put it into my head. You have been misinformed in +many respects, I am convinced. You mentioned his +constant visits at Sister Boyd’s. I declare to you he +never was there a half dozen times the three months I +was in Portland, excepting the morning after the assemblies, +when the gentlemen all go to see their partners; +neither was I his constant partner at assemblies. +I never danced but two dances in an evening with him +all winter, excepting once, and then there was a mistake,—this +surely was nothing remarkable, for I always +danced two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were +at. I danced as much with one as the other. True, he +was my partner at 2 parties at Broads. I at the time +asked Horatio, when he mentioned the party, why he +would not carry me; he said if I was asked by any +other, to say I was going with my brother, would be +considered as a tacit declaration that I had an aversion +to going with him, therefore ’twould have been folly. +You cannot judge unless you know a thousand customs +and every ... which they have in Portland. But I +declare to you, Cousin, I am much gratified that you +told me what you thought—had you have locked it in +your bosom, I should never have had an opportunity to +vindicate myself. I beg of you always to write with +freedom, always write with the same openness you did +in your last—’tis one of the greatest advantages I expect +to derive from our correspondence—I enjoin it +upon you as you value my happiness. I told you I +would show you some of Martha’s letters; I had one +from her since I wrote you, in which she says I must +on no condition whatever show her letters,—however, +I will read you some passages in some of them. You +<em>shall</em> see some parts; I will make my peace with—indeed +I know she would not object. I love to show you +her letters because you feel something as I do in reading +them. You admire her or you should not be the +friend of</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. I wrote this letter last night intending to keep +it by me to send whenever I please; all the family were +absent, left me reading,—I read your letter, the house +was silent, and I was entirely alone. I knew I should +not have another opportunity as convenient for giving +you my sentiments—no fear of intrusion—and I therefore +took my pen and scribbled what I now send you, +but I believe I must adopt your plan and send it immediately +to the office,—but I repent and burn it, and +I find on reading it that I have said not half I meant +to; but I will send it away immediately. I am almost +ashamed to answer yours so soon, ’tis so unlike the +example you set me that I suppose you will say ’tis a +tacit disapprobation of your conduct.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line in4'>Scarborough, April 9th.</div> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Sunday, Scarborough, May —, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>When one commences an action with a full conviction +they shall not acquit themselves with honor, they +are sure not to succeed; imprest with this idea I write +you. I positively declare I have felt a great reluctance +ever since we concluded on the plan. I am aware of +the construction you may put on this, but call it <em>affectation</em> +or what you will, I assure you it proceeds from different +motives. When I first proposed this correspondence, +I thought only of the amusement and instruction +it would afford <em>me</em>. I almost forgot that I should +have any part to perform. Since, however, I have reflected +on the scheme as it was about to be carried +into execution, I have felt a degree of diffidence which +has almost induced me to hope you would <em>forget</em> the +engagement. Fully convinced of my inability to afford +pleasure or instruction to an enlarged mind, I rely +wholly on your candor and generosity to pardon the +errors which will cloud my best efforts. When I reflect +on the severity of your criticisms in general, I +shrink at the idea of exposing to you what will never +stand the test. Yet did I not imagine you would throw +aside the <em>critic</em> and assume the <em>friend</em>, I should never +dare, with all my vanity (and I am not deficient), give +you so fine an opportunity to exercise your favorite propensity. +I know you will laugh at all this, and I must +confess it appears rather a folly, first to request your +correspondence and then with so much diffidence and +false delicacy, apparently to extort a compliment, talk +about my inability and the like. You will not think I +intend a compliment when I say I have ever felt a disagreeable +restraint when conversing before you. Often, +when with all the confidence I possess I have brought +forward an opinion, said all my imagination could suggest +in support of it, and viewed with pleasure the little +fabric, which I imagined to be founded on truth and +justice, with one word you would crush to the ground +that which had cost me so many to erect. These things +I think in time will humble my vanity, I wish sincerely +that they may.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Yet I believe I possess decent talents and should +have been quite another being had they been properly +cultivated. But as it is, I can never get over some little +prejudices which I have imbibed long since, and +which warp all the faculties of my mind. I was pushed +on to the stage of action without one principle to guide +my actions,—the impulse of the moment was the only +incitement. I have never committed any grossly imprudent +action, yet I have been folly’s darling child. I +trust they were rather errors of the head than the +heart, for we have all a kind of inherent power to distinguish +between right and wrong, and if before the +heart becomes contaminated by the maxims of society +it is left to act from impulse though it have no fixt +principle, yet it will not materially err. Possessing a +gay lively disposition, I pursued pleasure with ardor. I +wished for admiration, and took the means which would +be most likely to obtain it. I found the mind of a +female, if such a thing existed, was thought not worth +cultivating. I disliked the trouble of thinking for myself +and therefore adopted the sentiments of others—fully +convinced to adorn my person and acquire a few +little accomplishments was sufficient to secure me the +admiration of the society I frequented. I cared but +little about the mind. I learned to flutter about with +a thoughtless gaiety—a mere feather which every +breath had power to move. I left school with a head +full of something, tumbled in without order or connection. +I returned home with a determination to put it +in more order; I set about the great work of culling the +best part to make a few sentiments out of—to serve as +a little ready change in my commerce with the world. +But I soon lost all patience (a virtue I do not possess +in an eminent degree), for the greater part of my ideas +I was obliged to throw away without knowing where I +got them or what I should do with them; what remained +I pieced as ingeniously as I could into a few patchwork +opinions,—they are now almost worn threadbare, and as +I am about quilting a few more, I beg you will send me +any spare ideas you may chance to have that will answer +my turn. By this time I suppose you have found +out what you have a right to expect from this correspondence, +and probably at this moment lay down the +letter with a long sage-like face to ponder on my egotism.—’Tis +a delightful employment, I will leave you +to enjoy it while I eat my dinner: And what is the +result, Cousin? I suppose a few exclamations on the +girl’s vanity to think no subject could interest me but +where herself was concerned, or the barrenness of her +head that could write on no other subject. But she is +a <em>female</em>, say you, with a <em>manly contempt</em>. Oh you Lords +of the world, what are you that your unhallowed lips +should dare profane the fairest part of creation! But +honestly I wish to say something by way of apology, +but don’t seem to know what,—it is true I have a kind +of natural affection for myself, I find no one more +ready to pardon my faults or find excuses for my failings—it +is natural to love our friends.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I have positively not said one single thing which I intended +when I sat down; my motive was to answer your +letter, and I have not mentioned my not having received +it?—Your opinion of Story’s Poems I think very unjust; +as to the <em>man</em>, I cannot say, for I know nothing of him, +but I think you are too severe upon him; a man who +had not a “fibre of refinement in his composition” +could never have written some passages in that poem. +What is refinement? I thought it was a delicacy of +taste which might be acquired, if not any thing in our +nature,—true, there are some so organized that they +are incapable of receiving a delicate impression, but we +won’t say any thing of such beings. I just begin to +feel in a mood for answering your letter. What you say +of Miss Rice—I hardly know how to refuse the challenge; +she possesses no quality above mediocrity, and +yet is just what a female ought to be. Now what I +would give for a little <em>Logic</em>, or for a little skill to support +an argument. But I give it up, for tho’ you might +not convince me, you would <em>confound</em> me with so many +<em>learned</em> observations that my vanity would oblige me +to say I was convinced to prevent the mortification of +saying I did not understand you. How did you like +Mr. Coffin? Write soon and tell me. We expect you +to go to the fishing party with us on Tuesday. Mr. +Coffin told us you would all come. You must be here +by 9 o’clock (not before) (in the morning). My love to +the girls, and tell them—no! I’ll tell them myself.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, June 1st, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>As to the qualities of mind peculiar to each sex, I +agree with you that sprightliness is in favor of females +and profundity of males. Their education, their pursuits +would create such a quality even tho’ nature had +not implanted it. The business and pursuits of men +require deep thinking, judgment, and moderation, while, +on the other hand, females are under no necessity of +dipping deep, but merely “skim the surface,” and we +too commonly spare ourselves the exertion which deep +researches require, unless they are absolutely necessary +to our pursuits in life. We rarely find one giving themselves +up to profound investigation for amusement +merely. Necessity is the nurse of all the great qualities of +the mind; it explores all the hidden treasures and by its +stimulating power they are “polished into brightness.” +Women who have no such incentives to action suffer +all the strong energetic qualities of the mind to sleep +in obscurity; sometimes a ray of genius gleams through +the thick clouds with which it is enveloped, and irradiates +for a moment the darkness of mental night; yet, +like a comet that shoots wildly from its sphere, it excites +our wonder, and we place it among the phenomenons +of nature, without searching for a natural cause. +Thus it is the qualities with which nature has endowed +us, as a support amid the misfortunes of life and a +shield from the allurements of vice, are left to moulder +in ruin. In this dormant state they become enervated +and impaired, and at last die for <em>want of exercise</em>. The +little airy qualities which produce sprightliness are left +to flutter about like feathers in the wind, the sport of +every breeze.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Women have more fancy, more lively imaginations +than men. That is easily accounted for: a person of +correct judgment and accurate discernment will never +have that flow of ideas which one of a different character +might,—every object has not the power to introduce +into his mind such a variety of ideas, he rejects +all but those closely connected with it. On the other +hand, a person of small discernment will receive every +idea that arises in the mind, making no distinction between +those nearly related and those more distant, they +are all equally welcome, and consequently such a mind +abounds with fanciful, out-of-the-way ideas. Women +have more imagination, more sprightliness, because +they have less discernment. I never was of opinion +that the pursuits of the sexes ought to be the same; on +the contrary, I believe it would be destructive to happiness, +there would a degree of rivalry exist, incompatible +with the harmony we wish to establish. I have ever +thought it necessary that each should have a separate +sphere of action,—in such a case there could be no +clashing unless one or the other should leap their respective +bounds. Yet to cultivate the qualities with +which we are endowed can never be called infringing +the prerogatives of man. Why, my dear Cousin, were +we furnished with such powers, unless the improvement +of them would conduce to the happiness of society? +Do you suppose the mind of woman the only work of +God that was “made in vain.” The cultivation of the +powers we possess, I have ever thought a privilege (or +I may say duty) that belonged to the human species, +and not man’s exclusive prerogative. Far from destroying +the harmony that ought to subsist, it would fix +it on a foundation that would not totter at every jar. +Women would be under the same degree of subordination +that they now are; enlighten and expand their +minds, and they would perceive the necessity of such a +regulation to preserve the order and happiness of society. +Yet you require that their conduct should be +always guided by that reason which you refuse them +the power of exercising. I know it is generally thought +that in such a case women would assume the right of +commanding. But I see no foundation for such a +supposition,—not a blind submission to the will of +another which neither honor nor reason dictates. It +would be criminal in such a case to submit, for we are +under a prior engagement to conduct in all things according +to the dictates of reason. I had rather be the +meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon +the wide world to suffer all the ills “that flesh is heir +to,” than live a slave to the despotic will of another.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I am aware of the censure that will ever await the +female that attempts the vindication of her sex, yet I +dare to brave that censure that I know to be undeserved. +It does not follow (O what a pen!) that every +female who vindicates the capacity of the sex is a disciple +of Mary Wolstoncraft. Though I allow her to have +said many things which I cannot but approve, yet the +very foundation on which she builds her work will be +apt to prejudice us so against her that we will not allow +her the merit she really deserves,—yet, prejudice set +aside, I confess I admire many of her sentiments, notwithstanding +I believe should any one adopt her principles, +they would conduct in the same manner, and +upon the whole her life is the best comment on her +writings. Her style is nervous and commanding, her +sentiments appear to carry conviction along with them, +but they will not bear analyzing. I wish to say something +on your <em>natural refinement</em>, but I shall only have +room to touch upon it if I begin, “therefore I’ll leave it +till another time.”</p> + +<p class='c011'>Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us; +we had a fine “dish of conversation” served up with +great taste, fine sentiments dressed with elegant language +and seasoned with wit. He is really excellent +company—a little enthusiastic or so—but that is no +matter. In compassion I entreat you to come over +here soon and make me some pens. I have got one +that I have been whittling this hour and at last have +got it to make a stroke (it liked to have given me the +lie). I believe I must give up all pretension to <em>profundity</em>, +for I am much more at home in my female character. +This argumentative style is not congenial to +my taste. I hate anything that requires order or connection. +I never could do anything by rule,—when I +get a subject I am incapable of reasoning upon, I play +with it as with a rattle, for what else should I do with +it? But I have kept along quite in a direct line; I +caught myself “upon the wing” two or three times, but +I had power to check my nonsense. I send you my +sentiments on this subject as they really exist with me. +I believe they are not the mere impulse of the moment, +but founded on what I think truth. I could not help +laughing at that part of your letter where you said the +seal of my letter deprived you of some of the most +interesting part of it. I declare positively I left a blank +place on purpose for it, that you might not lose one +precious word, and now you have the impudence to tell +me that the most interesting part was the blank paper. +It has provoked my ire to such a degree that I positively +declare I never will send you any more blank +paper than I possibly can avoid, to “spite you.”</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>E. S.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, July 17, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I almost at this moment wish myself in your situation, +meeting old acquaintances, shaking hands with old +friends and telling over with renewed pleasure your College +frolicks. I can almost see you convulsed with +laughter, hear you recount the adventures of the last +year, while imagination brings every boyish frolic to +your view, unimpaired by time. What a world of humour! +what flashes of wit! what animated descriptions! +O these social meetings! How they animate and inspire +one! how they lighten the cares and multiply the +joys of life! I wish you would write me about Commencement. +I heard yesterday that Sam. Fay of Concord +delivered an oration the 4th of July. I should +admire to see it. I know it must be very fine; in my +opinion he is a man of excellent talents, capable of writing +on the occasion an oration that would reflect great +honor. The sentiments must be noble and generous. +He possesses so much feeling, there must be many +glowing passages in it. If it is possible I beg you will +get me a copy and I will confess myself very, very +greatly obliged. Last night I attended the <em>Theater</em>,—“Speed +the plough” was performed, and I assure you +very <em>decently</em>; the characters in general were well supported. +Villiers in Fannie Ashfield really outdid himself; +he threw off the monkey and became a good honest +clown, and did not, as he usually does, outstep the +bounds of nature and all other bounds. Mrs. Powell as +Miss Blandford delighted us all. How I admire that +woman! She is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet +there is no levity in her appearance; she has great energy, +acts with spirit, with feeling, yet never rants; her +private character we all know is unexceptionable. Mr. +Donnee as a young buck is very pleasing, he has a most +melodious voice in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish +air,—good figure, tho’ small. As for Mrs. Harper she is +my aversion—for, as Shakespeare says, she will “tear a +passion to tatters, to very rags,” and she is too indecent +ever to appear on the stage. Harper is a fine fellow; he +appears best among the common herd of Players, and +has as much judgment in supporting his part as any one +I ever saw, and even in comic characters I think he +excels Villiers. He has much greater resources within +himself. Villiers gains applause by distorting his face +and playing the monkey, while Harper adheres more +strictly to nature. In Villiers we cannot help seeing the +player thro’ the thin disguise,—<em>Villiers</em>, not the character +he personates, is continually in our minds. S. +Powell is contemptible as a player (and I believe as a +man); he puffs and blows so incessantly that it is enough +to put one into a fever to see him; he does not know in +the least how to preserve a medium, but takes a certain +pitch and there remains; he cannot gradually bring his +passion to the height, but he thunders it out without any +preparation, and the unvarying monotony of his voice is +truly disgusting. I am sure, by his strutting and bellowing, +Hamlet would think <em>he</em> was made by one of “Nature’s +journeymen.” But it is time to have done with +players, for you will think my head turned indeed if I +rant about them any longer; but it has served to fill up a +part of my letter, and I assure you that alone was a sufficient +reason why I should give them a place. Society, +bustle, and noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot write +anywhere but at home. I am ashamed that things of so +little consequence should turn my head, but ’tis a melancholy +truth. O you malicious fellow, don’t talk to me +about my favorite topic “female education,” don’t tell +me of your <em>philosophical indifference</em>! O Moses, you +can’t leave the subject, every word that could any way +dash at it is marked. I believe you do <em>itch</em> to commence +the attack. Well, rail on, you shall not say it is +in compassion to me that you desist. God forbid that +your greatest enemy should ever inflict so severe a punishment +as to prohibit you from speaking of your “favorite +topic.” I fancy you have forgotten that it <em>is</em> such, +<em>Mr. Indifference</em>. Your ironical letter has had a wonderful +effect, but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not +to confess myself contemptibly inferior to my antagonist. +You ought to blush, but from a very different cause; but +I had forgotten myself, and was taking the thing too seriously. +I am not slow at taking the hint, perhaps my +presumption merited the reproof. I receive it and will +endeavor to profit by it; and pray, Cousin, how does +Mr. Symmes’ coat suit you? His “haughty humility,” +his “condescending pride.” You have assumed the +habit, and I hope will ever clothe yourself with it when +you meet your <em>superior antagonist</em>.</p> + +<p class='c011'>You have a fine imagination and have pictured a chain +of delightful events which probably will exist there +alone, yet I should have no objection to your being a +true prophet. We all can plan delightful schemes, but +they rarely ever become realities; but no matter, we enjoy +them in imagination. I expect from you a particular +account of yourself when you return. You will have +many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you will take the +trouble. I have just read your last and picture something +in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. +You say all you have said on the subject of education +was merely the thought of the moment, “written not to +be received but laughed at.” What shall I think?—That +you think me too contemptible to know your real +sentiments? I should be very unwilling to admit such +a suspicion, yet what can you mean?—with the greatest +apparent seriousness, you speak of the <em>sincerity</em> with +which you conduct this correspondence. Was that likewise +meant to be laughed at? I had flattered myself, +when I commenced this correspondence, to reap both +instruction and amusement from an undisguised communication +of sentiments. I had likewise hoped you would +not think it too great a condescension to speak to me +with that openness you would to a male friend. However, +I shall begin to think it is contrary to the nature +of things that a gentleman should speak his real sentiments +to a lady, yet in our correspondence I wished and +expected to step aside from the world, speak to each +other in the plain language of sincerity. I have much +to say on this subject, but unfortunately my ideas never +begin to flow until I have filled up my paper. Do not +imagine from what I have said that the most disagreeable +truths will offend me. I promise not to feel hurt at +any thing you write, if ’tis your real sentiment. But, +Cousin, don’t trifle with me. Do not make me think so +contemptibly of myself as you will by not allowing me +your confidence; promise to speak as you think and I +will never scold you again.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Cousin, I wish you would write a list of your mother’s +children, names and ages, those that have died together +with the others. We are going to send them out to +Uncle Rufus, as he requested it some time since. By +Martha it will be a fine opportunity,—as soon as convenient +send them over.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter,</div> + <div class='line in4'>Biddeford.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, August 6, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Hon. Rufus King.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Pardon, my dear Sir, the liberty I take in addressing +you, and let my motives shield me from the imputation +of presumption. Some time since, you requested a list +of my Aunt Porter’s and our family. It has never been +sent, and as we have now a very favorable opportunity, +my father has requested me to make it out and enclose +it to you. I tremble while I write, lest I should appear +disrespectful in my manner of addressing you. Unused +as I am to writing to any one so much superior in years, +I cannot but feel embarrassed. A degree of confidence +in ourselves is necessary in every undertaking to ensure +success; as I feel at this moment destitute of that confidence, +I likewise despair of succeeding in my wishes, +yet I entreat you to attribute whatever may appear assuming +rather to an incapacity of expressing myself as +I wish than to a want of respect. When I consider you +as a public character esteemed and respected by your +country, I would willingly shrink from observation, lest +my intruding myself on your attention should be thought +impertinence. But when I think how nearly I am allied, +I flatter myself I shall obtain that indulgence which I +now earnestly solicit. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, by whom I +shall send this, intend taking the tour of Europe after +having taken that of the United States. Mrs. Derby is +my particular friend, and as she is intimately acquainted +in our family, can give you whatever information you +wish respecting us. I say nothing to remind her, for I +have too high an opinion of your discernment to suppose +any recommendation necessary. My mother joins me +in desiring you would make our respects acceptable to +Mrs. King, and all the family unite in earnest wishes for +the complete restoration of her health. Our family are +all in good health.... My mother really looks young! +My Aunt Porter [Pauline] is not wholly restored to her +former health, but is much better than she has been for +many years past.</p> +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span> +<img src='images/i_098.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mrs. RUFUS KING.<br> <br> After a portrait by Trumbull.<br> <br> ARTOTYPE. E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I cannot conclude this without earnestly intreating +you to receive it with the candor of an Uncle rather +than the severity of a critic. I feel I do not write as I +ought to, yet I entreat you not to think me deficient in +that respect and esteem with which I shall ever remain.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your niece <span class='sc'>Eliza Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, August 4, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dr. Southgate to Rufus King in London.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>You will receive this by Mr. Richard Derby, youngest +son of the late H. Derby of Salem. His lady who accompanies +him is the daughter of Dr. N. Coffin of Portland. +The Doctor’s family and mine have ever been on +terms of intimacy and friendship. Mrs. Derby in particular +has ever been a favorite of my daughters Octavia +and Eliza. They can give you all particulars about +friends at home.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Bath, Sunday, Sept. 13.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>There are some kinds of indisposition that instead of +weakening the faculties of the mind, serve only to render +them more vigorous and sprightly, and in proportion +as the body is debilitated, the mind is strengthened. I +have every reason to believe that the imagination never +soars to such lofty heights as it sometimes does in sickness. +But where am I! What about—Well may <em>you</em> +ask the question. Believe me, Cousin, I have attempted +to finish this letter 4 times this day. I cannot account +for my inability to write. It used to be the joy of my +life, nothing delighted me so much as to steal into the +chamber by myself and scribble an hour, but since I received +your last I have often attempted to answer it, but +in vain. I have a stubborn brain; it must be coaxed, +not driven. I find there is nothing so tedious as to +write when we are not in the mood for it. You may +easily see that I am not in one at present. Now for +Heaven’s sake see what I have written—find the chain +that connects. When I began I meant to say I had +been quite unwell ever since I left Portland, that some +disorders only served to give vigor to the mind, &c., +&c., but I <em>meant</em> also to say mine was altogether of a +different nature. But as I left that out, so I had better +have done the other. Oh—’tis too, too bad! I’ll not +write another till I think I can understand it after it is +written. I am low-spirited, stupid and everything else.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Wednesday.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Now I shall really think I have no <em>soul</em> if I find myself +as destitute of ideas as I was on Sunday. I have +just been viewing the most delightful prospect I have +seen this long time, and if it has left no more impression +on my mind than objects passing before a mirror, I shall +think myself devoid of every quality that constitutes us +rational beings. I think nature has done everything to +render Bath pleasant: the window at which I now sit +commands a most delightful water prospect; the river +is about a mile in breadth at this place, the opposite +banks are neither sublime nor beautiful. What if I for a +moment should take a poet’s license, and by the force of +imagination project steep and rugged rocks! bid them +stoop with awful majesty to reflect their gloomy horrors +in the wave! See you not that enormous precipice +whose awful summit was ne’er profaned by human footsteps? +Does not your blood freeze as it creeps along +your veins? Behold again that barren waste, the axe +nor the plough have never clothed it with a borrowed +charm, or robbed it of those nature bestowed upon it; +it still boasts its independence of the labor of man. +But to leave fiction for reality, the surface of the water +is a perfect mirror. I never saw it so perfectly smooth; +at this moment there is a boat passing, rowed by two +men—the reflection in the water is so distinct, so very +clear, it looks like two boats. I admire to see a boat +<em>rowed</em>; it seems to look like arms or wings, moving with +graceful majesty, while the boat cuts the liquid bosom of +the water, leaving as it recedes a widening track. There +is always to me something very charming in the rowing +of a boat. There is music in the motion; and what can +be more graceful and majestic than the motion of a +<em>ship under sail</em>? Yesterday there was a <em>brig</em> passed by +here—’twas within hearing—very near. I never was +more forcibly struck than at the moment; I longed to +prostrate myself in humble admiration—as she approached +with a slow, commanding, <em>celestial</em> air;—at +the moment I am sure it gave me a better idea of the +awful grandeur of a deity than anything I had ever seen. +I saw Juno’s dignified gracefulness such as I had read +of but could not conceive.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I have often in reading been disagreeably struck by +the epithets used for the motions of the gods. Sometimes +they make them <em>glide</em> thro’ the air, sometimes +approach with a solemn <em>step</em>, and many other words I do +not recollect; nor do I at present think of any words +that would answer better—yet <em>to glide</em> seems stealing +along—to move rapidly and imperceptibly;—a bird +glides thro’ the air, yet there is nothing celestial in the +flight of a bird. It seems to me properly applied to +<em>fairies</em>; something light and airy should glide,—that a +fairy should glide along seems right,—just as I have +an idea of them. And then for a god <em>to step</em>—that +seems too grovelling, too like us mortals,—yet that in +my opinion is better than the other.</p> + +<p class='c011'>The place on which this house stands seems to project +in a small degree toward the water. I believe there +is not a window in the house that does not command a +view of the water. In front there is a kind of cove the +water makes in several rods; the river is broad and +straight, the land rises gradually from it a half mile;—but +I think it is to be regretted that the inhabitants +have built under the <em>hill</em>, or rather that they did not +prefer climbing a little higher; however, I think it +must have a fine appearance from the water. Last year +I recollect sailing along in front of the settlement and +remarked how much more compact it looked than it +really is, the houses rising one above the other in such +a manner that every one was seen distinctly. I think +nothing can be more beautiful than a town built on a +sloping ground ascending from so fine a river as this +branch of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging +to the different ports on this river above Bath, passes +directly by here, and several times I have seen 12 or +14 at a time. To one who has been brought up amidst +salt marsh and flats, this large fine river affords much +novelty and amusement, and I cannot confess but the +sensations I feel in viewing it are more pleasing than +those produced by a stagnant water in a Scarborough +salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet without saying +a word of your letter, indeed I have forgotten what +was in it—at the time you gave it me I know I received +it with much pleasure, as it robbed me of some painful +moments. After Horatio’s recovery I sat down one +evening to write you, but I had only written the day of +the month, when a most violent clap of thunder (the +same that struck Mrs. Horper’s house) shook the pen +from my hand and my desk from my lap. I do not +imagine even by this omen that I offend the strictest +laws of virtue and propriety by continuing to write you, +therefore should something equally powerful wrest the +pen from my hand, depend upon it I will seize it with +renewed vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, &c., +&c.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I shall go to Wiscassett on Monday; expect to hear +from me after I return to Bath; while there I shall have +no time. I expect to have important communications +to forward—a certain pair of sparkling eyes, which +are far more eloquent than her tongue! Now I have +half a mind to be affronted. I know at this time, as +soon as you have read this you are tumbling it into +your pocket as waste paper to ponder on the brilliancy +of said eyes. Is it true? Well, I shall see them soon +and shall be tempted to ask some atonement for the +damages I may suffer. Write me often while I am +here, it is your <em>duty</em>.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>By Mrs. King.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I want to write, yet I don’t want to write to you, my +<em>ceremonious</em> Cousin, but at this time I can think of +nobody else and am <em>compelled</em> to address you. My last +was dated from Bath, so is this; since then I have made +a visit to Wiscassett. Oh I believe—yes I did write a +few lines from there by Uncle Thatcher—I had forgotten +that I wrote any more than the letter I finished +before I left Bath. I wish I could give you an account +of my spending my fortnight at Wiscasset, which would +amuse you as much as the reality did me, but that is +impossible. I have seen so many new faces—(I was +going to say new characters, but they were generally +such as we see every day), so many handsome ladies, +so many fine men, indeed I have seen a little of everything. +Mr. Wild and Mr. Davis (of Portland) kept at +Mrs. Lee’s. Mr. Wild is a most charming man, and +sensible and genteel, apparently has one of the mildest +and most amiable dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis +you know. There was a Miss P—— spent 2 or 3 days +at Mrs. Lee’s. She was—was—I can’t tell you what; +you may have heard of her, celebrated for her wit, lost +a lover by exercising it rather too severely; poor soul! +it was a sad affair; she has at length become sensible +of the impropriety of her conduct, and now hopes to +atone for it by flattering every gentleman she sees—time +will show whether this plan will succeed. She +talks incessantly, laughs always at what she says herself. +At table, when the judges, lawyers, and a dozen +gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss P—— engrossed +all the conversation. I defy any person to be in the +room with her and not be compelled to converse with +her, not by the irresistible force of her charms, they +are rather in the wane. If you look at her she asks +what you were going to say—“I know you were going +to speak by your looks.” Of course my gentleman +walks up, how can he help it? In this manner she +draws a whole swarm around her; the poor souls rattle +out their outrageous compliments, trembling with fear, +for the moment their ardor to please appears to abate, +she rouses them to a sense of their duty by a lash of +her tongue.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Sunday.—Now I can’t bear to be hurried, and I must +submit to be or not send this by Mamma King. Last +night when I began this, I felt quite disposed to throw +away an hour (for my letters to you are thrown away as +you won’t take the trouble to answer them) without consulting +anything but my feelings. I began, and soon +found, to my mortification, that I ought to have consulted +my candle, for as if piqued at my neglect, it took +French leave to doze. I broke off my description of +Miss P—— in the most <em>striking</em> part. I do not resume +the subject, ’twould be a profanation of this day to +scandalize a frail sister; my mind is full of charity and +Christian love. I hope I shall not stumble against some +unlucky thought that may derange its present peaceful +state. Now, Cousin, don’t you think it unpardonable, +don’t you think it a violation of all the laws of politeness, +that you should neglect writing me merely because +I owed a letter? I should not be surprised if you +counted the words in yours and my letters and settled +the account by some rule in Arithmetic. But let me +entreat you not to estimate mine by the <em>weight</em>, but the +<em>number</em>; in that case I am equal to anybody; but if, +unhappily for me, you should weigh them with critical +exactness, ’twill take many of them to repay you for +one of yours. I feel assured you must have adopted +this method, and sincerely ask your pardon for doubting +a moment that this was the true cause. What prevented +your coming to Wiscassett? I tho’t you had +determined upon it. Rebecca and I used to expect you +every day; believe me I was asked a dozen times if you +were not absolutely engaged to Miss Rice. How such +things will get about. I told every body that asked me +that I was your confidant, of course must keep your +attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive +your thanks.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Kinsman has been down to Wiscassett. He +attended the courts, as he says, to acquire a better +knowledge of the law; but I should imagine he mistook +the <em>ladies</em> for the <em>law</em>, as he makes them his constant +study. But I leave so dangerous a subject, lest +my feelings should deprive me of the power to finish +this sheet. I shall probably return home the beginning +of next month. If I have a letter due from +you, according to your new arrangement, I beg you to +forward it as soon as possible; however, I have not the +vanity to suppose there is more than a dozen lines as +yet; perhaps when I have written half a dozen more +letters I may be <em>richly</em> rewarded with <em>one</em> from you. +Where is Maria? How does she do? Rebecca wrote +her while I was in Wiscassett, and told her undoubtedly +she is expected to spend the winter there. I must +finish: Uncle calls.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I believe it is about the 10th day of October.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>E.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Ellen Coffin is going to be married to a widower and +3 children, think of that, sir!!! I had a letter from her +last week. She is not coming home till she leaves +Portland as Mrs. Derby.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Topsham, Oct. 29, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Why, you unaccountable wretch! you obstinate fellow! +you malicious, you vain, you—Oh, I am run out, +I will e’en call in the assistance of Sir John Fallstaff +to help me exclaim against you—provoking creature! +With one scratch of your pen to banish such delightful +thoughts! I was applauding myself for my <em>condescension</em> +in writing so often without answers. I exulted +in the thought of your shame and confusion at the +proofs of my superiority,—so much above the little +forms that narrowed your own heart. How did I see +you hanging your head with penitence and sorrow, +while your face glowed with conscious shame! Oh, +’twas delicious! Every day I reflected on it with renewed +pleasure. I felt assured nothing prevented your +writing but an aversion to acknowledging how humble, +how little you felt,—yet the letter at length arrived, +my heart trembled with delight, a glow of triumph +flushed my face. I saw the humiliation so grateful to +my vanity, (I was at the <em>Lieu</em> table)—I hurried the +letter into my pocket, I had no wish to read it—I knew +(I tho’t I did) what it <em>must</em> contain. I could scarcely +breathe; vanity, exultation, revenge (sweet sensation) +gave me unusual spirits. I stood and called 5— I was +sure of a Palm-flush! ’twas impossible anything could +go wrong,—’twas a frail hope—I got nothing, was +lieued; never mind it, thought I, the letter is enough. I +played wrong, discarded the wrong card, knocked over +the candlestick, spilt my wine; positively, if it had been +a love-letter, a first declaration, it would not put me in +a worse flustration; but ah! ’twas so different,—I did +not blush, look down, tremble, fear to raise my eyes; +my heart did not dissolve away in melting tenderness—hey-day! +I had no notion of telling you what I did <em>not</em> +do—but what I <em>did</em>. Well then—I sat so upright, I +was a foot taller, I looked at every body for applause. I +wondered I did not hear them exclaim: Oh, generous, +excellent girl! I demanded it with my eyes—’twas +all in vain, I heard nothing but—“Eliza, you must follow +suit. Why do you play that card? You will certainly +be lieued!” I was vexed; I thought of the letter, +all was sunshine again. I am called—dinner; oh, this +eating seems to clog all my faculties, I never write with +half so much ease as when I’m half starved. I believe +it is true that poets ought not to live well.</p> + +<p class='c011'>But begging your pardon for leaving you so in the +lurch, I had forgotten that the letter was as yet unopened +in my pocket. Well then, we did not break up +till late; after I retired to bed out came the letter. I +was sleepy and had a great mind not to open it till +morning; however I thought I would, to have the satisfaction +of the confirmation of my hopes, not once thinking +of the stroke that should annihilate them. It came. +How shall I tell you my consternation!—“description +falters at the threshold;” yet I did not rave, I did not +tear my hair with a frenzy of passion. I did not stand +in mute despair,—no; I collected all my dignity and +stood fixed and immovable. I was convinced ’twas obstinacy +alone, ’twas envy, ’twas a something that prevented +you from giving me what you knew I deserved. +I am called again.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, Nov. 10, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I had almost determined to light the fire with this +scrawl!—but upon second thoughts I withdrew my +hand from the devouring flames and saved it from +the fate it so justly merits. Yet we have such a partiality +for our own offspring we rarely ever treat them +with the severity they deserve. But I ought to tell you +where I am,—but this letter has nothing like method +in it—but never mind—I began it immediately after I +received your last. I wrote while the first impressions +it made were on me; unluckily I was called from the +pleasing task while in the midst of it, and as I never +feel the same two hours together, I was unable to continue +as I began: ’twould have been cold and studied; +so I left it. I threw it into my trunk, determining not to +have anything more to do with it. I had grown amazingly +wise; I wondered how I could suffer myself to +write such nonsense. To-day I have received an invitation +to the <em>second</em> wedding of Capt. Stephenson. +I shall go. I thought I would write you a line to let +you know I was still in existence and on my way home. +I could not find any paper and was compelled to tumble +over my trunk to find this. I have a world of news to +tell you, but I don’t know that you would care a farthing +about any of it. Mary has been at Boston. Capt. +Stephenson told me all about it. Tell her I hear she +has a heap of fine things, at which, together with her +ladyship, I hope to have a peep. I have something of +vast importance to say to <em>her</em> likewise, a thing on which +depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. +“Oh, Mary! who would have thought cruelty one of +the failings of your heart.” But I shall out with this +secret to you before I am aware of it. Now I have a +great mind to turn this into a letter to Mary. I have +as much again to say to her as I have to you, but she +would not know what to make of some of it. I expect +to be at home on Saturday next; bring Mary on Sunday,—mind, +and don’t disobey. Horatio will be with +me. I am in a monstrous hurry. I must send more +blank paper than I ever did before, for which you will +thank me, as I think you once told me that the blank +paper in my letters always afforded you the most pleasure,—not +exactly so—but something like it. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Scarborough, Dec. 4th, 1801.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>“I give you thanks,” as Parson Fletcher says, for +your dissertation upon apologies and old sayings. You +have stored up enough to fill a volume, if I should take +your last as a specimen of the quantity. However, they +are things I trouble myself but little about, and I +should rather be inclined to join in railing against +them than in enumerating their good effects. I perceive +that you were much more inclined to be their +advocate after supper than you were before. You had +just laid down your pen after venting all your spleen +and ill-nature (occasioned by your impatience for roast-beef) +upon these poor harmless old sayings. You return, +with an entire new set of sentiments on the subject. +You commence their advocate with more vehemence +than is usual with you, and conclude by making +them the very foundation of every virtue. Now I have +endeavored to find some natural cause for this sudden +change, but cannot. Was it that you heard one trickle +from the lips of some favorite fair with eloquence too +powerful to be resisted? Or was it a bumper of wine +which proved so warm a friend to them? Or was it the +good-natured effects of the roast-beef, which exhilarating +your spirits, made you look with an eye of pity and +compassion on these poor neglected things, and endeavor +by rubbing off the rust and polishing them +anew, to compensate for your malicious endeavors to +lessen their merit? But after all I must confess myself +a great enemy to them, in conversation particularly. +I never knew a person who made frequent use +of them, but I pitied them for the scanty portion of +ideas which must have driven them to such a paltry +theft; and moreover, if I must steal the idea, I would +clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray me. I +dislike them because they are in every body’s mouth, +the greatest fool on earth has sense enough to use +them with as much propriety as any other, and you will +find every old beggar has his wallet stuffed full of them, +ready to launch out on every occasion. I don’t know, +however, but you are perfectly right in what you say in +their defence. I am inclined to believe what you say +is just, but I have so often seen instances of their +meaning being perverted to answer some vicious purpose +that I am compelled to believe the balance is +against them. “So much for old sayings.”—But now +as to apologies, I must with <em>due reverence</em> beg leave to +differ from you in my opinion of them. I am by no +means inclined to think they are never used but when +we know ourselves in fault, and that we ought always +to suspect the sincerity of any one who makes them. +You certainly must have known instances when they +were essentially necessary, and not to have made them +would have proved an obstinacy of disposition quite as +disagreeable as insincerity. I hate this parade and nonsense +about <em>independence</em>, which every gentleman of <em>ton</em> +puts on; it always proves that the reality is small, when +such a fuss is made for the appearance. I know some +gentlemen who boast of never having made an apology, +yet at the same time would say and do a thousand +things much more derogatory to their dear independence +than fifty apologies, such as any man of sense +might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentlemen +more careful in avoiding anything that would require +an apology, and not like cowards skulk behind +their flimsy shield of independence for defence or security. +I have as great an aversion to cringing apologies, +made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, +and should always suspect the sincerity of them.—If +this class are the greater part of them,—still I can +conceive, nay I <em>have known</em> instances when an apology +has heightened my opinion of a person instead of lessening +it. If we are in fault, ought we not to confess +it? If we are <em>not</em> in fault, ought we not to exculpate +ourselves? I should think a person valued my approbation +very little, if he knew I had any reason to censure +him and yet would not by a single word convince +me I had been deceived. However, I did not mean to +dip so far into this <em>weighty</em> subject, ’twould have been +better to have just touched the edges and away. Now +really, Moses, I write in pain if I am not good-natured; +you must attribute it all to the cold which makes my +fingers tingle; I can’t write below, there is such a gabbling. +’Tis a cold, comfortless night; the rain patters +against the window and the wind whistles round the +house, it sounds like December,—oh! that was an +unlucky word! I feel gloomy at the sight of it. The +storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for +shelter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that +I would not walk ten steps to do good to any one. Our +old windows here clatter so that I can hear nothing +else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and +that I hear the groans of distress between the blasts +of wind, which sound hollow and dreary; even now the +shadow of my pen on the wall looked like a man’s arm, +and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the +candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories! we never get rid +of them. I sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are +asleep in the house, get my imagination so roused, that +I look in fearful expectation that the tall martial ghost +of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less +dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop +down chimney.—Ghosts, what a looking word that is!!—nonsense!—what +was I going to say, something +about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I declare +this shall be the last letter I will write from the fire,—December, +and writing in the chamber without fire. +Oh—monstrous! But here am I at the end without +saying several things I meant to. I never, when I sit +down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to +when I began. You found my letter, you say—’twas +not worth the finding, as it was too late to answer the +purpose I wish. Write me often. I have been entertained +with Johnson’s life. We are alone, so write me +often.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>E. S.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>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 <em>very</em> much, but if you +think it <em>impossible</em>, or rather very bad—don’t mind +what I say; however, I expect you.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, Jan. 24, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>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 <em>acceptable</em>, 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 <em>think</em> 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 mean to send your perfect character away without +a more intimate acquaintance. When I feel in a +proper mood for it I will take it up and examine every +quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on +my mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for ’tis up in +my trunk and I feel no disposition to leave the fire; with +your permission I will lay it by till another time. In +the meantime let us descend from these important discussions +to the trifling occurrences of the day. With +great satisfaction we at length behold the ground covered +with snow, for we are almost freezing here; it has +been impossible almost to obtain wood to keep us warm, +and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay chimney—The +bell rings—I must stop!—</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Monday, Feb. 1, 1802, Portland.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt +me in the midst of a very homely catalogue of blessings—’tis +not worth finishing, and if it was I could not take +up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it was +begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, +but I find I am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen +firm in my hand, look this side and that side, yet still +cannot think. Scarborough—desolate, dreary Scarborough +is the only place from whence I can write with +ease,—nothing present engages my attentions, and I +then have leisure to turn over the rubbish which I have +collected from home—ponder on things past and anticipate +those to come: ’tis something like dreaming,—we +are insensible to everything around us,—the imagination +is unchecked by the operation of our senses, and +soars beyond the boundaries of reality. Pray read over +this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I feel, +look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does +not discover a something unlike my letters in general,—cold +and studied—I will not—I cannot write, another +post must pass and no letter, yet ’tis labor, ’tis pain to +write thus.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Sunday, Feb. 8.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>To see the dates of this sheet one would immediately +conclude that my ideas flowed periodically and that I +had stated periods to “unpack the heart,” but ’tis because +I cannot take my pen and write at the moment I +feel an inclination,—not to defer it till a more convenient +time when I most probably should feel indifferent +about it. Now I am aware what you are about to infer +from such a dull studied letter as this is,—The “seven +days twice run” has put something into your head that +ought not to be there, and you are laughing in your +sleeve at the discovery. Now, I am not after the manner +of our sex going to protest it is false—that there is +no foundation for such a report, and counterfeit anger +that I don’t feel, for these things always are viewed as +a modest confirmation of the truth, and frequently are +considered the greatest proof that can be brought. It +is folly to give importance to such stories by appearing +to feel interested, and the only way to destroy them is to +hear and let them pass with perfect indifference; time +will certainly show what is true and what is not, and the +only method is to let them take their course, they will +sink to oblivion if not fed by our own folly. I own ’tis +unpleasant to hear such things, but every girl must prepare +herself for such vexations. It has one good effect—that +of making us more circumspect in our conduct. +I do not say I am not in love; if your penetration has +not discovered that I <em>am</em>, neither will what I say convince +you. How such a report came to you I do not +know. I had hoped it would wither and die in the hotbed +of scandal from whence it sprang. If you lived +here you would not be surprised at any thing of the +kind. I declare to you I don’t know the girl in town of +whom the same is not said. The prevailing propensity +this winter is <em>match-making</em>, and at the assemblies there +is no other conversation,—such and such a one will +make a match because they dance together,—another +one is positively engaged because she does <em>not</em> dance +with him. If a lady does not attend the assembly constantly—’tis +because her favorite swain is not a member,—if +she does—’tis to meet him there: if she is +silent, she is certainly in love; if she is gay and talks +much, there must be a lover in the way. If a gentleman +looks at you at meeting you are suspected, if he dances +with you at the assembly it must be true, and if he <em>rides</em> +with you—’tis “confirmation strong as proof of holy +writ.” I am vext to have spent so much time on this +subject, but I care nothing about it. ’Tis well I have +found something to fill my sheet, and had it not been for +that lucky seven days twice over, I should not have finished +it this month, and finishing now has been a <em>week’s</em> +work.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. Moses Porter.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Sunday, Feb’y 14.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed +thro’ town! I did not expect you so soon, altho’ you +said you should return on Friday. I thought <em>something</em> +might detain you in Wiscassett longer than you +expected; but you are one of those odd fellows which +nothing can turn aside, no, not even the most sparkling +pair of black eyes in the world could detain you a moment +longer than you first intended,—what a philosopher +in this age of gallantry to remain untainted! It +will come at last, Moses. Belamy says there is as +much a time for love as for death, and every one as +surely one time or other will feel it. I expect to see +you throw off the Philosopher and assume the man; one +more trial and I will pronounce you invulnerable. For +Miss T——, this one is reserved. I long to see how +you will look when (to use a religious phrase) you are +struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive +this and tell me about your journey; don’t wait as long +as you commonly do.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Adieu.</div> + </div> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='c017'>Portland, March 1, 1802.</div> + +<p class='c011'>Such a frolic! Such a chain of adventures I never +before met with, nay, the page of romance never presented +its equal. ’Tis now Monday,—but a little more +method, that I may be understood. I have just ended +my Assembly’s adventure, never got home till this +morning. Thursday it snowed violently, indeed for two +days before it had been storming so much that the +snow drifts were very large; however, as it was the last +Assembly I could not resist the temptation of going, as +I knew all the world would be there. About 7 I went +down-stairs and found young Charles Coffin, the minister, +in the parlor. After the usual enquiries were +over he stared awhile at my feathers and flowers, asked +if I was going out,—I told him I was going to the +Assembly. “Think, Miss Southgate,” said he, after a +long pause, “think you would go out to <em>meeting</em> in such +a storm as this?” Then assuming a tone of reproof, he +entreated me to examine well my feelings on such an +occasion. I heard in silence, unwilling to begin an +argument that I was unable to support. The stopping +of the carriage roused me; I immediately slipt on my +socks and coat, and met Horatio and Mr. Motley in the +entry. The snow was deep, but Mr. Motley took me +up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without difficulty. +I found a full assembly, many married ladies, +and every one disposed to end the winter in good +spirits. At one we left dancing and went to the cardroom +to wait for a coach. It stormed dreadfully. The +hacks were all employed as soon as they returned, and +we could not get one till 3 o’clock, for about two they +left the house, determined not to return again for the +night. It was the most violent storm I ever knew. +There were now 20 in waiting, the gentlemen scolding +and fretting, the ladies murmuring and complaining. +One hack returned; all flocked to the stairs to engage +a seat. So many crowded down that ’twas impossible +to get past; luckily I was one of the first. I stept in, +found a young lady, almost a stranger in town, who +keeps at Mrs. Jordan’s, sitting in the back-seat. She +immediately caught hold of me and beg’d if I possibly +could accommodate her to take her home with me, as +she had attempted to go to Mrs. Jordan’s, but the drifts +were so high, the horses could not get through; that +they were compelled to return to the hall, where she +had not a single acquaintance with whom she could go +home. I was distres’t, for I could not ask her home +with me, for sister had so much company that I was +obliged to go home with Sally Weeks and give my +chamber to Parson Coffin. I told her this, and likewise +that she should be provided for if my endeavors could +be of any service. None but ladies were permitted to +get into the carriage; it presently was stowed in so full +that the horses could not move; the door was burst +open, for such a clamor as the closing of it occasioned +I never before heard. The universal cry was—“a +gentleman in the coach, let him come out!” We all +protested there was none, as it was too dark to distinguish; +but the little man soon raised his voice and bid +the coachman proceed; a dozen voices gave contrary +orders. ’Twas a proper riot, I was really alarmed. My +gentleman, with avast deal of fashionable independence, +swore no power on earth should make him quit his seat; +but a gentleman at the door jump’t into the carriage, +caught hold of him, and would have dragged him out if +we had not all entreated them to desist. He squeezed +again into his seat, inwardly exulting to think he +should get safe home from such rough creatures as the +men, should pass for a lady, be secure under their protection, +for none would insult him before them, mean +creature!! The carriage at length started full of ladies, +and not one gentleman to protect us, except our lady +man who had crept to us for shelter. When we found +ourselves in the street, the first thing was to find out +who was in the carriage and where we were all going, +who first must be left. Luckily two gentlemen had +followed by the side of the carriage, and when it stopt +took out the ladies as they got to their houses. Our +sweet little, trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat +immovable whilst the two gentlemen that were obliged +to walk thro’ all the snow and storm carried all the +ladies from the carriage. What could be the motive of +the little wretch for creeping in with us I know not: I +should have thought ’twas his great wish to serve the +ladies, if he had moved from the seat, but ’twas the +most singular thing I ever heard of. We at length +arrived at the place of our destination. Miss Weeks +asked Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl’s name) +to go home with her, which she readily did. The gentlemen +then proceeded to take us out. My beau, unused +to carrying such a weight of sin and folly, sank under +its pressure, and I was obliged to carry my mighty self +through the snow which almost buried me. Such a +time, I never shall forget it! My great-grandmother +never told any of her youthful adventures to equal it. +The storm continued till Monday, and I was obliged to +stay; but Monday I insisted if there was any possibility +of getting to Sister’s to set out. The horse and sleigh +were soon at the door, and again I sallied forth to brave +the tempestuous weather (for it still snowed) and surmount +the many obstacles I had to meet with. We +rode on a few rods, when coming directly upon a large +drift, we stuck fast. We could neither get forward nor +turn round. After waiting till I was most frozen we got +out, and with the help of a truckman the sleigh was +lifted up and turned towards a cross street that led to +Federal Street. We again went on; at the corner we +found it impossible to turn up or turn, but must go +down and begin where we first started, and take a new +course; but suddenly turning the corner we came full +upon a pair of trucks, heavily laden; the drift on one +side was so large that it left a very narrow passage +between that and the corner house, indeed we were +obliged to go so near that the post grazed my bonnet. +What was to be done? Our horses’ heads touched +before we saw them. I jump’t out, the sleigh was unfastened +and lifted round, and we again measured back +our old steps. At length we arrived at Sister Boyd’s +door, and the drift before it was the greatest we had +met with; the horse was so exhausted that he sunk +down, and we really thought him dead. ’Twas some +distance from the gate and no path. The gentleman +took me up in his arms and carried me till my weight +pressed him so far into the snow that he had no power +to move his feet. I rolled out of his arms and wallowed +till I reached the gate; then rising to shake off +the snow, I turned and beheld my beau fixed and immoveable; +he could not get his feet out to take another +step. At length, making a great exertion to spring his +whole length forward, he made out to reach the poor +horse, who lay in a worse condition than his master. +By this time all the family had gathered to the window, +indeed they saw the whole frolic; but ’twas not yet +ended, for, unluckily, in pulling off Miss Weeks’ bonnet +to send to the sleigh to be carried back, I pulled off my +wig and left my head bare. I was perfectly convulsed +with laughter. Think what a ludicrous figure I must +have been, still standing at the gate, my bonnet halfway +to the sleigh and my wig in my hand. However, I +hurried it on, for they were all laughing at the window, +and made the best of my way into the house. The horse +was unhitched and again set out, and left me to ponder +on the incidents of the morning. I have since heard of +several events that took place that Assembly night +much more amusing than mine,—nay, Don Quixote’s +most ludicrous adventures compared with some of them +will appear like the common events of the day.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>March 12, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>William Weeks is going to Philipsburg<a id='r24'></a><a href='#f24' class='c012'><sup>[24]</sup></a> and thinks of +returning by the way of Scarborough; if so, will leave +this at our house, otherwise can return it to me. I have +not yet seen Miss Jewett, but I hear she has returned. +Did your Saco party come as you expected? Give my +love to Miss Tappan, and tell her nothing but the fame +of her beauty would carry this young man so many +miles out of his way. I found he was very desirous of +calling at our house, therefore wrote by him. Tell her +she must answer for the mischief done by leading young +men astray from their path. I will estimate the loss it +will be to William:—he will ride 6 or 8 miles further +than necessary,—fatigue his horse,—wear out his +sleigh runners, and certainly be detained 3 hours. Now, +as we know a gentleman’s time is much more valuable +than a lady’s, it must be a real loss to him. 3 dollars a +day for posting books any common accountant would +have; and allowing him but just so much, his loss would +certainly amount to 4–6 on that score. I speak merely +of the loss on the score of interest;—how deeply it may +affect him otherwise may better be imagined from the +ravages she has committed in Mr. Orr’s heart than from +anything I can say. This short visit may derange all his +reasoning faculties, and give a different hue to all his +future prospects,—it may give him a disrelish for all +amusements, and make him sigh for the calm serenity +of domestic life,—to sum up all together—it may +make him <em>in love</em>,—but I shall have no time to say +anything else, if I run on with this any further. To-morrow +I expect to go to Gorham,—return the same +evening or Sunday morning. I am still at Mrs. Coffin’s, +but shall return to Sister when I come from Gorham. +We have had a number of pleasant parties this week,—Tuesday +Mrs. Robert Boyd had a charming one. +Wednesday had a large one here, and to-day all going to +Capt. Robinson’s, where we expect to dance. To-morrow +I go to Gorham. I wrote to Mamma requesting +money to buy a lace shade,—I called to look at them +again and the shopkeeper told me he was mistaken in +the price, for it was 21 per yard instead of the whole +pattern, which makes a vast difference. I, of course, +think no more of lace shades, but I still think of some +money, I have but 4 cents in the world, not enough to +pay the postage of a letter, pray send me a little immediately. +I shall send you a description of the Assembly—which +I believe you may read to my Mother if you +wish, ’twill amuse her I know. I wish you would look +in the old desk among my papers and get a little Drawing +book,—directions for drawing printed in a pamphlet, +and give to William to bring over. I hope the +snow will last till Mamma comes over and I return +home, ’tis delightful weather. How do the daisies and +jelly flowers? Mrs. Parker is going to give me some +flower seeds. I hear frequent enquiries for you—when +are you coming in town? Tell Miss Tappan I had the +honor of dancing a voluntary dance with Mr. Orr at the +last assembly,—he attracted much attention by his irregular +expression—“The floor was very <em>unyielding</em>,” +&c., &c. I did not tell you any one’s adventures but +my own on that eventful night. Poor Mr. Orr, impatient +to get home, plunged into the snow without waiting +for a carriage, and unfortunately turning up street +instead of down, got most to Mr. Vaughn’s before he +discovered his mistake, and was obliged to turn round +and worry his way back again, he was half dead when +he got to his lodgings. Eunice Deering was tumbled +over and when Mr. Little took her from the carriage<a id='r25'></a><a href='#f25' class='c012'><sup>[25]</sup></a>.</p> + +<hr class='c018'> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, May 23, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I receive your apology and am satisfied—’tis not the +manner of making apologies I think most of, but that +long dissertation on the subject continually obtrudes itself +on your mind whenever you feel conscious an apology +is necessary, but while I am convinced nothing but +the fear of appearing inconsistent prevents your making +these said apologies, I will not complain—let them +come “edgeways” or any other way—so long as I am +convinced you feel their necessity. But I have been +pondering on your new plan of life, yet I confess it does +not appear to me so delightful as to you, it sounds well,—tickles +the fancy,—cuts a pretty figure on paper +and would form a delightful chapter for a novel. Our +novelists have worn the pleasures of rural life threadbare, +every lovesick swain imagines that with the mistress +of his heart he could leave the noisy tumultuous +scenes of life and in the shades of rural retirement feel +all the delightful serenity and peace ascribed to the +golden age. The Philosopher and the Poet fly to this +imaginary heaven with as much enthusiasm as the lover. +Here, say they, we can contemplate the beauty and sublimity +of nature free from interruption; here the reflecting +mind can find endless subjects for contemplation! +here all is peace and love! no discord can find a place +among these innocent and happy beings,—they live +but to promote the happiness of each other and their +every action teems with benevolence and love. Yet let +us judge for ourselves,—we all have seen what the +pleasures of rural life are, and whatever Poets may have +ascribed to it, we must know there is as much depravity +and consequently as much discontent in the inhabitants +of a country village as in the most populous city. They +are generally ignorant, illiterate, without knowledge to +discover the real blessings they enjoy by comparing +them with others, continually looking to those above +them with envy and discontent and imagine their share +of happiness is proportioned to their rank and power. +I am convinced that a country life is more calculated +to produce that security and happiness we are all in +pursuit of than any other, but those who have ever been +accustomed to it have no relish for its pleasures, and +those who quit the busy scenes of life, disgusted by the +duplicity or ingratitude of the world, or oppressed by +the weight of accumulated misfortune—carry with them +feelings and sentiments which cannot be reciprocated. +Solitary happiness I have no idea of, ’tis only in the +delightful sympathies of friendship, similarity of sentiments, +that genuine happiness can be enjoyed. Your +mind is cultivated and enlarged, your sentiments delicate +and refined, you could not expect to find many with +whom you could converse on a perfect equality,—or +rather many whose sentiments could assimilate with +yours. Were I a man, I should think it cowardly to +bury myself in solitude,—nay, I should be unwilling to +confess I felt myself unable to preserve my virtue where +there were temptations to destroy it, there is no merit +in being virtuous when there is no struggle to preserve +that virtue. ’Tis in the midst of temptations and allurements +that the active and generous virtues must be +exerted in their full force. One virtuous action where +there were temptations and delusions to surmount would +give more delight to my own heart, more real satisfaction +than a whole life spent in more negative goodness, +he must be base indeed who can voluntarily act wrong +when no allurement draws him from the path of virtue. +You say you never dip’t much into the pleasures of <em>high +life</em> and therefore should have but little to regret on +that score. In the choice of life one ought to consult +their own dispositions and inclinations, their own powers +and talents. We all have a preference to some particular +mode of life, and we surely ought to endeavor to +arrive at that which will more probably ensure us most +happiness. I have often thought what profession I +should choose were I a man. I might then think very +differently from what I do now, yet I have always +thought if I felt conscious of possessing brilliant talents, +the <em>law</em> would be my choice. Then I might hope to +arrive at an eminence which would be gratifying to my +feelings. I should then hope to be a public character, +respected and admired,—but unless I was convinced I +possessed the talents which would distinguish me as a +speaker I would be anything rather than a lawyer;—from +the dry sameness of such employments as the business +of an office all my feelings would revolt, but to be +an eloquent speaker would be the delight of my heart. +I thank Heaven I was <em>born</em> a woman. I have now only +patiently to wait till some clever fellow shall take a fancy +to me and place me in a situation, I am determined to +make the best of it, let it be what it will. We ladies, +you know, possess that “sweet pliability of temper” +that disposes us to enjoy any situation, and we must +have no choice in these things till we find what is to be +our destiny, then we must consider it the best in the +world. But remember, I desire to be thankful I am not +a man. I should not be content with moderate abilities—nay, +I should not be content with mediocrity in +any thing, but as a woman I am equal to the generality +of my sex, and I do not feel that great desire of fame I +think I should if I was a man. Should you hereafter +become an inhabitant of Boyford I make no doubt you +will be very happy, because you will weigh all the advantages +and disadvantages. Yet I do not think you +qualified for the laborious life farmers generally lead, +and it requires a little fortune to live an independent +farmer without labor. Rebecca would do charmingly, I +know you are imagining her the partner of all your joys +and cares,—of all your harmony and content, when you +charm yourself with your description of rural happiness. +With her you imagined you could quit the world and +almost live happy in a desert. So may it be,—I know +none but a lover could paint the sweets of retirement +with such enthusiasm. ’Tis <em>my</em> turn now to rail a little,—the +world also has linked <em>you</em> to a certain person, as +firmly—nay, <em>more</em> so than it ever did me; however I +will not press so closely on this subject. I shall not expect +that candid confession I made you,—as your feelings +and mine are, I believe, entirely different on the +two subjects. I want to ask you a question which you +may possibly think improper, but if so, do not answer +it.—Is Mary<a id='r26'></a><a href='#f26' class='c012'><sup>[26]</sup></a> really engaged to Mr. Coffin? I hear so +from so many persons and in so decided a manner I +cannot doubt. I would ask her, but in these things +there is so much deception, there is no finding out,—but +however, I think I should never deny such a thing +when I once was engaged,—however, enough of this. +I am now in Portland, shall return to-morrow to Scarborough +where I shall be very happy to see you and Mary, +so I depend on your bringing her over very soon. +Adieu—dinner is ready and I have nothing to say worth +losing it for, write me often—I shall be at home alone +these two months to come,—remember you have it in +your power to amuse and gratify.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c019'>I hardly know what to say to you, Cousin, you have +attacked my system with a kind of fury that has entirely +obscured your judgment, and instead of being convinced +of its impracticability, you appear to fear its justness. +You tell me of some excellent effects of my system, but +pardon me for thinking they are dictated by prejudice +rather than reason. I feel fully convinced in my own +mind that no such effects could be produced. You ask +if this plan of education will render one a more dutiful +child, a more affectionate wife, &c, &c., surely it will,—those +virtues which now are merely practised from the +momentary impulse of the heart, will then be adhered to +from principle, a sense of duty, and a mind sufficiently +strengthened not to yield implicitly to every impulse, +will give a degree of uniformity, of stability to the female +character, which it evidently at present does not +possess. From having no fixed guide for our conduct +we have acquired a reputation for caprice, which we +justly deserve. I can hardly believe you serious when +you say that “the enlargement of the mind will inevitably +produce superciliousness and a desire of ascendancy,”—I +should much sooner expect it from an ignorant, +uncultivated mind. We cannot enlarge and +improve our minds without perceiving our weakness, +and wisdom is always modest and unassuming,—on +the contrary a mind that has never been exerted knows +not its deficiencies and presumes much more on its +powers than it otherwise would. You beg me to drop +this crazy scheme and say no more about enlarging the +mind, as it is disagreeable, and you are too much prejudiced +ever to listen with composure to me when I write +on the subject. I quit it forever, nor will I again shock +your ear with a plan which you think has nothing for its +foundation either just or durable, which a girlish imagination +gave birth to, and a presumptuous folly cherished. +I fear I have rather injured the cause than +otherwise, and what I have said may have more firmly +established those sentiments in you which I wished to +destroy. Be it as it may, I believe it is a cause that has +been more injured by its friends than its enemies. I +am sorry that I have said so much, yet I said no more +than I really thought, and still think, just and true. I +beg you to say no more to me on the subject as I shall +know ’twill be only a form of politeness which I will +dispense with. You undoubtedly think I am acting out +of my sphere in attempting to discuss this subject, and +my presumption probably gave rise to that idea, which +you expressed in your last, that however unqualified a +woman might be she was always equipt for the discussion +of any subject and overwhelmed her hearers with +her “clack.” On what subjects shall I write you? I +shall either fatigue and disgust you with female trifles, +or shock you by stepping beyond the limits you have +prescribed. As I cannot pursue a medium I fear I +shall be obliged to relinquish the hope of pleasing—of +course of writing. Good night, I am sleepy and stupid. +Morning. O, how I hate this warm weather, it deprives +me of the power of using any exertion, it clogs my ideas, +and I ask no greater felicity than the pleasure of doing +nothing. I intended to amuse you with some of the trifles +of the day, but I shall scarcely do them justice this +morning. Friday night we had a ball,—the hall was +decorated with much taste. ’Twas filled up for the +<em>masons</em>. At the head of the room there was a most +romantic little bower, four large pillars formed of green +and interspersed with flowers, supported a kind of canopy +which was arched in front, with this inscription—“Here +Peace and Silence reign,” filled with a parcel of +girls whining sentiment, and silly fellows spouting love, +it produced a most laughable scene. The deities to +whom it was dedicated withdrew from the sacred retreat, +which was so profaned, and noise and folly reigned +supreme,—so sweet a place,—so fine an opportunity +for making speeches—’twas irresistible, even <em>you</em> +would have caught a spark of inspiration from the surrounding +glories,—and felt a degree of emulation at +the flashes of genius that blazed from every quarter. +Invention was on the rack, the stores of memory were +exhausted and folly blushed to be so outdone. Mr. +Symmes sat down to overwhelm me with a torrent of +eloquence, yet his compassionate heart often prompted +him to hesitate that I might recover myself. Such +stores of learning did he display, such mines of wisdom +did he open to my view, that I gazed with astonishment +and awe and scarce believed “That one small head +could carry all he knew.” Mr. Kinsman with a countenance +that beamed with benevolence and compassion +gazed on all around, while a benign smile played round +his mouth and dimpled his polished cheek, the laughing +loves peeped from his eyes and aimed their never-failing +darts—rash girl—too, too near hast thou approached +this divinity—the poisoned dart still rankles in thy +heart,—“The lingering pang of hopeless love unpitied +I endure,” and feel a wound within my heart which +death alone can cure. Monday night—You will easily +perceive that I am obliged to write when and where I +can, I have not quite so much leisure as when at Scarborough, +and though in the very place to <em>hear news</em>, I +have no faculty of relating what I hear in a manner that +could interest you. Last evening I spent in talking +scandal (for which God forgive me) but was too tempting +an occasion to be resisted. I wish you were acquainted +with some of the Portland ladies, I would then +tell you many things that might amuse. But I dare not +introduce you to them, lest I should entirely mistake +their character, and that when personally acquainted +with them you would be confirmed in your opinion of +my wanting penetration in studying characters. Yesterday +I spent with Martha, I wish you were acquainted +with her, she is truly an <em>original</em>. I never saw one that +bore any resemblance to her. She despises flattery and +is even above praise, beautiful without vanity, possessing +a refined understanding without pedantry, the most +exquisite sensibility connected with all the great and +noble qualities of the mind. She knows that no woman +in America ever was more admired, she has received +every attention which could be paid and yet is exactly +as before she left Portland. The same condescension, +the same elegance and unaffected simplicity of manners, +the same independent and noble sentiments. Perhaps I +am blinded to her faults, yet I think she deserves all I +say of her, nay more, for she “outstrips all praise and +makes it halt behind her.” They have determined to +go to England, in two months at farthest they will leave +America, not to return for 2 years,—two years! how +many, many events will have taken place. Perhaps ere +that I shall rest in the tomb of my fathers forgotten and +unknown!! Perhaps oppressed with care and borne +down with misfortune, I shall have lost all relish for life—all +hopes of pleasure may have ceased to exist and +the grave of time closed over them forever. I grow +gloomy, I wish I could write anything, but I have never +felt a relish for writing since I have been in Portland,—at +home it supplies the place of <em>society</em>, but here I need +no such substitute.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Write by the post if you have no other opportunity, +the players will commence acting next Wednesday.</p> + +<p class='c011'>I believe it is the 28th.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c019'>This letter is the last one written by Miss Southgate +to her cousin Moses Porter. The following one from +Dr. Southgate to his brother-in-law, Rufus King, who +was then living in England, tells of the untimely death +of his nephew, and its sad cause, July 26th, 1802.</p> + +<p class='c019'>Our brother and sister Porter of Biddeford have +lost their eldest son Moses. He dyed (sic) about +fifteen days since of the yellow fever. He had a ship +arrived from the West Indies. On her passage the +<em>cook boy</em> dyed suddenly—the rest of the crew were +none of them sick, but of those persons who went on +board, five or six were taken with the yellow fever in +about four days—none of whom lived more than four +or five days. Moses is much lamented by his family +and acquaintance—this month would have completed +his law education. His talents, generous and amiable +disposition formed a pleasing prospect etc. etc. Mrs. +Porter’s health is <em>better</em>, better than I ever expected +she would have enjoyed tho’ she is now only a feeble +woman.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>R. Southgate.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span> +<img src='images/i_144.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mr. E. HASKET DERBY of Salem <span class='fss'>Æ</span>t 28, 1794<br> From a miniature in possession of Dr. Hasket Derby of Boston.<br> <br> ARTOTYPE, E BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<h3 class='c020'><span class='sc'>Journal.</span></h3> + +<div class='lg-container-r c003'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Tuesday, July 6th, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Arrived in Salem, met Mrs. Derby at the door who +received us joyfully. At tea-time saw the children, fine +boys, very fond of Ellen and are managed by their +Father with great judgment. How few understand the +true art of managing children, and how often is the important +task of forming young minds left to the discretion +of servants who caress or reprove as the impulse +of the moment compels them. Here are we convinced +of the great necessity that Mothers, or all ladies should +have cultivated minds, as the first rudiments of education +are always received from them, and at that early +period of life when the mind is open to every new impression +and ready to receive the seeds which must +form the future principles of the character. At that +time how important is it to be judicious in your conduct +towards them! In the evening Mr. Hasket Derby +came in on his return from New York; he is a fine, +majestic-looking man, tho’ he strikes you rather heavy +and unwieldy on his first appearance; he says little, +yet does not appear absent,—has travelled much, and +in his manners has an easy unassuming politeness that +is not the acquirement of a day.—Wednesday morning +had an agreeable tete-a-tete with Ellen, talked over all +our affairs: in the afternoon rode out to Hersey Derby’s<a id='r27'></a><a href='#f27' class='c012'><sup>[27]</sup></a> +farm, about 3 miles from Salem; a most delightful +place! The gardens superior to any I have ever +seen of the kind; cherries in perfection! We really +feasted! There are 3 divisions in the gardens, and you +pass from the lower one to the upper thro’ several +arches rising one above the other. From the lower +gate you have a fine perspective view of the whole +range, rising gradually until the sight is terminated by +a hermitage. The summer house in the center has an +arch thro’ it with 3 doors on each side which open into +little apartments, and one of them opens to a staircase +by which you ascend into a square room the whole size +of the building; it has a fine airy appearance and commands +a view of the whole garden; two large chestnut +trees on each side almost shade it from the view when +seen from the sides; the air from the windows is always +pure and cool, and the eye wanders with delight +and admiration over the extensive landscape below, so +beautifully variegated with the charms of nature. Imagination +luxuriates with delight, and as it plays o’er the +beauties of an opening flower, imperceptibly wanders +to the first principles of nature, its wonderful and surprising +operation; its harmony and beauty. The room +is ornamented with some Chinese figures and seems +calculated for serenity and peace. ’Tis like the pavilion +of Caroline, and I almost looked around me for the +music of the Guitar and books; but I heard not the +tramplings of Lindorf’s horse, nor did I sing to hear +the echo of his voice,—“Listen to love, and thou +shalt know indifference or bless the foe;” certain it +is, however, I thought of Caroline the moment I entered. +We descended, and passing thro’ the arch, +proceeded to the hermitage, which terminated the +garden. It was scarcely perceptible at a distance. A +large weeping-willow swept the roof with its branches +and bespoke the melancholy inhabitant. We caught a +view of the little hut as we advanced thro’ the opening +of the trees; it was covered with bark,—a small +low door, slightly latched, immediately opened at our +touch. A venerable old man was seated in the centre +with a prayer-book in one hand, while the other supported +his cheek, and rested on an old table, which, +like the hermit, seemed moulding to decay; a broken +pitcher, a plate and tea-pot sat before him, and his tea-kettle +sat by the chimney; a tattered coverlit was +spread over a bed of straw, which tho’ hard might be +softened by resignation and content. I left him impressed +with veneration and fear which the mystery of +his situation seemed to create. We returned to the +house, which was neat and handsome, and from thence +visited the Greenhouse, where we saw oranges and +lemons in perfection,—in one orange tree there were +green ones, ripe ones and blossoms. Every plant and +shrub which was beautiful and rare was collected here, +and I looked around with astonishment and delight; at +the upper end of the garden there was a beautiful +arbour formed of a mound of turf, which we ascended +by several steps formed likewise of turf, and ’twas surrounded +by a thick row of poplar trees which branched +out quite to the bottom and so close together that you +could not see through,—’twas a most charming place, +and I know not how long we should have remained to +admire if they had not summoned us to tea. We returned +home, and Mr. Hasket Derby asked if we should +not like to walk over to his house and see the garden,—we +readily consented, as I had heard much of the +house. The evening was calm and delightful, the moon +shone in its greatest splendor. We entered the house, +and the door opened into a spacious entry; on each side +were large white marble images. We passed on by doors +on each side opening into the drawing-room, dining-room, +parlor, etc., etc., and at the farther part of the +entry a door opened into a large, magnificent oval room; +and another door opposite the one we entered was +thrown open and gave us a full view of the garden below. +The moon shone with uncommon splendor. The +large marble <em>vases</em>, the images, the mirrors to correspond +with the windows, gave it so uniform and finished +an appearance, that I could not think it possible I +viewed objects that were real, every thing appeared like +enchantment,—the stillness of the hour, the imperfect +light of the moon, the novelty of the scene, filled my +mind with sensations I never felt before. I could not +realize every thing and expected every moment that the +wand of the fairy would sweep all from before my eyes +and leave me to stare and wonder what it meant. You +can scarcely conceive any thing more superb. We +descended into the garden, which is laid out with exquisite +taste, an airy irregularity seems to characterize +the whole. At the foot of the garden there was a summer +house, and a row of tall poplar trees which hid +every thing beyond from the sight, and formed a kind +of walk. I arrived there and to my astonishment found +thro’ the opening of the trees that there was a beautiful +terrace the whole width of the garden; ’twas twenty +feet from the street, and gravelled on the top, with a +white balustrade round; ’twas almost level, and the +poplar trees so close that we could only occasionally +catch a glimpse of the house. The moon shone full +upon it, and I really think this side is the most beautiful, +tho’ ’tis the back one. A large dome swells quite +to the chamber-windows and is railed round on top and +forms a delightful walk,—the magnificent pillars which +support it fill the mind with pleasure. We returned +into the house; and on passing the mirrors I involuntarily +started back at seeing so much company in the +other room. We entered the drawing-room which is +superb, furnished with blue and wood color. There was +the Grand Piano, the most charming Instrument I ever +heard. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, Mr. Hasket D., Frank +Coffin and myself were the party, and I was requested to +play, and took my seat at the Instrument, and had just +begun playing, when a slight noise in the entry made +me turn my head. A gentleman entered and was introduced +as Mr. Grey; made a most graceful bow, took his +seat, and I resumed my playing. We rose to depart, +and Mr. G. accompanied us home. I was delighted with +his conversation, which was sensible, unassuming, and +agreeable. I scarcely saw his face, as there was no +light.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Thursday at home all day. In the evening walked +in the garden. The evening was uncommonly fine. +The moon shines brighter in Salem than anywhere +else; here too is an elegant garden, full of fruit trees, +the walks kept as nice as possible, and shaded on +each side by plum trees; very handsome summer house +where we sat an hour or two. Rambled in the garden all +the evening, which was the finest I ever saw, so very +light, that, as Shakespeare says, “’twas but the daylight +sick, only a little paler.” There is something in a fine +moonlight evening exquisitely soothing to the soul. I +have felt as if I could melt away with the exquisite enthusiasm +of my sensations. We were called into the +house and found Mrs. West, a sister of Mrs. Derby’s; but +more of her by-and-bye. Friday Dr. Coffin arrived, and +Dr. Lathrop and Hasket Derby dined with us and set +out for Boston.</p> + +<p class='c019'>The following letter, written by Martha Coffin, Eliza’s +most intimate friend, and descriptive of a visit that she +paid to Salem, will be found of interest.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>June 29, 1800.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My dear Ellen:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have never told you all about my visit to Salem. +I passed my time as you may imagine very charmingly, +and had I your pen or your talent at description I +would endeavor to give you some ideas of the house, +the gardens, and the farm; but it is <em>Impossible</em>.</p> + +<p class='c011'><em>The Hermitage</em> more than answered my expectations. +It is everything which we see described in novels, and +which I thought was not to be found in reality.</p> + +<p class='c011'>The garden beyond description beautiful, does indeed +exceed anything of the kind I ever saw. Ten thousand +different kinds of flowers from all quarters of the globe. +Fruit of every kind in abundance. A delightful Summer +house in the middle of the garden, furnished quite +in the rural style; and from the chamber where they +sometimes drink tea is the most beautiful prospect you +can imagine.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>M. Coffin.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span> +<img src='images/i_154.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mrs. RICHARD DERBY. (Martha Coffin)<br> <br> From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs. Peabody of Boston<br> <br> ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Salem, July 14, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have just received my trunk with the letter and +key. I perceive you have not received my letter by +Mr. Jewett. Fear not, my dear Mother, tho’ gay and +volatile in my disposition, I feel that I shall return +home with the same sentiments with which I left it. +True, I was in the midst of gaiety and splendor such as +I never before witnessed, yet a something within whispers +true happiness resides not here,—in this family +all is calm contentment and peaceful pleasure. Mr. +Derby is everything his best friends can wish him, and +the whole family consider him as every thing good and +benevolent; he truly is so, and appears one of the finest +men I ever knew. How is Uncle Porter’s family? I +cannot even now reconcile myself to the idea of leaving +them so unexpectedly and so immediately, yet I know +not how it could be avoided. I am in the midst of +amusements and pleasure, they drive all melancholy +reflection from my mind, but when alone, my feelings +warmly pay a tribute to the merit of <em>our departed +Moses</em>; yet I cannot,—do not realize, every thing contributes +to make me think it a delusion, a mere dream; +how is it possible I can realize it? Yet sometimes I +feel it is, it must be true. How soon do we reconcile +ourselves to the loss of the dearest friends; what would +most distract us in anticipation we meet with calmness +when it approaches; strange, unaccountable. I surely +loved Moses with sincerity. I knew of no person so +distantly connected whom I felt so interested in,—yet +he is dead,—he is gone, and I can speak of it without +emotion, and I am called. Adieu, I will write soon.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<h3 class='c020'><span class='sc'>Journal.</span></h3> + +<div class='lg-container-r c003'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Saturday, July 11, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>We rode out, Ellen and myself, with the three boys, +in a hack. Went to Danners—Parson Wadsworth’s, to +see Mrs. Rickman’s children; took them in to ride; +came down by the mills and went across to Hasket +Derby’s farm,—all the cherries gone,—rambled about +the gardens an hour and returned home,—charming +ride; the country round Salem is delightful, altho’ ’tis +situated rather in a plain, ’tis surrounded with beautiful +hills, handsome trees, ponds, brooks, etc. We got +home at dusk and found Mr. Coffin just returned from +Boston. Mrs. Hasket Derby sent a great basket of +cherries and her compliments, she would come over in +the morning. I wished very much to see her, she had +been gone 5 weeks to the Springs. I had heard Martha +say much of her and wished much that to-morrow could +come.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Next morning—Sunday—went to Meeting. Mr. +Dana of Marblehead preached; very devout, unaffected +young man; saw not a soul I had ever seen before, excepting +Mr. Grey; thought I should not have known +him as I scarcely saw his face before. Found Mrs. Hasket +Derby on my return, was disappointed in her +personal appearance; instead of finding the elegant, +majestic, beautiful creature my imagination had pictured, +I beheld a little, short, plump woman dressed in +black, a coarse complexion and anxious eyes, yet I had +not been in her company an hour without confessing to +myself she was the most agreeable, fascinating woman +I ever saw. She continually pleases and delights you; +she appears to live for others, nor ever bestows a +thought upon herself, yet so perfectly unconscious of +it, that it seems inherent in her disposition, and to flow +without any effort. She planned parties of amusement +as I was a stranger, and we fixed upon Friday for a +fishing party to Nahant; sent to Boston for some to +meet us. Monday a small party at Mrs. Derby’s came +to tea. I rode in the chaise with Mr. Grey. Mrs. +Grey and a Mr. White, an Englishman, in her carriage. +Mr. Coffin and Miss Grey in another chaise,—Mr. and +Mrs. Hasket Derby. We walked on a hill near the +house, where we had the most extensive prospect I +ever saw—the whole world seemed spread before us +covered with the richly variegated carpet of nature. +We returned home in the evening with a fine moon, +and all went to Mr. Grey’s to spend the evening. Most +charming time; treated with great attention by Mrs. +Grey, who is, in my opinion, a fine woman, domestic, +fond of her children, and never so happy as in contributing +to their amusement, and possesses fine sense, +animated, unceremonious, and agreeable.—Tuesday, +Doct. and Mrs. Coffin and Mrs. Sumner came down +from Boston; dined together, and all went to Hasket +Derby’s farm in the afternoon. Mrs. Grey and Miss +Bishop of the party; glad to see Miss Bishop—one of +my old school-mates. Had a most charming ride; went +in the carriage with Mrs. Grey. All returned to Mr. +John Derby’s and spent the evening. William Grey +and his father came in the evening; walked in the garden.—Wednesday, +large party of gentlemen to dine +with Doct. Coffin. In the afternoon all went to Mrs. +Grey’s; danced in the evening. Miss Bishop plays and +sings charmingly. Thursday, Doct. and Mrs. Coffin +went home, and in the afternoon went to Mrs. Hasket +Derby’s with a party; every thing elegant and pleasant. +Friday to Nahant, fishing—Mr. and Mrs. Hasket +Derby, Mr. and Mrs. John Derby, Mr. and Mrs. Hersey +Derby, Miss Bishop, Mr. Grey, Mr. Coffin, and myself, +Miss Heller, Mr. Prince, who looks very much like +Horatio, and several others. Met there some smart +Boston beaux,—Mr. Amory Parkman, Turner, etc., etc. +Spent a most charming day; caught but few fish, and +very warm, yet pleasant notwithstanding—set out for +home just as the sun was setting. I returned in the +chaise with William Grey, Frank with Miss Bishop,—rode +2 miles on the beach, the tide down, sun just setting; +’twas charming and delightful. Saturday went +out to Hersey Derby’s farm to tea, went to the bathing +house, summer house—and saw the Rumford<a id='r28'></a><a href='#f28' class='c012'><sup>[28]</sup></a> kitchen—elegant +place, beautiful children,—rainy afternoon, +we could not enjoy the pleasures of the country so well. +Sunday—went to meeting and to tea with Mrs. Hasket +Derby; met company from Boston,—two beaux, Mr. +Lee and Mr. Davis. Monday—a party of young ladies +at Mrs. Grey’s; danced in the evening, went home at +eleven, spent half an hour at Hasket Derby’s on my +way; Ellen was there. Tuesday—rode out with Mrs. +Grey after dinner, returned and drank tea with Mrs. +Lambert, found company at Ellen’s on my return—Mr. +and Mrs. Hasket Derby, Hersey Derby and wife, Mr. +Prince and wife,—Patty Derby that was—looks like old +<em>Madame Milliken</em><a id='r29'></a><a href='#f29' class='c012'><sup>[29]</sup></a> very much. Mr. and Mrs. Hasket +Derby wish me to go to the Springs with them; know +not what to do. Ellen says go by all means, never will +have such another opportunity; she thinks my Father +and Mother would not object if I had time to write +them, which would be impossible, they go to-morrow—what +shall I do? I must go over after breakfast, I will +consult Mrs. J. Derby. I would not go for the world if +I thought my Father or Mother would not be pleased. +Mr. and Mrs. Derby go alone in their carriage. I must +think of it.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Wednesday, Salem, July, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>What will you say, my Dear Mother, when you find I +am gone with Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby to the Saratoga +Springs? But I hasten to explain all. Mr. and +Mrs. Derby were going in their carriage alone. Mrs. +Derby says she never travelled without some lady, and +urged my accompanying her. I thought ’twas only a +compliment and treated it as such, but when I found she +seriously wished it and her husband joined his influence, +I began to think how it would do. I consulted Ellen +and Mr. Derby, and they both thought I ought not to +refuse an opportunity of seeing the country which perhaps +may never again occur—a better one surely can +never occur. To go with Mr. and Mrs. Derby is surely +an advantage I can never hope to meet with again. Believe +me, nothing would have induced me to think of +going with them unless they had been very urgent. +Ellen and Mr. Derby both say they doubt not you would +approve the plan if you were here to consult. If I did +not think so myself nothing would induce me to go—still +I regret not having it in my power to wait an +answer from you, but to-morrow afternoon we must set +out. Ellen has lent me everything necessary for my +journey,—indeed I can never repay her. She is the +most generous being I ever saw. She has nothing in +the house but is at my service,—all her handsome +dresses she wishes me to carry, indeed everything that +I can possibly want she has supplied me with. I am +glad that I shall not be compelled to purchase anything +that would be unnecessary after my return. I think I +shall borrow some money of her, as it is impossible I +can receive any from home, and if I do not need it, I +need not spend it. You may assure yourself I shall remember +to economise as much as possible. It seems as +if Ellen and Mrs. Derby tried which should most oblige +me. As I never determined to go till this morning, +Mrs. Derby said ’twas impossible to make any new +clothes, nay unnecessary, and insisted I should take any +thing of hers I should want, but Ellen would not admit +of that. I know not the route we shall take, but Mrs. +Derby says we shall probably <em>go</em> or <em>return</em> thro’ <em>Leicester</em>.<a id='r30'></a><a href='#f30' class='c012'><sup>[30]</sup></a> +I shall be gratified very much at an opportunity of +seeing our relations there. Ellen promises to write. I +never was treated with more attention in my life. Ellen +heaps me with favors, and now I have thought of +this journey, she thinks she can’t do enough. I intend +keeping a particular journal while I am gone, which you +shall all peruse on my return. We shall probably be +gone four or five weeks, as it is two or three hundred +miles from here. When you write me direct your letters +to Salem and Mr. Derby will forward them as he will +know where we are. Has Octavia returned? tell her I +shall leave my Salem journal to be sent to her the first +opportunity. If I go thro’ Newport I shall endeavor to +find out Miss Crary and Miss Clarke, and wish I had a +letter from her.</p> + +<p class='c011'>And now, my dear Mother, assure me you approve of +my going and I shall have nothing to trouble me. My +Father, I think, would not object to it if I could know +his opinion. Mr. Grey (Wm. Grey) says he is sure he +would not disapprove of it, if he knew in what good protection +I was. By-the-bye, I have received every attention +from Mr. Grey’s family, and Mrs. Grey is a +remarkably fine woman. I rode out with her yesterday +afternoon, and she sent for me to go to Wexham pond +with her this afternoon; called to excuse myself and tell +her of my projected journey; she regretted it as I was to +have gone to Medford with her the next week, and she +had planned several parties for me which would be frustrated; +but she acknowledged I was perfectly right to go, +and if ’twas her daughter she should be much gratified +at the opportunity. Mr. and Mrs. Derby say I must tell +you they will take good <em>care</em> of me and they shall take +the full protection of me. Write me soon, or request +my Father or Octavia; but pray if you disapprove, do +not tell me till I return, ’twill be too late to alter or retract, +and I should be wretched if I thought you disapproved +my going,—do write, or ask my Father, I shall +feel uneasy. My love to all friends, and believe me, with +great affection, Your</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Francestown (New Hampshire),</div> + <div class='line in8'>July 26, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My dear Father:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>My letter in which I informed you of my intended +journey, my motives for it, etc., you will receive before +this, I therefore think it unnecessary to say any more, +but rest with full confidence on the indulgent heart of +an affectionate Father, who I trust knows my heart too +well to think me capable of acting in opposition to what +I know to be his wishes. We left Salem on Thursday +evening and slept at Ten hills in Charleston, breakfasted +in Webrion,<a id='r31'></a><a href='#f31' class='c012'><sup>[31]</sup></a> and dined in Betavia.<a id='r32'></a><a href='#f32' class='c012'><sup>[32]</sup></a> We had a +fine view of the celebrated Middlesex canal, which in +future ages must do honor to our country,—such monuments +of industry and perseverance raise our opinion +of our countrymen; it will be 25 miles in length when +completed, running from Deckel<a id='r33'></a><a href='#f33' class='c012'><sup>[33]</sup></a> to Medford river,—the +river of Concord supplies it with water, boats pass +every day, and parties of pleasure are always sailing on +it. In my journal I have been more particular, here I +say but little as we are in a miserable tavern and the +horses almost ready. I cannot tell you the route we are +going,—Mr. Derby’s motive is to see the most pleasant +part of the country that he has not seen before. From +Bilusia we came through Chelmsford, Inigsborough +where old Irving lived and Miss Pitts, now Mrs. Brimby, +the heiress of his fortune has a most elegant tasty country +house on the banks of the Merrimack—which forms +a most beautiful scene in front of the house and gives a +full view of the river in each direction,—more of this +in my journal. We are on a new turnpike road, from +Amherst to Dartmouth. We shall go up to Dartmouth +College as ’tis wholly a jaunt of pleasure, and Mr. Derby +is determined to be in no haste, to enquire everything +worth seeing and not to mind 6 or 7 miles from a direct +road,—they are very attentive to me and have gone a +mile from the direct road to show me something they +had seen before. Mr. Derby has been such a traveller +that he is now one of the most useful travelling companions +in the world; his wife is the most engaging, unaffected, +family woman in the world, and instead of feeling +myself a burden to them, they make me feel of the +utmost consequence. We passed thro’ several pretty villages +on coming here—tho’ it is almost a new country, +scarcely cleared up,—excepting a small village every 6 +or 7 miles; the most hilly, mountainous, woody country +I ever was in,—here as I look round me I see nothing +but enormous high hills, covered with trees and almost +mingling with the clouds. One of them in particular—Francestown<a id='r34'></a><a href='#f34' class='c012'><sup>[34]</sup></a> +is about 12 miles from Amherst, a number +of pleasant houses and a very elegant meeting-house,—how +different from our part of the country!—here, +if there is but one handsome house in town there +will be a meeting house. I have passed but one on my +journey, in these new back places, but what was painted +and a steeple! From Dartmouth we go down to +Northampton and then to Lebanon Springs, then to +Ballstown and Saratoga, and return by the way of New +Haven, Hartford, etc. I shall have a fine opportunity +of seeing the country on Connecticut River. Mr. +Derby does not know the route he shall go, but shall +depend on what he hears; we shall go thro’ a part of +the States of Vermont, Connecticut, and New York, so +that in our tour we shall be in 5 different States. I +shall write very often, and wish you, my Dear Father, to +write me by the return of the mail, and direct to Pittsfield +in Massachusetts,—or to Mr. John Derby in Salem. +If we go thro’ Leicester I shall find out our relations. +Tell Octavia and Horatio I shall write them +soon, but as I keep a particular journal which they shall +all see, ’tis not so material. I hear the carriage—love +to all.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ballston Springs, August 22, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dearest Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I feel at this moment as if I could fly! so far from +home, received no letters, yet at Albany I expect to +find them, let me at least hope what ’twill delight me so +much to realize. I sometimes almost fear to receive a +letter from home,—yet my indulgent Parents will pardon +the liberty I took in coming this journey, as I trust +they are convinced by my past life, that I would not for +the universe act in opposition to what I knew they approved. +I am convinced when you know Mr. and Mrs. +Derby you will feel that I was both secure and honored +in their protection. I cannot tell you half I owe them, +never in my life was I treated with more affectionate +attention. They appear as much interested in all I do +as if I were their daughter. You know my heart, my +dearest Mother, you know it never was insensible to the +smallest favor, what then must be its sensation when it +is thus overpowered by affectionate kindness. I long +to convince them how much I feel, but words are inadequate. +My Father has seen Mr. D., I wish he would +write to him, I think it would be no more than just to +thank him for the care he has taken of his daughter. It +seems as if he had a right to expect something of the kind. +They are the finest couple I know of, so different from +what I expected to find them. I thought Mr. Derby a +gay gallant man like Mr. Davis, but he is a plain, noble-hearted, +sincere, generous man,—talks very little and +one of the pleasantest dispositions in the world. In +Mrs. Derby I thought to find a gay woman of fashion, +but not a soul that ever knew her could help loving her. +I never saw a person so universally beloved. We have +been here at Ballston a fortnight to-morrow. It has +been one continued scene of idleness and dissipation—have +a ball every other night, ride, walk, stroll about the +piazzas, dress,—indeed we do nothing that seems like +improvement. But still I think there is no place where +one may study the different characters and dispositions +to greater advantage. You meet here the most genteel +people from every part of our country,—ceremony is +thrown off and you are acquainted very soon. You may +select those you please for intimates, and among so +many you certainly will find some agreeable, amiable +companions. For a week we sat down at the table every +day with 60 or 70 persons, to-day we were all speaking +of the latter being very thin because we had only +40. There are as many more at the other boarding +house, continually going and coming, and now there is +scarcely 10 persons here that were here when we came. +We went last week to <em>Lake George</em>, about 40 miles from +here,—made up a party and went on Tuesday, breakfasted +at <em>Saratoga</em>, where the Springs formerly most +celebrated were, and dined about 14 miles this side the +lake, at the most beautiful place I ever saw. Perhaps +you have heard of Glens-Falls; they are said to exceed +in <em>beauty</em> the Falls of <em>Niagara</em>—tho’ in <em>sublimity</em> +must fall far short. I never imagined anything so picturesque, +sublime and beautiful as the scenery around +this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have +exactly the appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins, +they are entirely of <em>slate</em>, and seem piled in regular +forms with shrubs and grass growing in between. I +looked around me for an hour and I every moment discovered +something new to admire,—nothing could exceed +the beautiful variety of the scenery. I left this +elegant place with painful regret. About sunset we +came in view of the <em>Lake</em>, it is a most beautiful sheet of +water, Morse says 36 miles long and from one to 7 +broad, full of beautiful Islands, 365 in all and of every +size and shape. It is surrounded by very high hills and +mountains rising one above the other in majestic grandeur. +In the morning we went out to fish, sailed about +4 miles on the lake to a little Island where we went on +shore,—nothing could exceed the beautiful grandeur of +the prospect; we anchored off,—I found it very charming +fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we +could see the fish swimming around the dock. Our +first intention was to sail down the lake to Lake Champlain +and visit the ruins of the fortifications at Ticonderoga, +but some of our party dissuaded us from it. We +saw the ruins of Fort George and the bloody pond—where +so many poor wretches were thrown. We stopt +on our return at the field where Burgoyne surrendered +his army; it is now covered with corn and nothing to +distinguish it from the surrounding fields; we returned +by a different route, for 10 miles we rode directly on the +banks of the Hudson river, nothing could be more delightful, +our road wound with the river which was beautifully +overhung with trees; we returned here Thursday +night, found them dancing. I joined, and the next +night we had a ball at the other house; there again I +danced till 12 o’clock and the next morning got up quite +sick,—to-day I am finely again and have made a resolution +not to dance again whilst I stay here. This all +think I can’t keep, but they shall see I can. Col. Boyd +came here last week but went away while we were gone +to Lake George—to Canada I believe. He says you +had not heard of my coming when he left Portland, so +he could tell me nothing new. We shall probably leave +here on Tuesday or Wednesday, stay at Albany a few +days and go to Lebanon again, perhaps to Williamston +Commencement. We are engaged to spend the day at +Mr. Rensselaer’s, the former L Governor, and one at Mr. +Rensselaer’s—his brother, who is Mayor of the City. I +know not how long ’twill be before we return to Salem, +but I really begin to think of home with a great deal of +anxiety. Tell Octavia I never go into the Ball room to +dance without wishing for her; how delighted should I +be if Horatio and Octavia were here with me! How +charming will it be when I get home again! Believe +me, my Dear Mother, I shall love home more than ever. +I long to sit me down by the instrument some evening +after the business of the day is over, with you, my +Father, and all round me, or to hear Octavia sing and +play. This scene of dissipation may please for a while +by its novelty, but it soon satiates—no regular employment, +I have never been in the habit of spending my +time in idleness; and they say here that the Southern ladies +seem more at home here than the Northern ladies +and do not appear to think industry necessary to happiness. +I hope to find many letters at Albany. I have +kept a regular journal which will assist my memory in +relating my adventures, when I return home again. I +wrote Horatio last week and told him to send the letter +home for you to read. I look forward to returning with +the greatest pleasure. I suppose you are fixed upon a +house and will move by the time I return, let me know +as I am anxious to hear about it. Give my best love to +all my friends and tell Octavia I have more to say to +her than I can gabble in a month. Oh I long to get +home again. I find no time to write, if I lock myself in +my chamber I have so many knocks at the door—Miss +Southgate go and walk—go down to the spring—somebody +wants you below,—so many interruptions, ’tis almost +impossible. After I retire for the night I am so +tired and sleepy and my chamber is so hot, I <em>cannot</em> +write; ’tis Sunday to-day (tho’ all days are alike here) +and I have determined I would write home. I wonder +how it was possible for Martha to write so much,—I +hear of her from all the Southern people, they all speak +in raptures. Give my love to Mrs. Coffin and kiss all +the children—Mamy particularly, what would I give to +hear her open my door and run in this moment. Mrs. +Derby says I get low-spirited when I write home, the +only way is to think as little of it as possible whilst I am +so far off. I shall write again from Albany, where I +hope to find letters.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ever your affectionate      <span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To the care of Robert Southgate,</div> + <div class='line in4'>Scarborough,</div> + <div class='line in8'>(District of Maine.)</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id002'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span> +<img src='images/i_172.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Albany, August 8, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without +any thing to mortify or disappoint us; I wrote you the +night I arrived at Lebanon, the next morning the bell +rang and we all assembled to breakfast; there were about +thirty ladies, much dressed, looking very handsome, it +seemed more like a ball room than a breakfasting room. +We were the last that came in, and all eyes were fixed +upon us. Lady Nesbert and the Allston family from +Carolina were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is +a little, smart-looking woman, very <em>learned</em> they say, +understands the dead languages—not pedantic, rather +reserved—Lady Nesbert,<a id='r35'></a><a href='#f35' class='c012'><sup>[35]</sup></a> a most interesting woman, +full black eyes with a wild melancholy expression and a +voice so sweet and plaintive, you would think it melancholy +music. I never heard her speak a dozen times +since I have been here and rarely ever smile. Old Mrs. +Allston, the mother, is a <em>sour-looking</em> woman, nothing +affable or condescending. Miss Allston, they say, is +a romp, though her mother restrains her so much you +would not suspect it. Old Mr. Allston<a id='r36'></a><a href='#f36' class='c012'><sup>[36]</sup></a> is affable and +agreeable. We had likewise there a Mr. Constable<a id='r37'></a><a href='#f37' class='c012'><sup>[37]</sup></a> of +N. Y.; has lived in great style,—very much the gentleman.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Miss —— from N. Y. whom I mentioned in my last +is a truly <em>fashionable</em> City Belle. She is a fortune, but +I believe not of family. The Gentleman she calls her +father and whose name she takes ’tis said was hired by a +British officer, her real father, to marry the mother and +adopt the daughter, and a very large sum was given him. +He appears an abandoned old rake, pale and sallow. Oh! +he is a horrid-looking object, in a deep consumption I +imagine; she is very attentive. But, good heavens! +Ellen, I had no idea of a fashionable girl before—one +that devotes her whole attention to fashion. I have +much to tell you when I return, about the Miss Ashleys’ +french style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ransselear<a id='r38'></a><a href='#f38' class='c012'><sup>[38]</sup></a> left +Lebanon the day before we did with Mr. and Miss Westelo,<a id='r39'></a><a href='#f39' class='c012'><sup>[39]</sup></a> +Mr. Welsh,<a id='r40'></a><a href='#f40' class='c012'><sup>[40]</sup></a> the Miss Stevensons, and Miss Livingston +the Albany Belle,—all belong to Albany. Mr. +and Miss Westelo, Miss Beakman, and Mr. Ransselear, +who is Mayor of the City, called last evening and we all +went to walk—went into Miss Westelo’s and spent a +charming hour; all returned with us, and we engaged to +go to meeting with Mr. and Miss Westelo and take tea +at the Mayor’s this afternoon. Mr. Westelo is going to +Balston in company with us and a Mr. Kane<a id='r41'></a><a href='#f41' class='c012'><sup>[41]</sup></a> of N. Y. +whom we met at the Coffee House—very genteel man. +Another little lawyer from Litchfield, who came in from +Lebanon with us, is likewise, on Monday; so we shall +have a very pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet +one of their genteelest N. Y. beaux at Balston, Mr. +Bowne. I wonder if it is the same I have heard you mention. +I shall find out. About eleven o’clock, or rather +twelve, I was surprised by some delightful music, a number +of instruments, and most elegantly playing “Rise! +Cynthia! rise!” I jumped up and by the light of the +moon saw five gentlemen under the window. To Mr. +Westelo I suppose we are indebted. “Washington +March,” “Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Taste Life’s glad +moments,” “Boston March,” and many other charming +tunes—played most delightfully. I have heard no +music since I left Salem till this, and I was really +charmed. The bell will ring soon and I must finish this +after meeting.—Sunday afternoon. The dinner was +brought on the table just as the bell rang for meeting, +so that we were obliged to stay at home this afternoon, +and tell Mr. Westelo and his sister, who called again for +me, as Mrs. Derby did not go out, that I would go to +Mrs. Ranselear’s after meeting. In the morning, Mr. +Derby and myself went to the New Dutch Church with +Mr. and Miss Westelo and sat with them next pew to the +Patroon’s, whom you saw in Salem with his beautiful wife.</p> + +<p class='c011'>After meeting, Mr. Westelo came with the Patroon +and his wife to see us. She is really beautiful, dressed +very plain; cotton cambric morning gown, white sarsnet +cloak, hair plain, and black veil thrown carelessly over +her head. They urged our dining there to-morrow, but +Mr. Derby is determined to set out in the morning for +Balston—the waters, all tell him, will be of great service—when +we return we shall go and see them. A great +number of elegant gentlemen are here in this house, +many from N. Y., some going to the springs. Your +Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would look rusty long +side them. Hush, not a word!—Mr. Kane of N. Y., +whose sister married Robert Morris, is here, will set out +for the springs in company with us, Mr. Westelo and +some others. We shall go to Lake George and probably +make a party from Balston. Mrs. Derby has insisted on +my wearing the sarsnet dress to-day as we shall drink +tea at the Mayor’s, where the Patroon and wife will +probably be. I am every moment reminded of your +affectionate kindness, which I hope never to be insensible +to.</p> + +<p class='c011'>You wrote Mamma, I suppose. I have not received a +line from anybody; shall depend on finding letters at +Pittsfield or Lebanon; do write me everything. I have +so much to tell you that I cannot write. Mrs. Derby, I +cannot tell you how much I owe her. She treats me +with so much affection, and she says she believes Mr. +Derby feels as much interest in me as if I were his daughter—wishes +everything I wear should be becoming, and +indeed they both treat me with all the attention and +affection my most sanguine expectation could desire. I +do not wish to be treated with more affection; think then, +dear Ellen! how sensibly I must feel it, how gratifying +to my feelings. I can never forget the obligation I owe +to you and them. My best love to your husband; tell +him when I return I shall have a whole world of news +for him. I long to hear from you, do write soon. At +Balston I will write again. Many people will be talking +about my going this journey; many will censure me +perhaps; if you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill-natured +remarks you could not do me a greater favor +than to vindicate my conduct. I have never for one moment +since I left Salem regretted I came. The affectionate +attention of Mr. and Mrs. Derby delights my +very heart, ’twas more than I had a right to expect. I +have received much delight in this tour, seen much elegant +company, variety of character and manners. I am +sensible it will be a source of great improvement, as well +as pleasure. I shall have seen that style and splendor, +which has so many magic charms when viewed at a distance, +divested of its false place, we find it mingled with +as many pains as any other situation in life, nay, more +poignant pain. I feel that I shall not be at all injured +by this life; though I enjoy myself highly and mingle +with these people with much delight, I shall return happy +and content. Mr. Derby is quite unwell, has taken +nothing but milk since we left Salem, his stomach refuses +everything else. I have strong hopes that the +Balston waters will have a good effect. Everyone tells +him so. A gentleman just from Balston says there is a +great deal of company at the Springs, dance every other +night. If the waters agree with Mr. Derby we shall +stay a week or ten days. I have written home a number +of times, which together with my journal take up all +my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hrs. devoted +to sleep. I would give anything for one line from you +this moment. How delighted I shall be when I return! +Any news from Martha? If any letter arrives for me +send it on to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if +we were all together going to the Springs! I have not +time to write anything about Albany fine society—I +believe full of Dutch houses. Adieu, love to all friends.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Eleanor Coffin.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Salem, September 9, 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dearest Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Once more I am safe in Salem and my first thoughts +turn toward home. I arrived last night. The attention +I have received from Mr. and Mrs. Derby has +been of a kind that I shall look forward with delight to +a time when I may be able to return it as I wish. I +am in perfect health and spirits and have enjoyed the +journey more than I can express to you. I don’t know +that I have had an unpleasant hour since I have been +gone, and what is still more pleasing, I look back on +every scene without regret or pain. At Leicester I +went to Uncle Southgate’s, and Cousin William helped +me into the carriage when I left the tavern the next +morning. We did not return thro’ North-Hampton, +and I consequently missed seeing Aunt Dickenson. I +regret it extremely, but Mr. Derby was in such haste +to return, that he left us at Worcester and took the +stage. I therefore could not say a word of Hadley. I +found two letters from Octavia on my return here; felt +really grieved at Eliza Wait’s death; she must feel it +sensibly as they were such intimate friends, yet time +blunts the sharp pangs of affection, and when I return +she will feel that happiness has only fled for a while to +make its return more delightful. I have received more +attentions at the Springs than in my whole life before, +I know not why it was, but I went under every advantage. +Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, +and they are such charming people and treated me +with so much affection, it could not be otherwise! +Among the many gentlemen I have become acquainted +and who have been attentive, one I believe is serious. +I know not, my dearest Mother, how to introduce this +subject, yet as I fear you may hear it from others and +feel anxious for my welfare, I consider it a duty to tell +you all. At Albany, on our way to Ballston, we put +up at the same house with a <em>Mr. Bowne</em> from New +York; he went on to the Springs the same day we did, +and from that time was particularly attentive to me; he +was always of our parties to ride, went to Lake George +in company with us, and came on to Lebanon when we +did,—for 4 weeks I saw him every day and probably +had a better opportunity of knowing him than if I had +seen him as a common acquaintance in town for years. +I felt cautious of encouraging his attentions, tho’ I +did not wish to <em>discourage</em> it,—there were so many +<em>New Yorkers</em> at the Springs who knew him perfectly +that I easily learnt his character and reputation; he +is a man of <em>business</em>, uniform in his conduct and <em>very +much respected</em>; all this we knew from report. Mr. +and Mrs. Derby were very much pleased with him, +but conducted towards me with peculiar <em>delicacy</em>, left +me entirely to myself, as on a subject of so much +importance they scarcely dared give an opinion. I +left myself in a situation truly embarrassing. At such +a distance from all my friends,—my Father and +Mother a perfect stranger to the person,—and prepossessed +in his favor as much as so short an acquaintance +would sanction,—his conduct was such as I shall +ever reflect on with the greatest pleasure,—open, candid, +generous, and delicate. He is a man in whom I +could place the most unbounded confidence, nothing +rash or impetuous in his disposition, but weighs maturely +every circumstance; he knew I was not at liberty +to encourage his addresses without the approbation +of my Parents, and appeared as solicitous that I +should act with strict propriety as one of my most disinterested +friends. He advised me like a friend and +would not have suffered me to do anything improper. +He only required I would not discourage his addresses +till he had an opportunity of making known to my Parents +his character and wishes—this I promised and +went so far as to tell him I approved him as far as I +knew him, but the decision must rest with my Parents, +their wishes were my law. He insisted upon coming +on immediately: that I absolutely refused to consent to. +But all my persuasion to wait till winter had no effect; +the first of October he <em>will come</em>. I could not prevent it +without a positive <em>refusal</em>; this I felt no disposition to +give. And now, my dearest Mother, I submit myself +wholly to the wishes of my Father and you, convinced +that my happiness is your warmest wish, and to promote +it has ever been your study. That I feel deeply +interested in Mr. Bowne I candidly acknowledge, and +from the knowledge I have of his heart and character I +think him better calculated to promote my happiness +than any person I have yet seen; he is a firm, steady, +serious man, nothing light or trifling in his character, +and I have every reason to think he has well weighed +his sentiments towards me,—nothing rash or premature. +I have referred him wholly to you, and you, my +dearest Parents, must decide. Octavia mentioned nothing +about moving, but I am extremely anxious to know +how soon we go into Portland and what house we shall +have. Write me immediately on the subject, and let me +know if you approve my conduct. Mr. Bowne wishes +me to remain here until he comes on and then let him +carry me home: this I objected to, but will depend on +your advice. I shall be obliged to stay a few weeks +longer,—Harriet Howards expects me a week in Cambridge, +Mrs. Sumner a week in Boston, and Mrs. +Hasket Derby another week. I am now with Ellen and +shall stay till Mrs. Coffin comes up, then according to +promise go to Mrs. Lucy Derby’s. I feel extremely +anxious to hear you have moved into town, and shall +most probably be here until then; write me immediately. +If you wish any furniture, Mrs. Sumner will +assist me in purchasing whatever you wish. I mentioned +in my letter, when I set out on this journey I +borrowed 15 dollars of Ellen; I wish you to send it to +me immediately after receiving this, if you have not +already sent it. I shall likewise stand in need of a little, +as I have unavoidably incurred many expenses in +this journey which I should not otherwise have done. +Mr. Derby has loaded me with obligations, all my expenses +he defrayed as if I was his daughter, and in such +a manner as endears him more than I can express. +You cannot imagine how interested they both are in +the subject I have been writing you upon,—my nearest +friends cannot feel more, they have witnessed the whole +progress, and if you knew them, would be convinced +they would not have let me act improperly, they both +approve my conduct. I wish my Father would write +to Mr. Derby and know what he says of Mr. B.’s character. +I don’t know but ’tis a subject too delicate to +give his opinion, but I can conceive that my Father +might request it without any impropriety; and do, my +Dear Mother, beg him to say any thing in his power to +convince him that we all feel sensibly their great attention +to me. You know not how anxious I feel for my +Father to write him something of that kind, not that +they appear to expect it, but on the contrary insist that +they have been more obliged than I have, and really +seem to think so; but this rather strengthens than lessens +the obligation, nothing should have induced me to +receive such from people who felt they were conferring +favors. I long to hear when we move into Portland, +<em>do</em> write me. My best love to Horatio and Octavia, and +tell them I shall write as soon as possible. I found a +large packet of 5 sheets from Martha, dated Paris, June +28th; tells me every thing, speaks almost in raptures of +Buonaparte, says Uncle Rufus has a little son<a id='r42'></a><a href='#f42' class='c012'><sup>[42]</sup></a> about +12 years old at school there, one of the finest boys she +ever saw. I find most of the Southern people whom we +met at the Springs, think Uncle Rufus stands as good +a chance of being President as any one spoken of. I +have listened for hours to his praises when not one +knew how much I was interested; it was known from +Mrs. Derby I was his niece, and it really gave me great +consequence. I thought of Mrs. Dewitt and laughed. +Judge Sedgwick told me had letters from him as late as +June, and that he was determined on returning in the +Spring. I long to hear from home. My love to all my +friends, and believe me, with every sentiment of <em>duty</em> +and <em>affection</em>,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your daughter      <span class='sc'>Eliza</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span> +<img src='images/i_186.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>Mr. WALTER BOWNE<br> <br> From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B. Lawrence<br> <br> ARTOTYPE. E BIERSTADT, N. Y.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class='c019'>Martha sent me a most elegant Indispensable, white +lutestring spangled with silver, and a beautiful bracelet +for the arm made of her hair; she is too good—to love +me as she says, more than ever.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Portland, Nov. — Friday, — 1802.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Davis is going on to Boston and will have a +letter for you. I am delighted to hear that Mamma is +better. I send you some of Miss Homer’s wedding +cake; married on Monday. You say Rufus Emerson +has returned and tells them a great many stories; when +you write next tell me what he says, and where he +heard, and all about it, for everything interests me. Mr. +Bowne has not arrived, I am out of all patience, cannot +imagine what detains him,—4 weeks to-morrow since +he took Mr. Codman’s letter. These Quakers are governed +by such a <em>slow spirit</em>—I wish the deuce had +them. I shall be really uneasy if he don’t come soon. +I want some <em>money</em>, my last dollar I gave Horatio to buy +Mamma’s <em>oranges</em>. I have written to Mrs. Derby to buy +me a <em>winter gown</em>; in her last she says she has bought +it but does not mention the price. I wish the money to +send to her soon as I hear; a little likewise for occasional +expenses, ’tis not pleasant to be without. I have +been in but one party since Mamma’s sickness; shall +certainly not go out more than I can possibly avoid. +Mrs. Derby is quite out at Mr. B.’s not coming. I’ll +not be so ungenerous as to condemn him without giving +an opportunity of vindicating himself, some circumstances +I know not of may detain him. All our friends +are well. Send me the money as soon as possible; and +don’t forget to tell particularly what Rufus says, whom +he saw, what they told him, and when he heard all. In +some cases trifles acquire importance—mole hills become +mountains. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Love to Mamma, and tell her I am out of all patience.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, May 30, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter’s Boarding +House, and tho’ we have endeavored to keep ourselves +as much out of the way as possible, a great many +people have called to pay their respects to Mr. and Mrs. +Bowne. The first person we met driving thro’ Salem +was Mr. <em>Lee</em> just coming in town; he bowed very low +and pass’d. We went to a public house and had not been +there 3 minutes before Mr. Lee came in determined to +be the first to call on us; he shook hands very cordially, +congratulated us, and went with us up to Ellen’s. We +promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Mrs. H. +Derby; spent a charming hour and returned to Ellen’s, +dined, and all went to Lucy Derby’s to tea, Mr. Lee and +a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself called on Mrs. +Grey, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen’s +and stayed the night, and the next morning, which was +Wednesday, came into Boston,—’twas <em>election day</em> and +all the world was in motion. I could not bear to come +to Mrs. Carter’s, but Mr. Bowne thought he ought to. +Mr. Lee got to Boston as soon as we did and came immediately +to see us and offer his services; he has been +here again this morning and is going to ride into the +country with us to show us some fine seats. Doctor +Boice, Mr. Davis, Mr. Cabot, Charles Bradbury, Tom +Coffin and a dozen other gentlemen, whose names I +have forgot, and who came with the Miss Lowells and +Miss Russells. We have prevented all invitations on, +by constantly saying we were going out of town immediately. +Mr. Lee insisted, when I expressed a wish to +see Miss <em>Wyre</em>, on letting her know I was in town,—he +went and she came immediately back. I was very glad +to see her and she appeared so herself at seeing me. +Some ladies and gentlemen came in; and after they were +gone, Alicia, Mr. B. and myself went a-shopping;—the +fashions for bonnets, Octavia, are very ugly; Alicia had +a large, white glazed cambric one made without pasteboard. +But I have not told you how Gen. Knox<a id='r43'></a><a href='#f43' class='c012'><sup>[43]</sup></a> found +us out at Newburyport. We always kept by ourselves, +but in passing the entry Gen’l Knox, who had just come +in the stage, met Mr. B. and asked where he was from—(Mr. +Bowne kept here with Mrs. Carter when Gen’l +Knox was here last winter); he told him from the Eastward.—Alone?—no.—Who +is with you?—<em>Mrs. Bowne.</em> +So plump a question he could not evade, so the General +insisted on being introduced to the bride. I was walking +the room and reading, perfectly unsuspicious, when +the opening of the door and Mr. Bowne’s voice—“Gen’l +Knox, my love,” quite roused me; he came up, took my +hand very gracefully, pres’t it to his lips and begged leave +to congratulate me on the event that had lately taken +place. After a few minutes’ conversation—“And +pray, sir,” said he, turning to Mr. Bowne—“when did +this happy event take place?” I felt my face glow, but +Mr. Bowne, always delicate and collected, said—“’Tis +not a fortnight since, Sir.” The stage drove to the door, +and after hoping to see us at Mrs. Carter’s he took his +leave, and this morning—(he was out all day yesterday)—I +found him waiting in the breakfast room to see me. +He introduced me to General Pinckney<a id='r44'></a><a href='#f44' class='c012'><sup>[44]</sup></a> and his family +from Carolina,—Gen’l Pinckney, they say, is to be our +next President. “<em>Mr. Bowne</em>,” said Gen’l Knox to Gen. +P., “has done us the honor to come to the District of +Maine for a bud to transplant in New York.” He was +very polite and said “he must find us out in New York.” +Only think, I never thought of the <em>wedding-cake</em> when I +was at Salem. You would laugh to hear “<em>Mrs. Bowne</em>” +and “Miss Southgate” all in a breath—“How do you +do, Miss Southgate?”—“I beg pardon, <em>Mrs. Bowne</em>,” +and do it on purpose I believe; when I hear an old acquaintance +call me “Mrs. Bowne” it really makes me +stare at first, it sounds so very odd. Mr. B. will be in, +in a moment—and if I don’t seal my letter, he will insist +on seeing it, so love to all. I depend on finding +letters at New Haven. I have a thousand things to +say,—(some ladies enquire for Mrs. Bowne, so says the +servant,—I’ll tell you who they are when I come up,)—Mrs. +Bartlett and Alicia; they insist on our taking tea +and spending the evening; we promised if we did not +leave town after dinner that we would. Adieu, adieu. +Mr. Bowne sends a great deal of love.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate sister,</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id002'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span> +<img src='images/i_198.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New Haven, June 1, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Your letter, my dear Octavia, was the first thing to +welcome me on my arrival at this City. I cannot describe +to you my sensations when it came. I can rarely +think of home without more pain than pleasure, and yet +if there is a being on earth perfectly <em>blest</em> ’tis your sister +Eliza. How infinitely more happy than when I left you. +You cannot imagine how delightful has been our journey. +We have stop’t at every pleasant place, enjoyed all the +beauties of the Spring in the richest and most luxuriant +country I ever saw. I wrote you last from Boston.—The +afternoon following Mr. Lee called to accompany us +a few miles out of town; he had requested Mr. Lyman’s +permission to go out to his seat in Waltham that Mr. +Bowne and myself might have an opportunity to see it, +as it is the most beautiful place round Boston. We set +out about 4 o’clock—had a most charming ride. Mr. +Lee was remarkably sociable, attentive and polite, both +to Mr. Bowne and myself. He talks just as sociably, +and called me “Miss Southgate” and “Mrs. B.” all in a +breath as fast as he could talk. I have no time to tell +you of this elegant place of Mr. Lyman’s, great taste in +laying out the grounds. It surpasses everything of the +kind I ever saw; beautiful serpentine river or brook +thickly planted with trees, and elegant swans swimming +about—you can’t imagine—’twas almost like enchantment. +After Mr. Lee had gathered me a bouquet large +enough to supply a ballroom—of the most elegant and +rare flowers,—full blown roses—buds—everything +beautiful, we jumped into the carriage, he shook us cordially +by the hand, wished us every happiness, and hoped +to see us in New York ere long. Sunday morning we +got to Springfield, stayed the day, it recalled so many +pleasing sensations. When we parted there—how +different were our feelings—our happiness was augmented +by the contrast. From Springfield to Hartford +was charming; much pleased with Hartford, stayed a +day and night there. From Hartford to New Haven +is the most elegant ride you can possibly imagine,—a +fine turnpike about 30 miles, and such a picturesque, +rich, luxuriant country, such variety and beauty—oh +’twas charming! Mr. Bowne is waiting for me this full +hour to walk in the Mall,—What shall I do, he hurries +so? Well, I never saw a place so charming as New +Haven; we have been all over it,—visited the College, +everything, and I give it the preference to any place I +know of—a particular description I defer. I have no +time to say a word of your letter; write me immediately +on receiving this to New York, where we shall be on +Saturday. Mr. Bowne’s best love with mine to all the +family. Adieu—I have ten thousand things more to +say but can’t. Write me immediately.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ever your affectionate</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, June 6, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I sit down to catch a moment to tell you all I have to +before another interruption. I have so much to say, +where shall I begin—my head is most turned, and yet +I am very happy; I am enraptured with New York. You +cannot imagine anything half so beautiful as <em>Broadway</em>, +and I am sure you would say I was more romantic than +ever if I should attempt to describe the Battery,—the +elegant water prospect,—you can have no idea how refreshing +in a warm evening. The gardens we have not +yet visited; indeed we have so many delightful things +’twill take me forever; and my husband declares he +takes as much pleasure in showing them to me as I do +in seeing them; you would believe it if you saw him. +Did I tell you anything of Brother John? handsome +young man, great literary taste; he is one of the family; +nothing of the appearance of a Quaker. Mrs. King, +another sister, they all say looks like me. Mrs. Murray, +who is very sick now, has a daughter, a charming, lively +girl, about 19, and the little witch introduced me in a +laughing way last night to some of her friends as <em>Aunt +Eliza</em>. I protest against that; her brother Robert 17 +years old too; I positively must declare off from being +Aunt to them. Caroline and I went a-shopping yesterday, +and ’tis a fact that the little white satin quaker bonnets, +cap-crowns, are the most fashionable that are worn—lined +with pink or blue or white; but I’ll not have +one, for if any of my old acquaintance should meet me +in the street they would laugh, I would if I were them. +I mean to send sister Boyd a quaker cap, the first tasty +one I see; Caroline’s are too plain, but she has promised +to get me a more fashionable pattern. ’Tis the fashion. +I see nothing new or pretty,—large sheer muslin shawls +put on as Sally Weeks wears hers are much worn, they +show the form thro’ and look pretty; silk nabobs, +plaided, colored and white, are much worn, very short +waists, hair very plain. Maria Denning has been to see +me, I was very happy,—several spring acquaintance. +Expect Eliza Watts and Jane every moment, they did +not know where I was to be found. Last night we were +at the play—“The way to get married.” Mr. Hodgkinson<a id='r45'></a><a href='#f45' class='c012'><sup>[45]</sup></a> +in <em>Tangent</em> is inimitable. Mrs. Johnson a sweet, +interesting actress in Julia, and Jefferson,<a id='r46'></a><a href='#f46' class='c012'><sup>[46]</sup></a> a great comic +player, were all that were particularly pleasing; house +was very thin so late in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Codman<a id='r47'></a><a href='#f47' class='c012'><sup>[47]</sup></a> +came to see me. I should have known her in a +moment from her resemblance to Ellen and the family,—appeared +very happy to see me,—Mr. Codman was +happy, Mrs. Codman would now have somebody to call +her friend, etc., etc. Maria Denning told me Uncle +Rufus [King] was expected every day; we have such +contradictory accounts, we hardly know what to believe. +As to housekeeping, we don’t begin to talk anything +of it yet. Mr. Bowne says not till October, however +you shall hear all our plans. I anticipate so much happiness; +I am sure if any body ought to I may. My +heart is <em>full</em> sometimes when I think how much more +blest I am than most of the world. At this moment +there is not a single circumstance presents itself to my +mind that I feel unpleasant to reflect on: the sweet tranquillity +of my feelings—so different from any thing I +ever before felt—such a confidence—my every feeling +reciprocated and every wish anticipated.—I write to +you what would appear singular to any other.—You +can easily imagine my feelings.—I see Mr. B. now +where he is universally known and respected, and every +hour see some new proof how much he is honored and +esteemed here; the most gratifying to the heart you +can imagine, cannot but make an impression on mine. +We talk of you when we get to housekeeping, how delightful +’twill be—what a sweet domestic circle!—I +must leave you; Caty says—“Mrs. Walter (for so the +servants call me to distinguish), a gentleman below +wishes to see you.” Adieu. Who can this said gentleman +be?</p> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Rodman was below, whom I saw at the Springs, +and for these two hours there has been so many calling +I thought I should never get up to finish my letter. +Mrs. Henderson,<a id='r48'></a><a href='#f48' class='c012'><sup>[48]</sup></a> whom I mentioned to you as one of +the most elegant women in New York, and Maria Denning, +her sister, came in soon after. Engaged to Mrs. +Henderson’s for Friday.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Thursday Morning:—I have been to two of the +Gardens, Columbia,<a id='r49'></a><a href='#f49' class='c012'><sup>[49]</sup></a> near the Battery, a most romantic +beautiful place; ’tis enclosed in a circular form and little +rooms and boxes all around, with tables and chairs, +these full of company; the trees all interspersed with +lamps twinkling thro’ the branches; in the centre a +pretty little building with a fountain playing continually, +the rays of the lamps on the drops of water gave it a +cool sparkling appearance that was delightful. This +little building, which has a kind of canopy and pillars +all round the garden, had festoons of colored lamps +that at a distance looked like large brilliant stars seen +thro’ the branches, and placed all round are marble +busts, beautiful little figures of Diana, Cupid, Venus, +by the glimmering of the lamps, which are partly concealed +by the foliage, give you an idea of enchantment. +Here we strolled among the trees and every +moment meet some walking from the thick shade unexpectedly, +and come upon us before we heard a sound, +’twas delightful! We passed a box that Miss Watts +was in; she called us, and we went in and had a charming, +refreshing glass of ice cream, which has chilled me +ever since. They have a fine orchestra and have concerts +here sometimes. I can conceive of nothing more +charming than this must be.</p> + +<p class='c011'>We went on to the Battery: this is a large promenade +by the shore of the North River; very extensive rows +and clusters of trees in every part, and a large walk +along the shore, almost over the water, gives you such +a fresh, delightful air, that every evening in summer it +is crowded with company. Here too they have music +playing on the water in boats of a moonlight night. +Last night we went to a garden<a id='r50'></a><a href='#f50' class='c012'><sup>[50]</sup></a> a little out of town, +Mount Vernon garden,—this too is surrounded by +boxes of the same kind, with a walk on top of them. +You can see the gardens all below; but ’tis a <em>summer +playhouse</em>—pit and boxes, stage and all, but open on +top; from this there are doors opening into the garden, +which is similar to Columbia Garden, lamps among the +trees, large mineral fountain, delightful swings, two at +a time,—I was in raptures as you may imagine, and if +I had not grown sober before I came to this wonderful +place ’twould have turned my head. But I have filled +my letter and not told you half—of the Park—the +public buildings,—I have so much to tell you, and of +those that have called on me—I have no room to say +half. Yesterday Mrs. Henderson came again to see me +and brought two of my Aunt King’s most intimate +friends to introduce—Mrs. Delafield<a id='r51'></a><a href='#f51' class='c012'><sup>[51]</sup></a> and Miss Lucy +Bull. Mr. and Mrs. Delafield are Uncle and Aunt’s +very intimate friends, she is called the most elegant +woman in New York. I was delighted with her and +very much gratified at Mrs. Henderson’s attention in +coming again on purpose to introduce them, they were +so attentive, so polite, and Mrs. Delafield said so many +things of Aunt King, how delighted they would be to +find me settled near them, how much I should love +them and everything of the kind, that was very gratifying +to me. Miss Denning has been to see me 3 or 4 +times; several invitations to tea, but we declined as our +family friends were visiting us this week. This morning +we go to make calls. I have got a list of names +that most frightens me. All our brothers and sisters +say—“Why, Eliza does not seem at all like a stranger +to us,”—indeed I feel as easy and happy among them +as possible, which astonishes me, as I have been so +unaccustomed to Quakers, but their manners are so +affectionate and soft, you cannot help it. Mrs. King +(sister) is a beauty—She would be very handsome in a +different dress; she looks so much like Alicia Wyer, you +would love her,—just such full sweet blue eyes, charming +complexion and sweet expression, and her little +quaker cap gives her such an innocent, simple appearance, +I imagine Alicia with a quaker dress—and you +will see her exactly. Adieu. I am expecting to hear +from you every day. Mr. Bowne is out, would send a +great deal of love if he were here. Kiss dear little +Mary and all the children. I never go by a toy shop, +or confectionery, without longing to have them here. +Love to all. Our best love to my Father and Mother, +Horatio, Isabella and all. I mean to write as soon as +I am settled a little. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, June 18, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am just going to set off for Long Island and therefore +promise but a short letter. I have a mantua maker +here making you a gown which I hope to have finished +to send by Mrs. Rodman. The fashions are <em>remarkably +plain</em>, sleeves much longer than ours, and half handkerchiefs +are universally worn. At Mrs. Henderson’s +party there was but one lady except myself without a +handkerchief,—dressed as plain as possible, the most +fashionable women the plainest. I have got you a +pretty India spotted muslin,—’tis fashionable here. +<em>My husband</em> sends a great deal of love, says we shall +be travelling about all Summer, settle down soberly in +October, and depend on seeing you as soon as we are +at housekeeping. Sister Caroline has made Sister Boyd +a tasty quaker cap, which I shall send with the gown. +How could you mistake what I said of Caroline so +much? Far from being “<em>stiff and rigid</em>,” she is most +affectionate, attentive and obliging,—nothing was more +foreign to my thoughts, and you must have taken your +idea from what I said of her dress, which, you may +depend upon it, with quakers is no criterion to judge +by. I never was more disappointed in my life—to find +such a stiff, forbidding external covered so much affability +and sweetness.</p> + +<p class='c011'>You must give my love to Miranda. I wish I had +time to write to her, Horatio, my Mother and all, but I +expect the carriage every moment. Tell Horatio he +must write to me. At present my letters to you must +answer for all, till I am more settled. Mrs. Codman +has promised to call at our house and tell you all about +me. Malbone<a id='r52'></a><a href='#f52' class='c012'><sup>[52]</sup></a> has just finished my picture; I have +done sitting; he was not willing I should see it, as ’tis +unfinished. When you return ’twill be done, then I’ll +tell you whether ’tis like. I have told you in a former +letter we shall go to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and perhaps +to the Springs. My trunk arrived safe. I shall +send a little ring to Cousin Mary Porter; ’tis not the +kind I wanted, but I had not time to have one made to +send by Mrs. C. Is mine with sister Mary’s hair done? +Send it to her by the first opportunity. Adieu. Best +love to all friends, and all the children. Tell mamma +I mean to write her as soon as I have leisure, that I am +very, <em>very</em> happy, that Uncle Rufus has <em>not</em> arrived, tho’ +every day expected, and that I look to the time when +we shall see her and my Father in New York. Mr. +Bowne and myself both will be delighted. Give my +best love to Lucia,<a id='r53'></a><a href='#f53' class='c012'><sup>[53]</sup></a> Zilpah and John, and ask the latter +if he has discovered on whom my <em>mantle rested</em>. Tell +Zilpah we pass her friend Mrs. Bogert’s house every +day, and never without thinking of her. The City air +has not stolen my <em>country bloom</em> yet, for every one says—“I +need not ask you how you do, Mrs. Bowne, you +look in such fine health.” Dr. Moore<a id='r54'></a><a href='#f54' class='c012'><sup>[54]</sup></a> would not inoculate +me for the Small Pox, after examining my arm, as +he was sure from what I told him I had had the Kine +Pox well, and he would insure me against the Small +Pox. But Mr. Bowne seems to wish I should be inoculated, +tho’ I care nothing about it now. Adieu. My best +love to Aunt Porter and Nancy, Mary Porter and all +the other friends. We are going to <em>Flushing</em> to see our +cousins before we return; you know how Mary laughed +about the name. Yesterday we were at Belvidere, the +most beautiful place, the finest view in the world, the +greatest variety. I never shall have done. Kiss dear +little Mary; I think of her every time I see a sweet +little sight.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate sister      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. Remember and put an S in my name to distinguish; +there are 2 or 3 Eliza Bownes in the family.</p> +<div class='figleft id003'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span> +<img src='images/i_211a.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>LUCIA WADSWORTH</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='figright id004'> +<img src='images/i_211b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>ZILPAH WADSWORTH</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, June 30, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Uncle Rufus<a id='r55'></a><a href='#f55' class='c012'><sup>[55]</sup></a> has just landed. The Hussas have +ceased, the populace retired, and I hasten to give you +the earliest information. Several thousand people were +on the wharf when he landed, my Husband among +the number. As he stept from the vessel they gave 3 +cheers and escorted him up into Broadway to a Mr. +Nicholas Lowe’s<a id='r56'></a><a href='#f56' class='c012'><sup>[56]</sup></a> (his friend); then three more cheers as +he entered the door. He stood at the door, bowed, and +they dispersed—all but a dozen particular friends, who +accompanied him into the house, and Mr. Bowne with +them. Was introduced by Mr. Watson,<a id='r57'></a><a href='#f57' class='c012'><sup>[57]</sup></a> and immediately +after Mr. Henderson<a id='r58'></a><a href='#f58' class='c012'><sup>[58]</sup></a> said, “A niece of yours, Mr. +King, was lately married in New York to Mr. Bowne.” +My Uncle immediately came up to him, shook hands a +second time, and said, “<em>Miss Southgate</em>, I presume.”—He +staid but a few moments; the acclamations of the +people had rather embarrassed him (uncle). Aunt King +had not landed. This evening we are going to see them. +Imagine me entering, presented by Mrs. Henderson, +Miss Bull, or Mrs. Delafield,—all her intimate friends; +think what a mixture of sensations! I’ll tell you all about +it. I returned from Long Island this morning: delightful +sail, beautiful country, and pleasant visit. Malbone +has finished my picture, but is unwilling we should have +it as the likeness is not striking,—he says not handsome +enough—so says Mr. B. But I think ’tis in some things +much flattered. It looks too serious, pensive, soft,—that’s +not <em>my</em> style at all. But perhaps ’twill look different; +’twas not quite finished when I saw it; however, he +insists on taking it again as soon as he returns from the +Southward, and told Mr. Bowne, if he <em>must</em> have one he +might keep this till he returned and he would try again. +Uncle Rufus brings news that <em>war</em> has actually taken +place, hostilities commenced. The King<a id='r59'></a><a href='#f59' class='c012'><sup>[59]</sup></a> on the 14th +sent a message to Parliament that he was determined +to use every effort to repress the overbearing power of +France, and hoped for their united assistance and exertions.—So +much for <em>Father</em>.—The whole City seems +alive, nothing else talked of but the arrival of Mr. King +and the news of War. Adieu. I’ll write again soon. +Best love to all the family.</p> + +<p class='c011'>We are in expectation of great entertainment on +fourth of July—<em>Independent</em> day! as they laugh at us +Yankees for calling it,—the gardens, the Battery, and +every thing to be illuminated, fire-works, music, etc., etc. +Col. Boyd called to see me; and Mr. Grelett, whom I was +introduced to in Boston, brought the handsome Miss +Pemberton, whom you have heard Col. B. speak of—to +call on me; she’s from Philadelphia. I was out. I hope +none of my acquaintance will come to New York, pass +thro’, or any thing, without finding me out. I just begin +to make memorandums of tables and chairs, spoons and +beds, and everything else; most turns my brain, so many +things to think of; but I am well and happy, and ’tis a +pleasant task. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours affectionately,      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>10 o’clock, evening.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Just returned from Uncle Rufus’. Mr. B. introduced +me to Uncle; he took my hand, introduced us to his +wife, and they both seemed much pleased to see us. +Uncle is so easy and graceful and pleasing, I was delighted +with him. Looks very like <em>Mr. Parker</em> instead +of <em>Mr. Davis</em>; enquired particularly after the family; +was surprised at my being here,—said everything that +was pleasant, hoped we should be very sociable, etc., +etc.; and after a pleasant half-hour we returned home. +I broke the seal of my letter to tell you; ’tis late, I can’t +be particular.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>E. S. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Southgate, Portland.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, July 4, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have written generally to Octavia, but as I meant +my letters for the family, ’tis not much matter to whom +they were directed. I wrote you of Uncle Rufus’ arrival +and our calling on them the evening after. Sunday +they called on us with Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, their +friends, with whom they are staying till their own house +is ready. They both kissed me very affectionately, said +everything that pleased me, and were very solicitous +that we might get houses near each other in the winter, +that we might be sociable neighbors. Uncle Rufus says +I remind him of Martha very much; he inquired particularly +after all the family, and asked if I did not expect +you would come on to see me, and both appeared much +pleased when I assured them I depended on seeing you +here. Aunt King told Mr. Bowne he must bring me +to see them <em>very often</em>, and look upon her as a <em>Mother</em>.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>July 8.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>My letter will be an old date before I finish it. You +must have perceived, my Dear Mother, from my letters, +that I am much pleased with New York. I was never +in a place that I should prefer as a situation for life, and +nothing but the distance from my friends can render it +other than delightful. We have thus far spent the summer +delightfully: we have been no very long journeys, +but been on a number of little excursions of 20 or 40 +miles to see whatever is pleasant in the neighborhood. +Mr. Bowne’s friends, tho’ all very plain, are very amiable +and affectionate, and I receive every attention from +them I wish. I have a great many people call on me, +and shall have it in my power to select just such a +circle of acquaintance as suits my taste,—few people +whose prospects of happiness exceed mine, which I +often think of with grateful sensations. Mr. Bowne’s situation +in life is equal to my most sanguine expectations, +and it is a peculiar gratification to me to find him so +much and so universally esteemed and respected. This +would be ridiculous from me to any but my Mother, but I +know it must be pleasing to you to know that I realize all +the happiness you can wish me. I have not a wish that +is not gratified as soon as ’tis known. We intend going +to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and a watering place, similar +to the Springs, about 30 miles beyond Philadelphia; +shall probably set out the latter part of this month. At +present we have done nothing toward housekeeping, +and Mr. Bowne won’t let me do the least thing towards +it, lest I get my mind engaged and not enjoy the pleasure +of our journeys.—’Tis very different here from most +any place, for there is no article but you can find ready +made to your taste, excepting table linen, bedding, etc., +etc. One poor bed quilt is all I have towards housekeeping, +and been married two months almost. I am +sadly off, to be sure. We have not yet found a house +that suits us. Mr. Bowne don’t like any of his own, and +wishes to hire one for the present until he can <em>build</em>, +which he intends doing next season; which I am very +glad of, as I never liked living in a hired house and +changing about so often. Uncle and Aunt King want we +should get near them; they have hired a ready furnished +house about 2 miles out of the city for the summer, and +intend hiring a house in town in the winter. I have +been very busy with my mantua-maker, as I am having +a dress made to wear to Mrs. Delafield’s to dine on Sunday; +they have a most superb country seat on Long Island, +opposite Hell-Gate;—he is Uncle Rufus’ most intimate +friend and a very intimate one of Mr. Bowne’s. +We shall probably meet them there; I have not seen +them to ask. My picture is done, but I am disappointed +in it. Malbone says he has not done me justice, so says +Mr. Bowne; but I think, tho’ the features are striking, he +has not caught the expression, particularly of the eyes, +which are excessively <em>pensive</em>: would do for Sterne’s Maria. +The mouth laughs a little and they all say is good,—all +the lower part of the face; but the eyes not the +thing. He wants me to sit again, so does Mr. Bowne. +Malbone thinks he could do much better in another +position. I get so tired, I am quite reluctant about +sitting again. However, we intend showing it to some +of our friends before we determine. How do all our +friends at Saco and Topsham do? I often think of +them, and Mr. Bowne and myself are talking of coming +to see you next summer very seriously. How comes on +the new house? We are to come as soon as ever that +is finished. If you choose to send so far, I will purchase +any kind of furniture you wish, perhaps cheaper and +better than you can get elsewhere. Adieu. Remember +me to all the children. Dear little Mary,—I can’t help +crying sometimes, with all my pleasures and amusements; +’tis impossible to be at once reconciled to quitting +all one’s friends. I thought a great deal of the +children. I never thought I loved them so much; I +never pass a toy-shop or confectionery without wishing +them here. How does Horatio succeed in business, as +well as he expected? How comes on Father’s turnpike +and diking? Tell him I yesterday met a woman full +broke out with the small-pox; I was within a yard of her +before I perceived it; the first sensation was terror, and +I ran several paces before I recollected myself. As +soon as I arrived in town Doctor Moore examined my +arm, enquired the particulars, and refused to inoculate +me again; that he would venture to insure me from the +small-pox; that he had inoculated hundreds and never +had one take the small-pox after the kine-pox. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate daughter</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. All the family desire to be remembered particularly. +Mr. B. is out to dine.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough, District of Maine.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id002'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span> +<img src='images/i_223.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE<br> <br> Hell Gate, Long Island</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, July 14.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Friend Greene from Portland is here and will dine +with us to-day; a fine opportunity for me to write to my +friends. I have quite a packet of newspapers which I +shall send by him to amuse you; they contain all the +public amusements and shows in celebration of 4th July. +The Procession passed our house and was very elegant. +In the evening we were at Davis Hall Gardens; the +entertainment there you will see by the papers; ’twas +supposed there were 4,000 people there; tickets half a +dollar; and ’tis said he made very little money, so you +may think what the entertainment was. Indeed there is +every day something new and amusing to me. Whenever +we have nothing particular in view, in the cool of +the evening we walk down to the Battery, go into the +garden, sit half an hour, eat ice-cream, drink lemonade, +hear fine music, see a variety of people, and return home +happy and refreshed. Sunday we dined at Mr. Delafield’s +near Hell Gate, Long Island; the most superb, +magnificent place I ever saw, situated directly on the +East river, the finest view you can imagine. I was delighted +with our visit, so much ease, elegance and hospitality. +I am very glad you liked your gown. Long +sleeves are very much worn, made like mitts; crosswise, +only one seam and that in the back of the arm, +and a half drawn sleeve over and a close, very short one +up high, drawn up with a cord. I have just been having +one made so. All Mrs. Delafield’s daughters, even +to little Caroline, no older than our Mary, had their +frocks made exactly like the gown I sent you, only cut +open in the back, a piece of bone each side and eyelet +holes laced,—long sleeves as I mentioned above; short +sleeves and open behind. I should admire to be in +Portland, now all the Coffin family are there. Give my +best love to Mrs. Coffin and Ellen Foster; the others +will have returned. I am astonished at what you say +about my calling on Mrs. Sumner, and what Mrs. +Coffin said. When I got to Boston I determined to +call nowhere but at Mrs. Sumner’s, as my intimacy in +the family was such and I was fearful she might not +hear of my being in town and should not see her; accordingly +the day I got in town we went out purposely +to call there, and to prevent any one calling on us (for I +did not wish to see much company) we said we expected +to go out of town immediately. However, there were +a great many called to see me notwithstanding. In +Cap hill we met Mr. Sumner. I introduced Mr. Bowne, +said we were just going to call on Mrs. Sumner, enquired +how she did, etc., and Mr. Sumner said they were +just going out to ride, but if I would go immediately +with him I could see her. I was fearful of detaining +them, and thought I should certainly see her, now she +knew I was in town and had set out to call on her; and +Mr. Sumner particularly asked where we were to be +found,—we told him Mrs. Carter’s, and parted. From +that time, every time I heard the bell, I supposed ’twas +Mrs. Sumner. We staid 2 days, and neither Mr. nor +Mrs. Sumner called. I felt amazingly hurt, as so many +ladies I was very little acquainted with called on me +immediately. Late in the evening before we left town, +Tom Coffin called in, appeared rather formal, never +mentioned Mrs. Sumner or any reason why they did +not call, nor any apology. As I could no way account +for such mysterious conduct, it greatly mortified me. +This is the true statement, which you may mention to +Mrs. Coffin, and then ask her who has a right to feel +offended. The great dinner given in honor of Uncle +Rufus I have not yet mentioned; ’twas very superb, and +200 of the most respectable citizens of New York attended. +Mr. Bowne says, tho’ he has been at many entertainments +given in honor of particular persons, yet he +never saw one that was so complimentary, and never a +person conduct himself on such an occasion with such +ease, elegance, and dignity in his life. He returned +quite in raptures,—such insinuating manners—such +ease in receiving those presented and introduced,—he +is a most amazing favorite here. Democrats and Federalists +and all parties attended. French Consul on +his right—English Consul on his left. When Mr. +Bowne went up, he held out his hand with all the ease +of an old friend, without even bowing, and said, “How! +is it Bowne? How’s your wife?”—so familiar. I went +to see the tables: very novel and elegant—there was +one the whole length of the Hall and 4 branches from +it; there was an enclosure about 2 feet wide, filled with +earth, and railed in with a little white fence, and little +gates every yard or two ran thro’ the centre of all the +tables, and on each side were the plates and dishes. In +this enclosure there were lakes, and swans swimming, +little mounds covered with goats among little trees,—some +places flocks of sheep, some cows laying down, +beautiful little arches and arbors covered with green,—figures +of Apollo, Ceres, Flora, little white pyramids +with earth and sprigs of myrtle, orange, lemon, flowers +in imitation of hothouse plants,—nothing could have a +more beautiful effect in the hot weather; those opposite +to you were divided, their plates quite hidden. Adieu; +some ladies have just called. We are going about 20 +miles to enjoy the sea, Rockaway, a place of fashionable +resort; ’tis intensely hot, exceeded only by Ballston +Springs. We don’t go to Bethlehem till the last of the +month. Mr. Bowne’s business detains him in the City +only one or two days in a week perhaps, yet prevents a +long journey just now. We ride out every day or two, +go into the baths whenever we please, they have very +fine public ones. Adieu. The ladies will think I am +Yankee. Love to all.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c019'>Sally Weeks remember me to—and all other friends; +Betsey Tappan—tell her Mr. Bowne often speaks of +that sweet little Miss Tappan. How comes on Father’s +house, Octavia? We both depend on its being finished +next season. We think very seriously of coming next +summer. Mr. Bowne wants to go almost as much as +myself.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Love to Sister, hope she is well again. Uncle Rufus +told me Mr. Boyd had been very sick, but I did not +mention it, lest it might alarm sister. Adieu. Love to +Zilpah and Lucia. Tell Zilpah Mrs. Bogert came to see +me last week and is in hopes she will come on with her +father. Remember me affectionately to all Mrs. Davis’ +family. I sometimes treat myself with telling my Husband +all about our charming frolics. Does not Mr. +Davis talk anything of coming to New York? Louise +is quite a belle I suppose.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, July 23, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have sent a few sugar toys to the children, which +you must divide,—the cradle for Mary, the basket for +Arixene, etc., etc.,—pair shoes apiece, two little dogs I +put up in the music—one looks like Sancho; a little +frock I send as a pattern for Miranda, Arixene, and +Mary, long or short sleeves as you please, whalebone in +the back, laced. I have sent another box of things to +Isabella’s children: the paper box I mean for them; two +little fans for Arixene and Mary, with their names on +them, you’ll find in the bottom of the box. The two songs +I sent you are all I could find that struck me; for the +“Death of Allen,” I never heard it, and bought it because +it was a composition of Floyd’s; “The Wounded +Hussar” I admired and knew you could not get it set +for the Piano,—I don’t know but ’tis different from +Miss Sandford’s. I write in great haste—we are going +to dine at Uncle Rufus’ out of town; ’tis past eleven. +They have a delightful place on the North River; took +tea there last week. Mr. Bowne joins me in love to +Father and Mother and all. How comes on the house, +Octavia?—we want to come very much next Summer. +Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours, E. S. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. I have some fine peaches and apricots on the +table before me; Mr. Bowne brings me a pocketful of +fruit every time he comes home. I have ate as many +as I want to, and have been thinking how much I would +give to get them to you, but this early fruit won’t keep +at all. I was at the theatre night before last—at +Mount Vernon Garden; Hodgkinson is a fine fellow. +We commence our Southern journey in about 10 days. +Oh, I am sorry—Mr. Bowne just came to tell me the +vessel has sailed—well, I must wait for another. Love +to Mary Porter, and give her the ring I enclose of my +hair; tell her I long to see her, and ask if she means to +be <em>Mary Porter</em> when I next come to the Eastward. +Love to all friends.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Bethlehem, August 9, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I intended writing before I left New York, but was +so much engaged in preparing for our journey, I had no +time. My great wish to see this famous Bethlehem<a id='r60'></a><a href='#f60' class='c012'><sup>[60]</sup></a> is +at length gratified. You can scarcely imagine any +thing more novel and delightful than every thing about +here, so entirely different from any place in New England. +Indeed, in travelling thro’ the State of Pennsylvania, +the cultivation, buildings, and every thing are +entirely different from ours,—highly cultivated country, +looks like excellent farmers. Barns twice as large as +the houses, all built of <em>stone</em>; no white painted houses, as +in New England. We crossed the famous Delaware at +Easton. It separates New Jersey and Pennsylvania. +We saw some beautiful little towns in New Jersey likewise, +but in Pennsylvania the villages look so many +clusters of <em>jails</em>, and the public buildings like the Bastile, +or, to come nearer home, like the New York State +prison,—all of <em>stone</em>, so strong, heavy, and gloomy, I +could not bear them; the inhabitants most all Dutch, +and such <em>jargon</em> as you hear in every entry or corner +makes you fancy yourself in a foreign country. These +Bethlehemites are all Germans, and retain many of the +peculiarities of their country—such as their great +fondness for music. It is delightful: there is scarcely +a house in the place without a Piano-forte; the Post +Master has an elegant grand Piano. The Barber plays +on almost every kind of music. Sunday afternoon we +went to the Young Men’s house to hear some sacred +music. We went into a hall, which was hung round +with Musical Instruments, and about 20 musicians of +the Brethren were playing in concert,—an organ, 2 bass +viols, 4 violins, two flutes, two French horns, two clarionets, +bassoon, and an Instrument I never heard before, +made up the Band; they all seemed animated and interested. +It was delightful to see these men, who are accustomed +to laborious employments, all kinds of mechanics, +and so perfect in so refined an art as music. One man +appeared to take the lead and played on several different +instruments, and to my great astonishment I saw the +famous musician enter the breakfast room this morning +with the razor-box in his hand to shave some of the +gentlemen. Judge of my surprise; and some one mentioned +he had just been fixing a watch down-stairs. +Yesterday, Daddy Thomas (who is a head one, and who +comes to the tavern every few hours to see if there are +any strangers who wish to visit the buildings) conducted +us all round. We went to the Schools,—first was merely +a <em>sewing school</em>, little children, and a pretty single sister +about 30, with her white skirt, white, short, tight waistcoat, +nice handkerchief pinned outside, a muslin apron +and a close cambric cap, of the most singular form you +can imagine. I can’t describe it; the hair is all put out +of sight, turned back before, and no border to the cap, +very unbecoming but very singular, tied under the chin +with a pink ribbon,—blue for the married, white for +the widows. Here was a Piano-forte, and another sister +teaching a little girl music. We went thro’ all the different +schoolrooms—some misses of 16,—their teachers +were very agreeable and easy, and in every room +was a Piano. I never saw any embroidery so beautiful; +Muslin they don’t work. Make artificial flowers very +handsome, paper baskets, etc. At the single Sisters’ +house we were conducted round by a fine lady-like +woman, who answered our questions with great intelligence +and affability. I think there were 130 in this +house; their apartments were perfectly neat,—the Dormitory +or sleeping-room is a large room in the upper +part of the building, with “Dormont” opposite the +whole length. A lamp suspended in the middle of the +ceiling, which is kept lighted all night; and there were +40 beds, in rows, only one person in each,—they were +of a singular shape, high and covered, and struck me +like people laid out—dreadful! the lamp and altogether +seemed more like a nunnery than any thing I had seen. +One sister walks these sleeping-rooms once an hour +thro’ the night. We went to a room where they keep +their work for sale,—pocket-books, pin balls, Toilette +cushions, baskets, artificial flowers, etc., etc. We +bought a box full of things, and left them much pleased +with the neatness and order which appeared thro’out. +The situation of the place is delightful. The walks on +the banks of the Lehigh and the mountains surrounding—’tis +really beautiful. The widows’ house and +young men’s is similar to the one described; there were +many children at the school, from Georgia, Montreal, +and many other places as far. There are some genteel +people from Georgia at the tavern where we are, and +Philadelphia. We intended leaving here for Philadelphia +to-day, but it rains. We shall spend a few days +there and go to Long Branch. If the alarm of the fever<a id='r61'></a><a href='#f61' class='c012'><sup>[61]</sup></a> +continues in New York we shall not return there again, +but go in the neighborhood. Send in for a trunk, which +I packed up for the purpose, in case I feared going in +the City—and set off for the Springs or somewhere +else. ’Tis very uncertain when we go to housekeeping; +the alarm of the Fever hurried us out of town without +any arrangement towards it, and may, if it continues, +keep us out till middle of Autumn. But at any rate +you must spend the winter with us, we both depend on +it. You can certainly find some opportunity. Give +my best love to all friends, and expect to hear from me +frequently while I am rambling about. My husband is +so fond of roving, I don’t know but he’ll spoil me. We +both enjoy travelling very much, and surely it is never +so delightful as in company with those we love. Only +think, ’tis just <em>a year</em> to-day since we first saw each +other, and here we are, Married, happy, and enjoying +ourselves in Bethlehem. Memorable day! Horatio’s +and Frederick’s <em>birthday</em>, too; mine will soon be here. +I long to see you all more than you can imagine; hope +to, next summer, and <em>depend</em> on your spending the winter +with us. Love to Miranda, when you write, and tell +her I mean to write myself. Mr. B—— often talks of +her. Is Mr. Boyd<a id='r62'></a><a href='#f62' class='c012'><sup>[62]</sup></a> <em>arrived</em>? I want much to hear. +Love to Sister<a id='r63'></a><a href='#f63' class='c012'><sup>[63]</sup></a> and the children. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Affectionately,</div> + <div class='line in16'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ballston Springs, Sept. 4, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Once more do I write you from the <em>Springs</em>, where I +enjoyed so many delightful moments last year. We recall +so many charming things to our recollection by this +visit to the Springs that ’tis of all places the most pleasant +for us to visit. A description of the place, amusements, +etc. I gave you last year; they are the same now. +We arrived yesterday morning, found the place much +crowded, and were fearful of not getting good accommodations, +but in that respect were agreeably disappointed. +They dance much as usual; a fine ball to-morrow evening. +I wish you were here to help us dance,—a great +many New Yorkers have taken refuge here from the +fever. I was quite sorry when I found Mr. Derby had +been here and gone again. Tell Louise the <em>Bussey</em> family +from Boston are here, and Miss Putnam appears as +much delighted with the <em>picturesque steeps</em> of Ballston +as she was with those of <em>Freeport</em>, and with about as +much reason. We have an abundance of queer, smart +people here. Last night at tea I found myself seated +alongside <em>Beau Dawson</em>,<a id='r64'></a><a href='#f64' class='c012'><sup>[64]</sup></a> “<em>Nancy Dawson</em>,”—our envoy +to France—you remember! Gen. Smith of Baltimore +and family, who it was said would succeed Uncle Rufus; +Mr. Harper and wife—the fine speaker in Congress; +<em>Herssa Madame</em> Somebody—French lady; and +a nobleman from nobody knows where, and a parcel of +strange people, making a variety that I like once in a +while. But, let me see, I have hurried you along to the +Springs from Long Branch in a much easier manner +than I got here myself. Oh the tremendous Highlands!<a id='r65'></a><a href='#f65' class='c012'><sup>[65]</sup></a> +I thought to my soul I should never hold out +to get over them—such roads! But I lived over it, +tho’ it made me sick fairly, with fatigue. I went to see +Maria Denning, whose father’s country seat, Beverly, is +in the midst of the Highlands—on the North River, +directly opposite <em>West Point</em>. It does not look much +like Louisa’s picture; ’twould make one of the most sublime +and beautiful pictures imaginable if the objects +were selected with judgment. It rises with sublime +and picturesque grandeur directly from the North River. +Who would have thought of taking a view of it without +water?—that is the greatest beauty when united with +the others. We got to Mr. Denning’s Saturday night,—left +the neighborhood of New York, Thursday,—where +we staid only one night, dined at Uncle’s, drank +tea at Sister Murray’s, and set off that evening for the +Springs. The romantic and beautiful scenery on the +North River as we rode up was most charming to me. +I admire the wild diversity of nature—here we had it +in perfection. I am sure the <em>Hudson</em> wants nothing but +a Poet to celebrate it. The Thames and the Tiber have +been sung by Homers and Popes, but I don’t believe +there can be a greater variety, more sublimity or more +beauty, than are to be found on the banks of the Hudson. +The Delaware did not strike me at all—I crossed +it several times. We were in hopes Uncle and Aunt +would come here with us, but Uncle said he must go +<em>East</em> if anywhere, but he wanted to be at rest a few +months, now he was settled. Mrs. Codman told me she +saw you all; we called a moment to see her. Mrs. Sumner +has a son too. Poor Mrs. Davis, how much sickness +she has! On our return from Long Branch we +went to <em>Passaic Falls</em> with a Baltimore family; had a +charming little jaunt about 20 miles from New York. +The falls—the rocks—the whole scenery partakes +more of the sublime—almost terrific—than Glens +Falls, but not so beautiful. I am much delighted to +hear of Mr. Boyd’s arrival; Sister must be very happy. +Martha is coming this month; the fever would prevent +her coming to New York—I am sorry. Love to Mrs. +Coffin. My mother is quite well, Mrs. Codman tells +me. Horatio,—Miranda, there’s half a dozen wild +girls here that would romp to beat her—they are as +old as you, but sad romps. We shall stay here about +a week, then go to <em>Lebanon</em>, where I wish you to direct +a letter to me immediately on the receipt of this. I +want to hear much, so does Mr. Bowne. He teases me +to death to write home that we may hear from you. +We depend on your coming on this winter. When we +shall be to housekeeping Heaven knows; not even a +napkin made, just getting a woman to work,—fixed the +things already, when the fever came and we all left the +city; so here I am—perfectly unprepared as possible. +Adieu. Tell Horatio he has more time than I have, he +ought to write me immediately to Lebanon. Lebanon +has been quite deserted. Poor Hannah Hamilton’s +Mamma died three or four weeks since. The servants +at the other house where I kept last summer, wished +me joy,—heard Miss Southgate was married to Mr. +Bowne. Oh, I have not told you!—saw the tree Major +Andre was taken under, and the house where <em>Arnold</em> +fled from, left his wife and family,—indeed, ’tis the very +house Maria lives in. We staid two nights there and +promised to go and see them on our return; charming +place, such fruit, ’tis delicious. In the Jerseys,—don’t +laugh at travellers’ stories,—but we really rode over the +peaches in the road; we always kept our case full, William +brought us some off the finest trees that hung over the +road. Peaches and cream!—they laugh and say Boston +people cry out, “’tis <em>so</em> good!” Well, what have I +not wrote about? A little of everything but sentiment; +a dash of that to complete. I am most tired of jaunting; +the mind becomes satiated with variety and description +and pants for a little respite of domestic tranquillity. +I’ve done; I have most forgot how to write sentiment. +I have had no time to think since I was married. I +don’t expect to, this 2 or 3 months, so good-bye.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Lebanon Springs, Sept. 24, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Your letter, my dear Octavia, has set my head to planning +at a great rate. By all means come on with Mr. +Cutts; I am impatient to see you, and I cannot give up +the pleasure of having you with me this winter. We +shall be at Housekeeping as soon as <em>possible</em> after the +fever subsides. My husband thinks the plan a very +good one. I will write immediately to Aunt King, say +that it is uncertain when you arrive, but I have taken +the liberty to request Mr. Cutts to leave you with <em>her</em> +until I demand you. This settled, I proceed. Tell my +good Mother not to be afraid. I am as anxious as herself +to be settled at home. I am most tired of roving; +it begins to grow cold, and I long for a comfortable fireside +of my own. What a sweet circle! Octavia, my +dear Husband, and myself; when we are alone we’ll +read, and work like old times. I have spent a most delightful +3 weeks at Ballston and Lebanon. We had a +charming company at Ballston, danced a few nights after +I wrote you, and I was complimented as Bride again.—Manager +bro’t me No. 1,—quite time I was out of date.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Lebanon is delightful as ever; we have a small party, +ride to see the Shakers, walk, and play at Billiards, work, +read, or anything. Tell Mamma, Eunice Loring that +was, is here,—she talks a great deal of my Mother and +Aunt Porter, wants to see them very much, etc., etc. +She is married to a <em>Mr. Neufville</em> of Carolina. She is +much out of health, talks of going to England in the +Spring. She wants to see you, as she says my Mother +talk’d of naming you for <em>her</em>; she wishes she had, as she +has no children. The box I mentioned was full of +sugar things, toys for the children; two little fans—a +little frock for a pattern, and another for Isabella’s children, +The Children of the Abbey, and Caroline of Lichfield +for Mamma,—all in a package together; a letter +for Mrs. Coffin and several others. When we left New +York Mr. Bowne sent it to a Commission Merchant +who does business for several Portland people, and requested +him to send it by the first vessel. As you +haven’t received it, I suppose the fever which broke +out immediately after induced him to shut up his store, +or perhaps prevented any Portland vessel from coming +near the City, and that it now lies in his store. Write +me when you set out, and when ’tis probable you will +be in New York; direct to New York, probably I shall +be near New York in a fortnight. I have but a few +moments to write as the stage passes the village at 11. +You alarm me about Ellen; pray enquire particularly +and tell me all; go to see yourself, and tell her I can +imagine no reason why I have never received a line +from her since I have been in New York,—nor Lucy +Derby, neither Mrs. Coffin. I wrote to, but it seems +she did not receive my letter; love to her and all +Portland friends. I am expecting every day to hear +Martha has arrived. My best love to Sister Boyd and +husband. I wrote a line of congratulation to her, but +that too is in the package. Adieu. I shall soon see +you, and then we will talk what I have not time to +write. My husband’s best love.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours,      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, October 23, 1803.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have waited till my patience is quite exhausted. +What can have kept you so long in Boston? Mr. +Bowne has been at the Stage Office a dozen times, and +I have staid at home every forenoon this week to receive +your ladyship. I expect to get to housekeeping +next week; and am so busy. Mercy on me, what work +this housekeeping makes! I am half crazed with sempstresses, +waiters, chambermaids, and every thing else—calling +to be hired, enquiring characters, such a fuss. +I cannot possibly imagine why you are not here. I +should have wrote immediately after receiving your +letter, but Mr. Bowne was sure you would be here in +less than a week. It is possible you may be in Boston +to receive this; if not, you will be here or on the way. +If you are troubled about a Protector, Mr. Bowne says +there has been several <em>married</em> gentlemen come on lately, +which if you had known of, would have been proper. +Perhaps Mr. Davis may hear of some one. At any rate +come as soon as possible, for I am very impatient to see +you. My best love to Louisa; tell her I should be much +delighted to see her in New York this winter, and my +Husband frequently says he should like to have Mr. +Davis’ family near us in New York. I am sure I should +with all my heart. Say everything to Mr. and Mrs. +Davis for me that bespeaks esteem.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Adieu. Yours always,</div> + <div class='line in16'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Bloomingdale, Nov. 2, 1803.<a id='r66'></a><a href='#f66' class='c012'><sup>[66]</sup></a></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Bowne has just bro’t me a letter from you in +which you mention coming on with Mr. Wood. I am +fearful my answer will arrive too late, as your letter has +been written nearly a fortnight. At any rate, come on +with Mr. Wood if he has not set out. You should not +wait for an answer from me—I shall be ready to receive +you at any time, at housekeeping or not. We go +in town next Monday, every body is moving in; for the +last 3 days there has been no death, and for 5 no new +cases. If, unfortunately, Mr. Wood should have gone +and you not accepted of his protection, come the very +next opportunity without consulting me or waiting a +moment. I hope to get to housekeeping very soon. We +have just returned from Uncle’s, where we had been to +meet Mr. and Mrs. Paine (Mrs. Doble) from Boston; +she is less beautiful than I expected,—charming little +daughter. I am more and more delighted with Aunt +King, she is so unaffected, easy and ladylike. Margaret +and Mr. Duncan married? I expect to hear still +stranger things from Portland—now Ellen Foster is +married. I <em>suppose</em> she is, tho’ I have not heard. I am +hourly and impatiently expecting to hear from Martha. +How unfortunate! What would I give to be nearer! +Adieu: ’tis late; come as soon as possible. Give my love +to all friends.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours affectionately,      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Dec. 24, 1803.<a id='r67'></a><a href='#f67' class='c012'><sup>[67]</sup></a></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Eliza received a letter yesterday from you, where you +say you have not received a letter from either of us a +long time. I am really surprised at it, as I wrote you +very frequently from Boston, and am determined to let +you have a letter now every fortnight to let you know +what we are doing and whether I am happy. I begin +to feel quite at home and certainly never was happier in +my life. It is true I sometimes sigh for home, but it is +generally when I am in a crowd that I am most there +in imagination. But when I am <em>here</em> and none but our +own family, I have not a single wish ungratified. I am +much more pleased with New York on every account +than with Boston. As a City it is much superior, the +situation is every way as delightful as possible. The +inhabitants to me are <em>much more</em> pleasing, more ease, +more sociability and elegance, yet not so ostentatious,—they +dress with remarkable simplicity; and I think I +could spend the winter here and not expend half the +money that I must unavoidably do in Boston. There +every one dresses, and a person would look singular not +to conform; but here there is such a variety, and the +most genteel people dress so plain that one never appears +singular. To-morrow is Christmas and we dine at +Uncle’s; he is a charming man, looks amazingly like you, +so much so that I admire to look at him. She is a very +affable, pleasing woman, and they both appear to be fond +of Eliza. We were at a concert last evening; the most +delightful music I ever heard. We wished for Horatio +all the evening. There is not much gaiety, they tell me, +till after the holydays, that is Christmas and New Year. +We have been into no parties yet, but have made many +sociable visits, which I very much admire. I am very +much pleased with all the <em>friends</em> we have visited. Old +Mrs. Bowne is a fine, motherly old lady; she treats Eliza +with as much affection as an own mother,—they all appear +to be very glad to see me, and I really feel sometimes +as though I was at home; how I long to see you all! +How is Arixene and Mary? How I want to see them! +How is Papa this winter? Ah! if you were all here! +But next spring we shall all be with you. I am afraid +you are solitary—if you are, do, my Dear Mother, tell +me, find any opportunity, and I’ll be with you as soon as +you say,—depend on it, I shall never get so attached +either to the inhabitants or the gaieties of New York, +as to feel reluctant to return home; even in my happiest +hours I think of the time with extreme pleasure. This +family is the only thing that would root me to the spot, +and there is a charm in that which nothing but home +can equal. I have promised Eliza a page for you, so I +suppose I must close. Give my best love to Father and +the children, and believe me your affectionate child,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Octavia Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c019'>Octavia has reserved me a page in her letter which I +hasten to improve. I thank you, my Dear Mother, for +yours, and beg you will often write me, now Octavia is +with me and cannot tell me about home. I am at +length settled at housekeeping very pleasantly, and do +not find it such a tremendous undertaking. I have been +fortunate in servants, which makes it much less troublesome; +the house we have taken does not altogether +please us, but at any time but May ’tis extremely difficult +to get a house. In the Spring we shall be able to +suit ourselves. Mr. Bowne wishes to build and is trying +to find a lot that suits him,—if so, we shall build +the next season. Almost everybody in New York hire +houses, but I think it much pleasanter living in one’s +own. I am more and more pleased with New York, +there is more ease and sociability than I expected. I +admire Uncle and Aunt more and more every day, and +Mr. Bowne thinks there never was Uncle’s equal,—such +a character as he had often imagined, though not +supposed existed. I believe I shan’t go to the next Assembly; +Octavia will go with Aunt King. You say Mr. +Bowne must write you, and as a subject mention the +dividends from the Insurance Office. In the Summer +there was no dividend, no profits; the next dividend will +be soon. Mr. Codman thinks there will be a tolerable +one,—you shall hear as soon as it takes place; we have +received nothing as yet. Uncle and Aunt always inquire +particularly about you, and desire to be mentioned. +Make my best love to all friends, kiss the children and +tell them not to forget sister Eliza. I live in the hope +of seeing you next Autumn—Heaven grant I may not +be disappointed! Remember me with my best love to +my Father and all the family. Adieu; write me soon, +and believe me</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Robert Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, March.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Miranda:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been talking of writing to you so long that I +think it is quite time I should talk no longer, but act; +but you should not have waited for me to write. You +knew both Mr. Bowne and myself would have been very +glad to have heard from you,—all about your school, +your acquaintance, amusements or anything, and I have +a thousand things to take up my attention that you have +not. Do you return home this Spring? We shall find +you at home when we come. I have got one or two +trifles I want to send you, but can’t find an opportunity; +there are so few people from our way come to New +York, that ’tis very difficult to send anything. I hear +a strange story about Isabella Porter: she is a silly little +girl, and when she is older, will think she acted very +foolishly,—one ought to know more of the world before +she decides on a thing of so much importance; she is a +mere baby and has seen nothing of life. Do you often +hear of Caroline, Miranda? I feel anxious lest she +should not conduct with as much discretion as she +ought, as she never knew the blessing of having a kind, +indulgent mother to watch over her and guard her from +harm.</p> + +<p class='c011'>When I was in Bethlehem last summer, I got some +little caps such as the girls at school wear, and such as +the sisters of members of the Society wear. I want to +find an opportunity to send them to you. Did you ever +read a description of Bethlehem? If you never did, +you may find one in some of the Boston Magazines. +We had a little book called a “Tour to Bethlehem,” +which if I can find I will send you. It will give you a +very correct idea of the place, society and customs. +When I was there, there were 83 girls, from 4 to 16, at +the school, from almost every part of the United States. +They all wear these little caps tied with a pink ribbon, +which looks very pretty where you see so many of them +together,—they learn music, embroidery, and all the +useful branches of education,—likewise to make artificial +flowers and many little things of that kind. Do +you ever attempt painting?—’tis a charming accomplishment, +and if you have any taste for it, should certainly +cultivate it. Write me soon, and tell me when you are +going home and of anything else that interests you. +Mr. Bowne often talks of you and now desires to be particularly +remembered.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Adieu; remember me to any of my friends who enquire, +and believe me</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate sister,      <span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miranda Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Rockaway, August 24, 1804.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Girls:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I enclose you a piece of Mr. Blovell’s poetry on the +Miss Broomes’ country seat at Bloomingdale; as you +both know him, I think it will amuse you. I expect +Eliza and Jane Watts down here in a few days and +should be delighted if you could be here at the same +time. I wrote to you, Octavia, on Monday last a long +letter,—answer it soon and tell me how far you mean +to comply with my proposals. I spent several days at +Flushing last week; they all enquired very affectionately +for you; but I don’t know but Miranda is your rival—she +is a monstrous favorite among some of them. I believe +Mary Murray is engaged and all matters settled. +I met the Murrays and Mrs. Ogden at Miss Curtis’s; +they came up from New York the same day we did from +Rockaway,—very fortunate meeting them, for it rendered +my visit doubly pleasant. ’Twas the season for +peaches, we feasted finely. I shall attend to your memorandums +as soon as possible. Give my best love to +Horatio and Nabby, if I may be allowed to connect the +names, and tell him my plan. Mr. Bowne says I must +write another letter to urge it more strongly; it must +be so.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever,</div> + <div class='line in12'><span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>[New York, November 9th, 1804 (?).]</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been in daily expectation of a letter from you +ever since my return and none has yet come. I have +not heard a word from Isabella, tho’ I have been very +anxious. The trunks arrived yesterday with an old letter +for me enclosed by Horatio in a <em>blank</em> cover, not a word +to say how all the family did, particularly Isabella. We +are still at our Mother’s, and shall probably remain a +fortnight longer; the house would be ready in a few +days, but we think it is too damp at present. Every +body expected you back, for the Murrays had told most +of our acquaintance you were to return with me. John +and Hannah Murray came to see me the day after I +arrived. John rattles as usual, talks much of getting +married—his old tune, you know: he has completed his +thirtieth year now since we have been gone; he says, +“I begin to feel the approach of old age.” Mr. Newbold +called to enquire particularly after your ladyship, and +Mr. Rhinelander<a id='r68'></a><a href='#f68' class='c012'><sup>[68]</sup></a> spent last evening with us; I think +he improves fast; he told me a deal of news. Miss +Farquar and Mr. Jepson<a id='r69'></a><a href='#f69' class='c012'><sup>[69]</sup></a> were married last night, Miss +Blackwell and Mr. Forbes, and one or two others. +Rhinelander says half the girls in town are to be married +before Spring. Maria Denning for one; and the +world says Amelia and James Gillispie will certainly +make a match,—that I was surprised at. Miss Bunner<a id='r70'></a><a href='#f70' class='c012'><sup>[70]</sup></a> +and John Duer are married; Sally Duer is soon to be; +and Fanny is positively engaged to Mr. Smith, whom +you saw several times last winter, of Princeton. So +you see all the girls are silly enough to give up their +fine dancing days and become old matrons like myself. +Mrs. Kane is in town; looks older, paler, and thinner. +She has got a charming little girl,<a id='r71'></a><a href='#f71' class='c012'><sup>[71]</sup></a> fat and good-natured +as possible. Mrs. Ogden stays out of town all winter. +We are engaged at Mrs. Bogert’s this afternoon, but it +storms so violently I believe I shan’t go. She regrets +very much your not coming, and Lucia [Wadsworth] she +would be delighted to have. Our things arrived yesterday, +but are not out of the vessel yet. At present +there is no gaiety, quite dull; there will be a revival +soon, I suppose. Mr. Poinsett has been to see me +several mornings; he goes on Monday to Carolina. +Miss de Neufville spends the winter in New York with +her Aunt Stowton. I meant to call on her this morning, +but it was stormy. The few days I was in Boston +I was constantly engaged. We dined at Sheriff Allen’s +with a very large party,—Lady Temple,<a id='r72'></a><a href='#f72' class='c012'><sup>[72]</sup></a> Mrs. Winthrop +and daughters, Mrs. Bowdoin, Mrs. G. Green, +Mrs. Stouton and daughter, and many others,—about +30; and we were at Mrs. G. Blake’s at a tea-party, she +enquired particularly after you; she is a very fine +woman I think. Our journey on was tolerably pleasant. +We arrived before Uncle and Aunt. Eliza Watts told +me she had a letter from you after I left home. Adieu; +write me soon and tell me all the news. Give my best +love to Father, Mother, and all the family. I am very +well and grow fat; everybody says I am wonderfully +improved. Write me soon.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever,</div> + <div class='line in8'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id002'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span> +<img src='images/i_255.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>THE BOWNE HOUSE—FLUSHING<br> <br> Erected 1661</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, July 30, 1804.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I received your letter, my Dearest Mother, three days +since, and every moment of my time and attention +since has been taken up with our dear Eliza. I am +grieved that you are so low-spirited about her, tho’ as +you predicted her trouble has again ended, I yet feel +confident if we once get her home, that she will gain +strength and do well. Her Physician has been in great +hopes that she would get through this time without any +difficulty, indeed the first week we were in the country +she was so finely, that we all felt encouraged about her. +She had been as prudent as possible, and she can’t with +any reason reflect upon herself. The last week we +were there she began to droop again, and Mr. Bowne +brought her into town with an intention of carrying her +to Flushing; now we shall set off for home as soon as +she is strong enough to travel. I am astonished at her +spirits, they are as good again as mine, and yet to-day +she is so much better. I feel finely myself.</p> + +<p class='c011'>She has had no pain, but only suffers from weakness. +We shall go in three or four days to Flushing, which is +a fine, bracing air, and stay there a few days till Eliza +is smart enough to travel 10 miles a day. I place full +confidence in this journey; I am sure that the change +of air and scene, and more than all, the prospect of +home, will render it truly beneficial. We are at Mr. +Bowne’s mother’s, for we have shut our house up. She +is a fine old lady, and Caroline is perfectly amiable and +as attentive as possible. I am very glad we are here +and in the neighborhood of Mrs. Bogert, for she is all +goodness. I grow more and more anxious every hour +to get home. The city is quite deserted, though it +never was more healthy. There are as few deaths as +there were in the winter. There has been two weeks +of <em>very cool</em> weather. I go wandering about and see +scarcely a face I know. I used to complain last winter +of our large acquaintance, and having the house full of +company, but now I exclaim out half a dozen times a +day that “I wished I could see some one I knew.” +There are gentlemen enough, but no ladies. Uncle and +Aunt, I suppose, have nearly set out for Scarborough. +I wish we were to be there whilst they are with you. +You can have no idea how very anxious I am to return. +Was I not so much occupied I should be positively +<em>homesick</em>, but I have no time to <em>think</em> but upon one +subject. Kiss the dear children for us <em>all</em>, for we are +equally anxious to see you. Remember me very affectionately +to Sister Boyd and to the children. Before I +leave here I shall be in need of a little money. I won’t +seal my letter to-night, but will write you how she is +to-morrow.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>July 31.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I did not finish my letter this morning because Eliza +did not feel as well as usual, but this afternoon she is +better. She is in charming spirits and so very well +that we are delighted. She gives her best love to you; +says <em>she</em> don’t feel <em>at all</em> obliged to you for your wishes, +and is determined not to join with you. The old lady +desires to be remembered, and says,—“If thee was +here, thee could do no more for thy child than we have.” +Indeed she is the most tender, affectionate of women. +My best love to my Father. We are in the full of +seeing you soon. I shall not make it long before I +write again.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours affectionately,</div> + <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>O. Southgate</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>June 3, 1805.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Octavia:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mamma arrived safe and well on Wednesday morning +to our great joy, after having a pleasant passage from +Newport, staying two days in Boston, two in Newport, +and one in Providence. We are going to Uncle’s to +dine to-day, and I can’t persuade Miranda to write a +line to let you know Mamma had come,—company +coming in every minute, and can but just steal a moment +to write. Louise is with you,—I am more than +half vexed that I am to be disappointed of the charming +winter I had promised myself, with you and Louise to +spend it with me, so you need not be surprised if I am +rather ill-natured at times. The secret is out, and all +your friends, beaux I mean, walk the other side of the +street when I meet them. Mary Murray called this +morning; seemed rather disappointed at not having a +letter. Eliza Watts thanks you for the wedding-cake as +well as myself. Give my best love to Louise as well as +all my other friends. We go over into Jersey to-morrow,—E. +Watts and Susan go with us,—John Wadsworth. +I wish you could have been here while Mamma +was. Adieu; write me soon, and expect a longer letter +as soon as I can command a little more time.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. Remember I don’t call this a <em>letter</em>, so no lectures +on that head.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Jamaica, October 6, 1805.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am delighted, my Dear Octavia, to hear you are so +finely, and the more so as I hear it from <em>yourself</em>. I did +not so soon expect such fine effects from the new +system of living; I am sure all will be well now. A +wedding I suppose next, for I conclude from the melancholy +pathos with which you say, you shall “neither +have the independence of a married woman, nor of a +single,” that you don’t mean to try the half-way being. +However, let the man teaze if he will; do not +think of being married until your health is perfectly +confirmed,—I would not for the world. ’Tis so late +in the season, ’tis not possible I can come to see +you this fall, even tho’ there should be two weddings +in November. And so you talk of spending the winter +with me,—how you love to tantalize!—and wish +me to give you the pleasure of refusing me. You +know I should be delighted to have you, but you know +you never mean to visit New York as Miss Southgate +again. Somebody would put on a graver face than he +did last fall on a like occasion, and as he had <em>as much +influence</em> then as to counteract my wishes, I won’t subject +myself to the mortification of another defeat now I +know his power to be much greater. However I won’t +ask, tho’ I shall be very happy to have you with me. As +for news, you give me more than I can you. We have +left Rockaway more than a week ago, still exiled from +our home by this dreadful calamity. We are at lodgings +in Jamaica, where we shall probably remain until +’tis safe removing to the City. Uncle and Aunt,—Mr. +and Mrs. Bogert,<a id='r73'></a><a href='#f73' class='c012'><sup>[73]</sup></a> have gone about 30 miles down the +Island, sporting for <em>Grouse</em>, and return to Jamaica until +we can all go in town. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (Cruger +that was) have taken a house in Jamaica during the +fever; the next door to this I lodge in. Mr. and Mrs. +Hayward<a id='r74'></a><a href='#f74' class='c012'><sup>[74]</sup></a> are with them, but leave here for Charleston +this week. I am in there half of my time. We make a +snug little party at <em>Brag</em> in the evening frequently, and +work together mornings. Mr. Bowne goes to Greenwich, +where all the business is transacted, on Mondays +and Thursdays, but returns the same night, so I am +but little alone. As to news—Miss Charlotte Manden +Heard was married last week to a <em>gentleman</em> from <em>Demarara</em>, +whom nobody knew she was engaged to until +he came a few weeks since and they were married. +John Murray, I believe, is at last really in love, tho’ +’tis not yet determined whether the lady smiles or not. +A Miss Rogers from Baltimore, whom he met at the +Springs,—a sweet interesting girl, ’tis said. Wolsey +Rogers<a id='r75'></a><a href='#f75' class='c012'><sup>[75]</sup></a> and Harriet Clarke<a id='r76'></a><a href='#f76' class='c012'><sup>[76]</sup></a> were talked of as a match +at the Springs. Mrs. Kane<a id='r77'></a><a href='#f77' class='c012'><sup>[77]</sup></a> staid at the Springs till she +was so late she could not venture to ride to Providence +with her Mother, and the fever kept her from New +York, so was obliged to stop at Mrs. Gilbert Livingstone’s<a id='r78'></a><a href='#f78' class='c012'><sup>[78]</sup></a>—Mr. +Kane’s sister—at Red Hook, until able +to resume her journey home, which will probably be in +November. Mrs. Fish<a id='r79'></a><a href='#f79' class='c012'><sup>[79]</sup></a> has a daughter; great joy on +the occasion. Give my love to Cousin Pauline,<a id='r80'></a><a href='#f80' class='c012'><sup>[80]</sup></a> and +tell her I congratulate her on the birth of her son. +What do Mary<a id='r81'></a><a href='#f81' class='c012'><sup>[81]</sup></a> and Paulina call their boys—Nathaniel +and Enoch? I hope not, never keep up such ugly +names. Mr. B. says you must spend the winter with +us,—he will come under bonds to somebody to return +you safe. Give my best love to Sister Boyd, Horatio, +and all the family at home. Has any progress been +made in the new house? I am sorry to say I fear not—’tis +pity,—I had almost said ’tis wrong. I am half +mortified when I hear of any of my acquaintance visiting +Portland,—’tis true, I declare,—tho’ Husband +would scold me for saying so. Pappa is an affectionate +Father, yet therein he acts not up to his character. I +must check my pen—I am too much interested in +this subject. Adieu; make my compliments to all acquaintances +and write me again soon. Love to Miranda—tell +her Mrs. Bogert talks much of her, and remind +her from me of Aunt’s sleeves; are they finished?—if +they are, I hope she will send them by Mrs. McKersen. +I am working me a beautiful dress,—it will be when +’tis done. By-the-by, any purchases for the coming +occasion will be executed with pleasure. Give my best +love to (sister I had almost said) Nabby,<a id='r82'></a><a href='#f82' class='c012'><sup>[82]</sup></a> and tell her +I shall feel myself flattered by any commission she will +give me either in clothes or furniture; do away her +modesty in this thing, if you think I can be of any service +in that way, for I assure you ’twill gratify me. Tell +Horatio<a href='#f82' class='c012'><sup>[82]</sup></a> I am impatient to thank him for giving so +pleasant an acquisition to our family, but I could do it +more heartily in person in New York, if so I might be +indulged. Since you won’t be honest and tell the truth, +I won’t tell you what I’ll say to you. Do ask Papa if +he could send us 6 or 8 barrels of potatoes, there is like +to be a great scarcity in New York; put them in the +hold of the vessel or anywhere. Col. Barclay has sent +to Nova Scotia for a vessel load,—a housekeeper—</p> + +<p class='c011'>What a romantic conclusion.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours,      E. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Nov. 10, 1805.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Horatio is really married then; and we not married; +and I suppose the next account your ladyship will be +added to the list. How swimmingly you all go on! What +a tremendous <em>marrying</em> place Portland is. New Yorkers +don’t marry—sad sett of them. I am half angry to +think you are marrying in such an out-of-the-way season, +that ’tis impossible any one can come to see you. +However, I hope to come early in the summer, if nothing +happens to prevent, and spend 3 or 4 months. I +shall have so many new relations that ’twill be necessary +to come often to keep an account. Robert Murray<a id='r83'></a><a href='#f83' class='c012'><sup>[83]</sup></a> +came home quite delighted with his eastern visit, but +disappointed at seeing so little of Miranda. What has +been the matter with her, any thing more than a heavy +cold? I wish she was here with all my heart. I am +quite alone and require a companion more than ever, +but I suppose Mamma could not hear of that. I wish +Arixene and Mary could have found a good opportunity +to come this fall, and we could take them home in the +summer,—but I suppose I must be content. We have +been in town since the 31st of October, the day your +letter was dated; it has been a long time in coming. I +got it only last evening. Mr. Bowne had found out +Capt. Libby, and we were preparing to send the sheeting +and diaper by him; he sails the last of the week; +the other things you wish we will send as many as can +be procured before the vessel sails, but ’twill be impossible +to get any <em>plate made</em> to send for several weeks,—we +will order it immediately, and as it will not be bulky, +there will probably be no difficulty in finding a conveyance. +We made a sketch of the articles you wished +and of the pieces, which cannot be very incorrect, as I +took them all from our own furniture book, and we calculated +that the whole of Mamma’s plate and another +suit of curtains for Nabby included would come at about +400 dollars. Mr. B. has 340 in his hands of Pappa’s, +about the sum that would buy all the things but Mamma’s +plate and Nabby’s curtains; however, that makes +not the least difference to Mr. Bowne, as he desires me to +say he shall execute the commissions with great pleasure, +and ’twill be no inconvenience to him to purchase the +other articles, and I merely mentioned it as I did not +know that you knew the real sum in Mr. Bowne’s hands. +’Tis very lucky there is so direct an opportunity to Scarborough; +we shall endeavor to send as many things as +possible. Shopping at present is a prohibited pleasure +to me, but as all the things can be better procured at +wholesale stores, and my husband has both a great deal +of taste and judgment in those things, and makes better +bargains than I do, you will be no sufferer by the loss +of my services in that,—and I can have anything sent +to me to look at, and therefore ’tis quite as well as if I +went for them. I don’t mean you shall understand because +I don’t go shopping that I am confined to the +house. On the contrary, I am much better than could +be expected and hope with care to do very well. I shall +go out very little until the middle or last of the winter, +when I hope, if I continue well, to be most as smart as +other people. My husband does not allow me to go +into a shop. I laugh at him and tell him I don’t believe +but the health of his <em>purse</em> is <em>one-half</em> his concern—a +fine excuse. Mrs. Bogert is in expectation of seeing +Lucia Wadsworth when the General comes on. I +have been confined to the house with a severe cold +since Thursday,—Friday and Saturday was quite sick, +and to-day feel unfit for anything almost but my bed. +Adieu; my best love to all the family. You mentioned +nothing of the Cypher on the Plate: O. S. or B.—or +your crest, or William’s crest, if you can find them out,—I +suppose we could here,—or what? Mamma’s I +suppose will be S. only. I have a great mind to tell +you what a saucy thing my husband said on your anxiety—that +the bowls and edges of the spoons should +not be sharp; but I leave you to guess, or if you can’t, +perhaps William may help you to an explanation.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Adieu. Yours ever,</div> + <div class='line in12'><span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Octavia Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>November 14, 1805.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Capt. Libby sails to-morrow; we have got as many +things as possible. There is not a piece of embossed +Buff in New York, nor of plain either, there is not more +than 2 pair alike, therefore I have done nothing about +the trimmings. I fancy Boston is a better place for +those things than New York. The most fashionable +beds have draperies the same as my dimity window curtains. +However, if you think best I will look farther, +and perhaps there will be something new open in a +week or two. There is but one barrel urn in the city. +Mr. B. was two days in pursuit of one; he purchased +this and sent it back: ’twas brown, and no plate on it +except the nose. I can get you one like mine for $25. +Let me know immediately respecting these things. +Yesterday the Silversmith came for instructions respecting +the plate, and bro’t patterns for me to look at. I +ordered a set of tea-things for Mamma the same as +mine; I think them handsomer than any I see. The man +is to send me some patterns to look at which he thinks +are similar to your description. On the next page I will +make a list of the goods and pieces copied from the bills.</p> + +<table class='table1'> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>1</td> + <td class='c006'>piece Irish sheeting, 48 yards, at 5</td> + <td class='c008'>$30.00</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>1</td> + <td class='c006'>piece Irish sheeting, 55 yards, at 6/6</td> + <td class='c008'>44.69</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>6</td> + <td class='c006'>yards Fine Linen, at 7/6</td> + <td class='c008'>5.62</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>12</td> + <td class='c006'>Damask Napkins, at 8</td> + <td class='c008'>12.00</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>1</td> + <td class='c006'>piece fine Diaper 27 yards, at 5/6</td> + <td class='c008'>18.56</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>2</td> + <td class='c006'>Breakfast Cloths, at 14</td> + <td class='c008'>3.50</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>1</td> + <td class='c006'>plated Castor best kind,</td> + <td class='c008'>12.00</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>1</td> + <td class='c006'>plated Cake Basket silver rims,</td> + <td class='c008'>18.00</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'>2</td> + <td class='c006'>Pearl tea-pots, 2.25; 1 Trunk, 2.50</td> + <td class='c008'>4.75</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c008'><hr></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c021'> </td> + <td class='c006'> </td> + <td class='c008'>$149.12</td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p class='c011'>The sheeting is quite as cheap as mine, the fine I like +very much and think it quite a bargain. The Diaper is +not quite so cheap as mine, but it has risen; the tablecloths +are cheap, the linen is high I think. The Cake +Basket is very cheap, $2 cheaper than mine, and rather +handsomer I think. I could get no crimson marking, +but send you a few skeins of cotton which I procured +with much difficulty. The napkins are not the kind I +wished, but there was none of those excepting at 2 +places, and they were 18/–22/ a piece. I thought +these pretty and would answer your purpose. I enclose +the marking cotton and the key of the trunk. Adieu.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever, <span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>P. S. The bills are in Miranda’s book in the trunk.</p> +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span> +<img src='images/i_272.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>JAMES GORE KING<br> <br> From a miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Jan. 14, 1806.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My dear Miranda:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Abbot is here from Brunswick and will take a +letter for me to any of my friends. I should not have +been surprised any more to have seen the cupola of the +college itself walk into the room than I was to see Mr. +Abbot, I could hardly believe my eyes; but I could not +but <em>know</em> him, as I know nobody like him: he always +seems like a frightened bird—so hurried in his manner +and conversation. How much he looked like some +of Timothy Dexter’s wooden men—at commencement +last year; it came across my mind while he was sitting +by me yesterday,—’twas well I was alone, or I should +have certainly laughed. Frederic,<a id='r84'></a><a href='#f84' class='c012'><sup>[84]</sup></a> I suppose, is at +home, tho’ Mr. A. could not tell me. John<a id='r85'></a><a href='#f85' class='c012'><sup>[85]</sup></a> and Charles +King have some thought of going to Portland. I have +told them they had better go some other time, as they +will find Portland so dull and none of you in quite so +good spirits. James is here and they return with him. +You ask about Jane Watts—nobody sees her, she is +entirely confined to her room. Doctor Burchea attends +her now; her cough they think a little better, +but she is not able to sleep at all without laudanum. +I have no expectation she will recover, the family seem +to have.</p> + +<p class='c011'>As to news—New York is not so gay as last Winter, +few balls but a great many tea-parties. I believe I told +you Mrs. Gillespie<a id='r86'></a><a href='#f86' class='c012'><sup>[86]</sup></a> has a daughter, and still more news. +You never wrote me anything about the muslin for +Arixene to work her a frock, ’tis so good an opportunity +to send it that I have a great mind to get it notwithstanding. +If you can, send the things I left to Louisa +Davis in Boston. John and Charles would bring them +on to me. Walter<a id='r87'></a><a href='#f87' class='c012'><sup>[87]</sup></a> will want the shirts as soon as the +weather becomes warm. You say I have said nothing +of Walter in any of my letters; he is so hearty and well +I hardly thought of him when I wrote; he has not had a +day’s sickness since I returned. I send him out walking +frequently when ’tis so cold it quite makes the tears +come; he trudges along with leading very well in the +street, he never takes cold. He goes to bed at 6 +o’clock, away in the room in the third story you used to +sleep in, without fire or candle, and there he sleeps till +Phœbe goes to bed to him. You know I am a great +enemy to letting children sleep with a fire in the room; +’tis the universal practice here, and as long as I can +avoid it I never mean to practice it; it subjects them to +constant colds. They think I am very severe to suffer +such a child to be put in the third story to sleep without +a fire. I presume Aunt King and family are all +well; they are going to have a fine <em>waffle</em> party on +Tuesday. I wish you were here to go, for the boys want +to have a fine frolic. Kitty Bayard<a id='r88'></a><a href='#f88' class='c012'><sup>[88]</sup></a> is to be married in +April to Duncan Campbell; all engaged since Wolsey +and Susan were married. Mary Watts<a id='r89'></a><a href='#f89' class='c012'><sup>[89]</sup></a> is engaged to +the big Doctor Romaine,—that is quite a surprise to +every one: this is rumor. And now I have written all +the trifling, I come to what is nearer my heart. You +are not half particular enough about Octavia. Does +Isabella live in the same house she did when we were +there? Has Octavia nobody with her to take care of +her child? I am very glad to hear they are so cheerful. +Pappa you say has been sick but is quite recovered. +How is Mamma this winter, quite recovered her +health?</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Adieu.      E. S. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Feb. 15.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>And so I must hear of all the important events of the +family from anybody who casually may have it in their +power to communicate them. Horatio has a fine son, I +hear, of which I am very glad; congratulate them for +me—do they mean to call him the same name as their +other little boy? I suppose you have heard from John +and Charles King<a id='r90'></a><a href='#f90' class='c012'><sup>[90]</sup></a> since they have been in Boston. If +you would send the little bundle for them to bring on I +should be very glad, and I wish you to get me 3 pr. of +Mr. Smith’s little white worsted socks, such as I bo’t for +Walter, only two or three sizes larger, big enough for +him next winter,—don’t neglect it, for I wish for them +very much. Let them be full large for a child 3 years +old. How are all the family? Octavia, I don’t hear +from anybody; you ought to write once a fortnight certainly. +Poor Jane Watts is very low, confined to her +bed,—I fear she will never go out again. Adieu; love +to all. This is my second letter since I heard from you. +I write more particularly that you may send those +things by the boys.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever, E. S. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mrs. Octavia Browne.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, March 30, 1806.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am most impatiently looking for Miranda and hoping, +tho’ I dare not place too much dependence on seeing +my Father. I am better than when I wrote you +before, tho’ still subject to these faint turns. I have become +more used to them and they don’t alarm me. I +ride frequently and take the air every fine day in some +way or other. I have been free from a return of the +nervous headache for a fortnight, till the night before +last I had a return of the numbness and pain, tho’ not +so severe as the last. I have a very good appetite and +look very fat and rosy, but really am very weak and languid. +I don’t know why I look so much better than I +feel. Mary Murray is to be married a week from next +Wednesday; she is very desirous that Miranda should +get here; I really hope she may. Perhaps I may get +courage enough to go myself if she comes in time, +otherwise I don’t believe I shall venture; however, ’twill +depend upon my feelings at the time. I shall look out +the last of the week for Pappa and Miranda very seriously. +I hope they are on their way now. Uncle’s +oldest son, John Alsop, arrived here about a week since; +he seems a very fine young man, rather taller than his +Father,—he will be a second Uncle William, for he +does not appear to have half got his height. Charles +King has gone to Holland.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>E. S. B.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Mrs. Mary Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='figcenter id001'> +<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span> +<img src='images/i_280.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'> +<div class='ic001'> +<p>CHARLES KING<br> <br> From a miniature in the possession of his daughter, Mrs. Martin</p> +</div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, April 27, 1806.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Before you receive this my Father will be with you. +He says I need not fear any thing, that I am in a very +fair way of doing well; he will tell you all the particulars +better than I could write. He got quite homesick, +we could not prevail on him to lengthen his visit or go +to the Springs and return here. I promised to let you +hear from me once a week how I got along. For the +last 3 days I have been finely, for me; the fore part of +the day I am often very faint—all the forenoon, but +generally better towards evening. ’Tis a great comfort +to me to have Miranda with me, as I am a great part of +the time unfit for anything. My head has been much +more clear and comfortable for the last few days than +for some time past. Tell Father there was a meeting +called last evening of the Federalists in the city, to +make some further remonstrances on the defenceless +state of the Port of New York, occasioned by an accident +that has set the whole City in an uproar. There +are 3 British Frigates at the Hook, a few miles from the +City, that fire upon all the vessels that come in or go +out, and search them. They have sent several on to +Halifax, and yesterday they fired in a most wanton manner +upon a little coaster that was entering the harbor +with only three men on board, and before they had time +to come to as they were preparing to do, they fired +again, and killed one of the men dead upon the spot,—he +was brought up and the body exposed to view on one +of the wharves, where several thousand people were collected +to see it,—it put the City in great confusion, and +this meeting was called in consequence—where Uncle +made a very elegant speech. I am very sorry Father +had not been here, it would have gratified him. ’Tis +the first time he has spoken in public since his return +to this Country. The British Consul had sent several +boats of provisions down to the frigates—which as +soon as ’twas known the Pilot-boats went after and +brought them all back,—they were loaded upon carts +and carried in procession thro’ the streets to the poor +house, attended by a prodigious mob—huzzaing, and the +English and American colors fixed on the carts; they +demanded the Commander of the frigate to be given up +as a murderer by the British Consul,—he replied he +had no power over him. It has made a prodigious noise +in the City, as you may imagine. So much for Father;—I +shall expect to hear to-morrow when he got to +Providence. Adieu, my dear Mother.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ever your affectionate <span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>May 18.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>By way of punishment, if it is any, I have denied myself +the pleasure of answering your letter till I thought +you would begin really to wish for a letter. However, +I quite want to hear again, and as there is little hope of +that until I answer yours, I’ll e’en set about it at once. +William Weeks told me he saw you in Portland the day +before he left there. I wonder he did not tell you he +was coming to New York. Mr. Isaac McLellan is here +too from Portland. You did not write to me half particulars; +you said nothing about Arixene.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Sunday, May 25, 1806.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>After a week has elapsed I resume my pen to finish +my letter. I was expecting Mr. Isaac McLellan to call +and let me know when he should return, as I intended +writing by him, but he has left town without my knowing +it. Now for news, which I suppose you are very +anxious to hear. In the first place—Miss Laurelia +Dashaway is married to Mr. Hawkes. On Saturday +morning, 8 o’clock, Trinity Church was opened on purpose +for the occasion; something singular, as it would +not be like Miss Laurelia. But what do you think—Mr. +Grellet has taken French leave of New York—sailed +for France about a fortnight ago, without anybody’s +knowing their intention till they were gone. +There are many conjectures upon the occasion not very +favorable to the state of their finances. ’Tis said his +friends were very averse to her going with him. If she +had not, I suspect she must have sympathized with +Madame Jerome Buonoparte and many other poor Madames +that have founded their hopes on the fidelity of a +Frenchman. Poor Mrs. Ogden has another little petticoated +little John Murray—4 daughters!—I am sorry +it was not a boy. What should you think to see me +come home without Mr. Bowne? I strongly fear he +won’t have it in his power to leave the office more than +once in the Season; if so, I would much prefer him to +come for me in the Autumn. However, we have made +no arrangements yet. Walter grows such a playful little +rogue, he is always in mischief; I am just leaving off +his caps; I want his hair to grow before his Grandmamma +sees him; he won’t look so pretty without his +caps. He creeps so much I find it impossible to keep +him so nice as I used to. Poor Harriet Beam I think +is going rapidly in a decline, she has been confined to +her room 5 or 6 weeks. I have not seen the Wattses +this some time; they are gone to Passaic Falls with a +little party,—Maria Laight, Mr. Delort, Robert Harney, +etc. My love to all; write me soon particularly. I hope +soon to be with you. How is Sister Boyd’s infant?</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever,      <span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Miranda Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Nov. 8, 1806.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Octavia:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I am quite anxious to hear good news from you. +Miranda has been in Jamaica this fortnight; she has +taken a frock and cap along with her to work for you; +I hope she will have it finished when she returns. +Maria Denning is married, and William Duer has returned +to New Orleans; left her with her friends for +the winter. Amelia was married to Mr. Gillespie in +the spring; lives at home yet.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Miss Pell was married last week to Robert MacComb; +they are making a prodigious dash. I went to +pay the bride’s visit on Friday; they had an elegant +ball and supper in the evening, as it was the last day of +seeing Company; 7 brides-maids and 7 Bride-men, most +superb dresses; the bride’s pearls cost 1,500 dollars; +they spend the winter in Charleston. Adieu! Love +to all friends, and tell your husband to write me immediately +after this great event. I am looking forward +to a happy summer spent among you. Best love to +Isabella and family, Horatio and family. How is +Robert Southgate junr.? That is as it ought to be. +Pappa is pleased I dare say.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Yours ever,</div> + <div class='line in12'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My Dear Mother:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I find it quite in vain to wait for a letter from +Miranda, and she has left me to chance and uncertainty +to know whether she has ever arrived at Providence, +but luckily, from constant enquiries, I have learnt she +did arrive safe, and from some other accidental information, +that she was to leave Boston last Thursday for +home, with Judge Thatcher. I presume by this she is +with you. As the Spring opens I begin to look forward +to my Eastern visit. Octavia’s boy is as beautiful as a +cherub, I hear.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Saturday, 18th.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miranda:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mrs. Derby has returned from Philadelphia, and intends +leaving here for Boston on Tuesday. She spent +a long sociable day with me yesterday and I found it +quite a treat; I have seen so little of her but in mix’t +parties that it hardly seems like a visit. She is almost +worn out with dissipation, and I greatly fear her constitution +has suffered an injury from this kind of life it +will never recover. She has absolutely refused all invitations +since her return, and means to rest for a few +days while she remains here; she takes one of our +<em>belles</em> on to Boston with her,—Miss Fairlie;<a id='r91'></a><a href='#f91' class='c012'><sup>[91]</sup></a> Miranda +knows her. Martha had a letter from Mrs. Sumner +yesterday, where she mentions Miranda leaving there +for home the Sunday before with Mr. and Mrs. Kinsman; +I am really hurt at her unaccountable silence. I +promised to tell her all the news and account of all +the parties after she left me, but I was quite provoked +at her not writing. Tell her, however, that there +seems no end to the gaiety this Spring; it does not +abate as yet at all. The day after she left me I paid +the bride’s visit to young Mrs. Murray; there was a +prodigious crowd, a hundred and fifty at least, and +many never sat down at all. Madame Moreau<a id='r92'></a><a href='#f92' class='c012'><sup>[92]</sup></a> wore +a long black velvet dress with Pearl ornaments, looking +elegantly. The next day I dined at Uncle Rufus +King’s with company; on Tuesday following, went +to a ball at Mrs. Stevens’;<a id='r93'></a><a href='#f93' class='c012'><sup>[93]</sup></a> next day, a ball at Miss +Murray’s, very pleasant; they very much regretted her +not being here; she was intended to be one of the +Bridesmaids; and the day after the last Assembly, as +you may suppose, was completely tired dancing three +nights in succession. Last Friday I was at a ball at +the Watts’s, and the week before at Miss Lyde’s<a id='r94'></a><a href='#f94' class='c012'><sup>[94]</sup></a> to a +ball, and Mrs. Turnbull’s to a monstrous tea-party. +Yesterday at Mrs. Morris’. On Monday next Aunt +King has a very large party. On Tuesday I go to Mrs. +Stoughton’s, on Thursday to Mrs. Hopkins’, and on +Friday dine at Mrs. Bogert’s, and this evening to Mrs. +Henderson’s to a <em>ball</em>. I think it will be one of the +most elegant we have had this winter. I wish Miranda +was here,—so much for Miranda. Adieu! I have +promised to go shopping with Mrs. Derby this morning +and ’tis growing late. I look forward with delight to +the approaching summer spent amidst all my family.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Give my affectionate regard to all.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ever yours,      <span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Dec. 1, 1807.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>You won’t write a line I find without a punctual answer, +letter for letter. Could not you make any allowance +for domestic engagements, etc., etc., and write me +at present two for one, or were you afraid of the precedent; +I might claim as a right hereafter what I owed +merely to your indulgence. I have anxiously wished to +hear again from little William Brown, for, notwithstanding +your flattering accounts of his returning health, I felt +so fully persuaded he would never recover that I could +not but think he would relapse again. How happy I +shall be to hear that my fears are groundless! If you +have not written again before this reaches you, lose no +time but write at once. I do not write to Octavia till I +know whether she is in Boston or Portland. You must +make it a rule, Miranda, to write me once a fortnight +whether I answer or not. Charles King will tell you all +the news of the fashionable world. I have been in no +parties yet. The Theatre is quite the rage. I have +been several times,—you have no idea how much it is +improved, entirely altered,—looks light and gay,—a +perfect contrast to its former appearance. Cooper +draws crowded houses every night—I have been much +delighted. Mr. Wolsey Rogers’ approaching nuptials +seem anticipated as the opening of the winter campaign; +of course the event is much talked of, not a mantua-maker +in the city but will tell you some particulars of +the bride’s wardrobe,—length of her train, etc., etc.;—a +fine lady here, as Mustapha says, is estimated by the +length of her tail. If it was not for using a most homely +proverb, I would say “Every dog has his day.” Here +was our friend John Murray and his bride last winter, +making all ring; this winter quietly settled in Nassau +St., just what I call comfortable, (you have not seen this +new play about <em>comfortable</em>.) Poor Sterlitz, who has +no way to discover his taste or judgment but by finding +fault with everything, seems quite in a <em>fuze</em> (is there +such a word?) that Mr. Murray prefers his own comfort +to dashing in high style. I suppose, Mrs. B. begins +to feel all the palpitations and trepidations of a doating +anxious mother in introducing her favorite daughter to +the world. The next winter is the all-important era for +the exhibition. Miss A., in my opinion, will make a +little coquette—the bud seems expanding even now,—that +extreme simplicity, which her mother encouraged +by always talking of it before her, as if she was too +young to understand, is now changing for an affectation +of simplicity. I hope she will correct it; time will convince +her that simplicity is only charming in inexperienced +youth, or rather the kind of simplicity which +she possesses. There <em>is</em> a simplicity which gives a softness, +a <em>tone</em> (as a painter would say) to the whole character, +but it springs uncontaminated from the guileless +purity of the mind; all affectation of this serves but +as a tattered veil thro’ which you constantly penetrate +to the original deformity—Where have I rambled? +Poor Mrs. Greene is dangerously ill, her friends have +little hope of her recovery. On Saturday she was not +expected to live the day,—bled several quarts at the +lungs; she is a favorite with all who know her, a most +valuable woman. On business:—Mamma told me +something about getting muslin for Arixene—a frock to +work, but I have forgotten whether she afterwards told +me to get it or not. I can get very pretty for 2 dollars +or 2 1–2; let me know. Tell Octavia I received the +little hat which Mr. Browne bo’t for me in Boston, and +shall send the little <em>tub</em> and the rest of the money, as +soon as I know she is in Boston. Fashions:—Ladies +wear fawn-colored coats and bonnets of the same +trimmed with velvet trimming, same color with lappets, +cape and inner waistcoat. If I could find an opportunity +I should send you a bonnet and Mamma a cap. +Adieu,—tell Arixene to write to me. James King +writes to Charles King he liked Arixene best of all the +Cousins.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Miss Miranda Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Dec. 13, 1807.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been waiting some time to hear you were in +Boston, but as I have not heard from any of the family +for some weeks I shall write you and direct to Portland. +I am rejoiced to hear that little William continues to +recover fast, for Mrs. Derby writes me still later than +Miranda that he is almost recovered. How happy you +must feel! None but those who have suffered the anxiety +can conceive the happiness of such a change. I +don’t hear half often enough from you. Miranda writes +but seldom. Charles King told me last evening, in his +last letter from her she says she is going to spend part +of the winter in Boston with you,—from that I conclude +you intend going to housekeeping before Spring. +I have been making a plan for you to make me a visit +next Spring. I think there can be no objection to it; +your husband can make arrangements to leave Boston +for a month or a few weeks, I am sure. The accommodations +in the stage to Providence are so good, you can +go in half a day—take passage in a Packet and be in +New York in three days with ease. You can either +bring William with you, which I should wish you to, or +leave him if you prefer it. Indeed I can see no objection +to the plan. Your friends in New York have made +particular enquiries respecting you. Mary Murray says +you have quite given her up, that she has not received +a line from you for some time—I don’t remember how +long. I believe I told you Mrs. Ogden had lost her +youngest child, about 5 months old. Harriet Beam, +whom I believe you knew, died last week,—melancholy, +so young. Mrs. Derby writes me her Father is +still far from strong and firm, tho’ much better; very +probable his constitution will never entirely recover this +shock. I am much obliged to Mr. Browne for purchasing +the little hat for Walter. It was not the kind I meant, +however,—those here are worn only by girls, square +crowns altogether for boys. Give my best love to Horatio +and Nabby, Isabella and husband, Arixene—I +want to send her a pattern to work a frock in; I have a +very pretty one, with but little work on. Adieu; write +me very particularly about William.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mrs. Wm. Browne (Octavia Southgate).</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Jan. 13, 1808.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been in daily expectation of hearing farther +from you, my dear Miranda. I received a letter from +Octavia by the same mail that brought me yours, informing +me of the melancholy change in their prospects, +which I answered immediately and used every argument +I thought could console her at such a time. Her firmness +and resolution in relating the particulars, her reasoning +on the subject, displayed the real superiority of +her mind. She has had severe trials; the danger of her +child, and now this stroke; I tremble when I think with +how much less firmness I should probably have acted +in the same trials. I am extremely anxious to hear all +the particulars of their failure, how Mr. Browne bears it, +where they will spend their winter. I wish with all my +heart Octavia and her child would come and stay with +me until Mr. Browne could arrange his affairs a little. +But I suppose ’twould be in vain to urge her to leave +her husband at this time. You mention that you were +in hopes Papa would secure Octavia’s furniture for her. +I wish you would write me particularly if he did. Octavia +writes me he attached all the personal property he +knew of at the time. Pappa too I fear will be quite a +sufferer by their failure. I hear Webster is gone,—he, +I think, had money of my Father’s. Mr. Bowne has always +thought he played rather a hazardous game in letting +out money in that way. I hope he is not materially +injured,—he will, at any rate, have the consolation +to know that the education of his children is principally +accomplished; he will always have enough to live with +comfort and ease, and as to leaving a great deal, I think +’tis very immaterial. I am glad to find his stock here +has produced a very good dividend this month. I hope +this won’t depress his spirits any,—old people feel the +loss of property much more than younger ones. However, +Papa’s is nothing to mention at these times, as he +is not in debt, has a good farm, and will always have all +the comforts of life; indeed, I think ’twill have a good +effect. He has always been determined on leaving such +a sum untouched, and from that darling object has deprived +himself of the comfort of a comfortable house for +many years past. Accident has interfered with the fulfilment +of his plan; he will now enjoy what he has left +without thinking of leaving just so much; his children +are, or soon will be grown up, and he ought to have no +other care but to enjoy what he has dearly earned, now +in his old age. I am sure all his children most heartily +wish it, if he should not leave a farthing for them. Old +Mr. Codwise has failed, a dreadful thing for so old a +man. Mr. Macomb [Ann and Robert’s father] is gone +too; all the Franklins too, and a great many others I +do not now recollect. Adieu; write me immediately and +tell me every particular. My love to Arixene; is she at +Miss Martin’s, for I have never heard?</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>E. S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Miss Miranda Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Boston, December 21, 1808.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>My best Friends:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>In consequence of a letter from Mr. Bowne, received +this day, I have to inform you that instead of proceeding +to Scarborough, my next journey is to New York. +He writes me that by the advice of Mr. King they have +concluded it will be best for Eliza to go to Charleston, +South Carolina, in order to avoid the severity of our +winter; that he is under the necessity of remaining in +New York till February himself, and that he wishes me +to return and go on with Eliza and Octavia as soon as I +can. As I have nothing of consequence to prevent me, +I shall leave this in a day or two for New York, and +shall be fully satisfied if I can render them the least service +by my attentions. With sentiments of the highest +esteem and regard,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>I am your obedient servant      <span class='sc'>W. Browne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Dec. 27, 1808.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>You are anxious, my Dear Mother, to hear from my +own hand how I am. Octavia has told you all my complaints: +my cough is extremely obstinate, I have occasionally +a little fever, tho’ quite irregular and sometimes +a week without any. I have a new Physician to attend +me; he is a Frenchman of great celebrity, particularly +in Pulmonary complaints, and has been wonderfully successful +in the cure of coughs; he keeps me on a milk +diet, but allows me to eat eggs and oysters. He does +not give any opiates; Paregoric and Laudanum he entirely +disapproves of; he gives no medicine but a decoction +of Roots and Flowers;—the <em>Iceland Moss</em> or <em>Lichen</em> +made in a tea he gives a great deal of, and for cough I +take a white Pectoral lotion he calls it, made principally +of White Almonds, Gum Arabic, Gum Tragacanth +(or something like it), the Syrup of Muskmelon seeds. +He thinks I am much better already. I have no pain +at all, and have not had any. My cough seems to be all +my disorder. He thinks he can cure that; indeed he +speaks with perfect confidence, and says he has no doubt +as soon as I get to warmer weather, my cough will soon +leave me. Mr. Browne got here last night, and we shall +probably sail by Sunday at farthest. Octavia will write +particularly. You will hear from me, my Dear Mother, +often,—at present my mind seems so occupied; leaving +my children, preparing to go, and making arrangements +to shut up my house. ’Tis quite a trial to leave my little +ones; I leave them at their Grandmother’s. My little +Mary<a id='r95'></a><a href='#f95' class='c012'><sup>[95]</sup></a> has a wet-nurse; she is a fine, lively child, and +thrives fast. Adieu, my Dear Mother; I did not think I +could have written half as much; love to all my friends.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza S. Bowne.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Charleston, South Carolina, Jan. 1, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Our most esteemed Friends:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>We have now been in the City a week. We find that +Eliza has gained a little strength since she arrived, and +that her cough is not quite so distressing as before we +left New York. She complains of no pain, but her fever +and night sweats continue to trouble her every other +day and night, as was the case before. She can walk +about her room with ease; and she rides when the +weather is fine, which she is much pleased with, and no +doubt it is of great service to her. The streets are entirely +of sand, as smooth as possible, no pavements, not +a stone to be seen, which renders it very easy riding for +her. It is as warm as our first of May, (if not the middle,) +and when the weather is fair, the air is clear, very +mild and refreshing. The change is so great between +this and New York that I cannot help thinking it must +have a great and good effect on Eliza. I find as to myself +that my cough is done away entirely, and I had a +little of it most all the time at home in winter. Octavia +has certainly grown fat, and our little Frederic is very +well indeed. Eliza eats hominy, rice and milk, eggs and +oysters cooked in various ways, vegetables too, which +we find in great perfection here; fruit is plenty of almost +every description. The oranges raised here are not +sweet but are very large. Their olives, grapes, and figs +are excellent. Their meats and fish are not so good as +ours. Their Poultry is fine; a great plenty of Venison, +wild ducks, and small sea-fowl; green peas we shall +have in about a month; so that, beside the change of climate, +we have many of the luxuries of a Northern summer. +Uncle King gave us letters to Gen. C. C. Pinckney +and his brother Major Thomas Pinckney,—both of +them being out of town at their plantation; their sister, +Mrs. Hovey, received the letters and has been very attentive +and kind to us all. She is a widow, about 55 I +should judge, of the first respectability, and appears a +very pleasant, amiable and cheerful old lady. She +sends some nice things to Eliza almost every day. Her +daughters, Mrs. Rutledge, two Miss Pinckneys (daughters +of the General), Mrs. Gilchrist and daughter, Mr. +and Mrs. Mannigault, Mrs. Middleton, Mr. and Mrs. +Izard,<a id='r96'></a><a href='#f96' class='c012'><sup>[96]</sup></a> Mr. and Mrs. Dessault and Mr. Heyward make +an extensive acquaintance for us. They all seem very +kind and hospitable to us, plain and open in their manners, +and yet the most genteel and easy. Eliza has +seen only Mrs. Hovey, Mrs. Rutledge, and the two +Miss Pinckneys, but she thinks in a few days to be able +to receive short visits from a few of her friends, and +even thinks it may be of consequence to enliven her. +She rides whenever the weather is fine, and is very much +pleased with the appearance of everything growing in +the gardens here so like our June. We have had one +visit from a Physician only; he thinks taking a little +blood from her would be of service, but she has not yet +consented. He approved of her diet and of the Iceland +Moss tea which was recommended at New York, and +which is said here to have had a great effect in removing +complaints of the cough. Mrs. Mannigault told us +yesterday she found immediate relief from it after she +had been sick a long time. We expect Mr. Bowne in +the course of a fortnight, and then I expect to return +toward Scarborough immediately. We hope to hear +from you in a few days; not a word have we yet from +New York since we arrived. Our darling boy we think +we see every day playing about us, without thinking who +admires him at the distance of 1100 miles.</p> + +<p class='c011'>Our best wishes attend you always.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Affectionately,      <span class='sc'>W. Browne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Charleston, Jan. 28, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Dear Caroline, I send by Capt. Crowel a little pair of +shoes for Mary, a little Cuckoo toy for Walter, and a +tumbler of Orange Marmalade for Mother. I have had +only one letter from New York since I have been here, +and that from Mary Perkins, not one line from my husband. +I can tell you nothing flattering of my health: I +am very miserable; at present I have a kind of intermittent +Fever; this afternoon I shall take an emetic, +and hope a good effect. How are my dear little ones?—I +hope not too troublesome. Octavia is in fine +health and grows quite fat for her. Frederic has been +unusually troublesome. My dear little Walter!—I +hardly trust myself to think of them,—precious children—how +they bind me to life! Adieu. I have a +bad headache and low-spirited to-day.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Eliza.</span></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line in4'>Caroline Bowne (with 2 small parcels),</div> + <div class='line in12'>No. 288 Pearl Street,</div> + <div class='line'>Blazing Star.      New York.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>This appears to be the last letter written by Mrs. +Bowne. (M. K. L.)</p> + +<h3 class='c020'>From Mrs. William Browne to Mrs. King.</h3> + +<div class='lg-container-r c003'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Charleston, February 2, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have been waiting day after day, my Dear Aunt, in +the hope of having something pleasant to communicate +to you, but I do very much fear I shall now have nothing, +if ever, to say about our Dear Eliza but will give +you pain. I sat down to write to you without knowing +what to say. I have been so in the habit of dissembling +lately that I can hardly throw it off, for when I write +my Father and Mother everything is so glossed over, +’tis impossible to come at the truth. You know not +how I am affected, my Dear Aunt. I fear I am doing +wrong in deceiving them, for it is my firm opinion she +never will be well. Do advise me, tell me what I ought +to do. I think to you I may say the truth—I think +she has been growing sicker every hour since she left +New York. Her voyage had a singular effect upon her: +she suffered but little from seasickness, but every bad +symptom she had before seemed increased; she coughed +a great deal and very hard, her fever and night sweats +were excessive. You may imagine she was much weakened; +but I hoped this was a temporary thing, and a +few days of quiet and of rest would restore her; but instead +of that, directly after our arrival a sort of intermittent +fever took place, she had a regular chill and +fever every day, she lost her strength very much, no +appetite at all. This last four or five days her disorder +wears another appearance. ’Tis now Thursday. On +Sunday Dr. Irvine ordered her to take Quashy in order +to prevent a chill; she took it according to his direction—it +brought on her fever at 1 o’clock in the morning, +and it never left her till 12 o’clock at night, it absolutely +raged all day. Since then she has had no night +sweats, no chill, but her cough and fever very much increased. +Her nerves are extremely disordered; such a +tremor that to-day she cannot feed herself at all. She +is so weak and exhausted that she cannot walk alone. +’Tis now 11 o’clock—I am sitting by her side, and she +is still coughing and in such a hot fever she can bear +nothing to touch her. I have not asked her Physician’s +opinion concerning her; ’tis unnecessary I feel, I know +what it must be. Yet is it not strange she keeps up +her spirits? She is looking forward with the greatest +anxiety to warm weather. God grant it may not be +too late! Dr. Irvine was the Physician Mrs. Hovey +recommended; he is indisposed and has left his patients +in the care of Dr. Barrow. The exchange has pleased +us very much, for Dr. Barrow is considered quite as +skilful, and is extremely kind and fatherly in his manners, +indeed he reminds us so strongly of our Dear +Father that we already love him very much.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>February 3.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Poor Eliza had a most distressing night last night. She +coughed so long that she was entirely exhausted; her +fever was very high, and she has scarcely spoken a loud +word to-day. Her nerves are in a dreadful state. I inquired +of Dr. Barrow what he thought of her situation; +he says he can say nothing encouraging. He said the +disorder had taken great hold upon her, and had shattered +her nerves in a terrible manner. He very much +fears a nervous fever,—that her pulse was very bad, as +nearly as he could count up to 150. Is it not very evident +from his being so candid, my Dear Aunt, that he +has but little or no hope of her recovery? And yet so +strongly do I sympathize in every feeling of hers, that +seeing her easier and more comfortable this evening +has renewed my hopes and put me quite in spirits. She +has been much better this afternoon and evening, less +fever, less tremor upon her nerves, and since she has +been in bed has had no bad coughing spell. The mail +went to the Northward to-day. I have so little time to +write that I have missed it. I will let you know to-morrow +how she is, and the next day is post-day again. +I know what a kind interest you and my uncle take +in our dear Eliza, and I know I cannot be too minute. +Our friends here are kinder than I can express to you. +It seems sometimes as though we were among our own +relations. They think of every little thing for Eliza’s +comfort and convenience that I could myself.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Monday, February 6.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>This morning Eliza was better, my Dear Aunt, than +she has been for a week past. Her voice has returned +and she appears stronger in every respect. Yesterday +and last night she had a little fever, this morning is delightful +and she is going to ride. You shall hear again +from us before long. I know Mrs. Bogert will need no +apology, I am sure, for my not writing. The repetition +of such symptoms are distressing to me beyond expression.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your affectionate niece      <span class='sc'>O. S. Browne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<h3 class='c020'>To Mrs. Bowne.</h3> + +<div class='lg-container-r c003'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, Feb’y 4, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Your letter, my love, of the 13th and 14th has comforted +me. You must keep up your spirits; you will +do well, Dr. Bergere says; attacks similar to yours are +not of the dangerous kind that some think; he approves +of your taking the Lychen again. I have sent a bundle +from Mr. King by Capt. Slocum, who sails to-morrow. +I am distressed I cannot go with him, but so it is. It +is next to impossible I should leave here till about the +25th of this month. Mr. Jenkins, my assistant, is absent, +and I cannot leave the office until he returns without +relinquishing it altogether, and I have most of my +houses to let this month, those I have lately built included, +and which are not finished, but I am determined +to leave here in all this month. I hope you have a +comfortable place now; what abominable lodgings the +first were! Don’t mind the expense: get everything and +do everything you like, we can afford it. I wish my +presence in this place could as well be dispensed with, +but so it is. I think it right you should have a Physician. +I will bring the things you mention; our children +are well.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Ever,      <span class='sc'>Walter Bowne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The Ship—General Eaton—has not yet arrived, I +will write to Mr. Brown by this vessel if I have time; if +not, by mail on Monday or Tuesday.</p> + +<p class='c011'>(With a bundle of Lychen for E. S. B.)</p> + +<p class='c019'>The following letter from Mr. Rufus King to his +nephew Horatio Southgate, will show how much alarm +was felt about Mrs. Bowne’s health.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>New York, February 9, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Dear Sir:</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I have to beg your excuse that I have so long delayed +my answer to your letter written I believe in November. +The Plants were a long time on their way, and did not +arrive till Christmas, when we had a few days of mild +weather, which enabled us to put them in the ground. +Mr. Mars is entitled to credit for the manner and care +with which the Plants were packed, and altho’ they +were much longer out of the ground than they sh<sup>d</sup> have +been, I am in hopes that many of them were saved. +Inclosed I send you a Post-note (payable to your order) +on the Boston Branch Bank for 47 dollars, being the +amount of Mars’s account, and I beg you to accept my +acknowledgments for the trouble you have given yourself +in this Business. Should there be an opportunity +direct from Portland to N. York in the Spring, any time +in Ap<sup>l</sup> or May would do (for that is the true season, +even on to the middle of June, to remove evergreens), +I wish Mars to send me a few more spruces, one moderate +sized Box, together with some of the small Evergreen +shrubs found in the woods and pastures, and +which I remember abounded in the Pasture of Knight’s +Farm, and which we called laurel, or sheep poison. +Any other small plants may be added to fill up the Box.</p> + +<p class='c011'>We yesterday heard from Mrs. Bowne, who had recovered +from the fatigue of her voyage, and thought +herself something better. I am in hopes that the soft +weather of an early spring will do more for her than +medicine could have effected in the rude weather of our +winter and spring. I ought not to conceal from you, +tho’ I think you sh<sup>d</sup> not unnecessarily increase the anxiety +of your mother, that I am not free from apprehensions +regarding your Sister’s complaint; it is so flattering +and insidious, that I do not place the same Reliance +upon favorable Reports w<sup>h</sup> in any other case I +sh<sup>d</sup> be inclined to do. I by no means think that she +has no chance of recovery. On the contrary, I have +the satisfaction to believe and expect that she will regain +her accustomed good health. Mrs. Browne’s being +with her is a very important circumstance in a case in +which good nursing and careful attention is of so much +consequence.</p> + +<p class='c011'>With sincere Regards, I remain, D<sup>r</sup> Sir,</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Y<sup>r</sup> obliged serv’t,      <span class='sc'>Rufus King</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Horatio Southgate, Esqr., Portland, Maine.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Charleston, February 21, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I will permit no one but myself to transmit to you +the dreadful intelligence this letter will convey to you, +my dear Parents. A good and merciful God will not +forsake you at this awful moment. Our dear Eliza is +freed from her earthly sufferings and I humbly trust +is now a blessed spirit in Heaven! I offer you no +consolation; I commit you into the hands of a Good +God, who has supported me when my strength failed +me. She had her senses at intervals for the few days +last of her illness. She spoke of her approaching +change with great composure, said she had thought +much of it, that she trusted in God for future happiness +with great satisfaction and confidence; wished her +time might come speedily that she might be relieved +from the pain of seeing her distressed friends. She +suffered with wonderful patience; never murmured. +At the very last she looked the satisfaction she had not +the power to speak. At 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon +was this most afflicting scene. Octavia had great fortitude +to sit by her when she could speak only with her +eyes. She knew us, and listened with apparent satisfaction +to a prayer I read only an hour before the sad +moment. It was a day of trial with us most severe.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>With much affection and regard to all,</div> + <div class='line in36'><span class='sc'>W. Browne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Poor Mr. Bowne has not arrived.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-l c014'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>To Mr. & Mrs. Southgate.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-r c016'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Charleston, March 12, 1809.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>I hope, my dear Miranda, this will be the last letter +you will receive from me at Charleston. Poor Mr. +Bowne arrived here on Thursday. Not a word had he +heard, and owing to his having left New York he had not +received a single very alarming letter. He was entirely +unprepared for the shock which awaited him; never did +I pity any one so. He is indeed borne down with the +weight of his grief. But the violence I dreaded I see +nothing of. There is no judging from the effect little +troubles have upon people, how they will bear great +ones. I know it by myself—I see it in him. He is +more composed to-day, and we are making arrangements +to get away. He is much gratified that we waited here +for him, which we had some doubt about on account of +the great expense in these houses. The Minerva, a very +fine Packet, arrived from New York yesterday. We +shall return in her. She will go in the course of a week +or ten days. What a melancholy voyage! But yet I +will not think so. I am going to my dear father and +mother, my kind sisters,—indeed, ’tis a delightful +thought.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Your sister,</div> + <div class='line in16'><span class='sc'>O. Browne</span>.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Among the letters which were so carefully preserved +by her daughter, Mrs. Lawrence, was found the following +extract from a daily paper:—</p> + +<p class='c022'>Died at Charleston, S. C., on the 19th ult., Mrs. Walter Bowne, consort +of Walter Bowne, Esq., of New York, and daughter of the Hon. Robert +Southgate, of Scarborough, Maine, aged 25 years. The Bereaved Husband +and infant children, the afflicted parents, Brethren and sisters, and the numerous +respectable friends and acquaintances by whom she was so justly +respected and beloved for her talents and virtues, will deeply mourn this +early signal triumph of the King of Terrors. But they will not “sorrow +as those without hope.” Her immortal spirit, liberated from the body, is, +we trust, already admitted to a clear and perfect, an immediate and positive, +a soul-transforming and eternal vision of God and the Redeemer. +Why the most endearing ties of nature should be dissolved almost as +soon as formed, why the dreadful law of mortality should be executed on +the most worthy and dearest objects of conjugal, parental, and social +love, in the moment of sanguine expectation of reciprocal enjoyment, is +among the dark and mysterious questions in the book of Providence. +The ways of God are inscrutable to man, “clouds and darkness are round +about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his +throne.” All afflictive events are readily resolved into the wisdom of +God. To his sovereign will, reason and religion, duty and interest require +us to bow with reverence. What a dark and gloomy veil is spread +by the early death of our friends over our earthly enjoyments! How tenderly +are we hereby admonished not to expect satisfaction in this empty, +fluctuating, and transitory state! How strongly urged to place our +affections on things above, to secure an immediate interest in those +sublime and durable pleasures which flow from the service and favor of +God and the prospect of complete and endless felicity in His presence.</p> + +<p class='c019'>Inscription on the monument in Archdale Churchyard, +in Archdale Street, Charleston, S. C.:—</p> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> + <div class='nf-center'> + <div>SACRED</div> + <div class='c003'>TO THE MEMORY OF</div> + <div class='c003'>ELIZA S. BOWNE</div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>Wife of Walter Bowne of New York,</div> + <div class='line'>Daughter of Robert Southgate Esqr.,</div> + <div class='line'>of Scarborough, District of Maine,</div> + <div class='line'>who departed this life on the 19th</div> + <div class='line'>day of February, 1809, aged 25 years.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class='c023'> +<div class='footnote' id='f1'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. Mrs. Rowson’s story is well known. She was an Englishwoman, Susanna Haswell, +the daughter of an officer in the navy, and was brought to America by her father in 1767, +when she was only five years old. Their ship was wrecked on Lovell’s Island, in Boston +Harbor, and they lived at Nantasket for nearly ten years, when they went back to England. +There she married William Rowson, a musician, and went upon the stage. In +1795–96 we find her acting in Baltimore and Boston. She published several comedies and +a number of novels; one of these, “Charlotte Temple,” gained great popularity. She +died at Boston in 1824. She taught school in several places—at Medford, at Newton, and +at Boston, and was very successful.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f2'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. Joseph Coffin Boyd, of Portland, Maine. Married Isabella, oldest +daughter of Dr. Southgate.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f3'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. Horatio Southgate, Dr. Southgate’s oldest son, followed the profession +of the law in the town of Portland, Maine, and was for twenty-one years +Register of Probate for Cumberland County, Maine. Mr. Southgate +married three times. His first wife was a friend of his sisters and was +Abigail McLellan, the daughter of Hugh McLellan, a well-known East +Indian merchant. Mary Webster was Mr. Southgate’s second wife; she +was the daughter of Noah Webster, whose name is well known in connection +with the dictionary that he wrote. Mr. Southgate’s third wife was +Eliza Neal of Portland. By his three wives Mr. Southgate had a large +family of children, among them being the Rt. Rev’d Horatio Southgate +and the Rev’d William Scott Southgate.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f4'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. Isabella Southgate had married to Joseph Coffin Boyd. She was Dr. +Southgate’s oldest child.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f5'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. Mary Black, the second wife of Richard King, Mrs. Southgate’s stepmother. +She had married Mr. King soon after the death of his first wife, +who was her cousin, and had been a kind and devoted mother to his three +children.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f6'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. Octavia Southgate, Dr. Southgate’s third daughter. She married, in +1805, William Browne.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f7'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. Sarah Leland was the daughter of Mrs. Southgate’s half-sister Dorcas +King, Mrs. Joseph Leland.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f8'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. Arixene and Robert Southgate, Eliza’s younger sister and brother. +Arixene married Henry Smith, of Sacarappa, Maine.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f9'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. William King, the son of Richard King by his second wife Mary +Black, was a large land-owner near the town of Bath. Mr. King was +elected the first Governor when the District of Maine was changed into a +State with a government of its own.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f10'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. Eleanor Coffin, afterwards Mrs. John Derby, was the daughter of Dr. +Coffin, a neighbor of Dr. Southgate’s. Martha Coffin, another daughter, +had lately married Mr. Richard Derby. The Mrs. Codman mentioned in +the previous letter was a sister of Dr. Coffin’s.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f11'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. Peony (vulgarly called Piny). Note by M. B. L.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f12'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. Ann, daughter of Cyrus King (Mrs. Southgate’s half-brother) and his +wife Hannah Stone. She was named after her aunt, Mrs. William King, +Ann Frazier. She afterwards married Mr. Bridge.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f13'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. Mr. Jewett married Sally Weeks, a friend and neighbor of the Misses +Southgate. He was a grandson of Aaron Jewett, who built the first sawmill +on Algers Falls, Dunstan, in 1727, and carried on what was then considered +an extensive lumber business.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f14'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. Moses Porter was Eliza’s cousin. He was the oldest son of Mrs. +Aaron Porter (Paulina King).</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f15'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. Miranda and Arixene Southgate were at this time aged respectively +twelve and eight years. Their cousin Sally Leland was about the same +age. Frederic Southgate, born in 1791, became a tutor in Bowdoin College, +and died unmarried in 1820.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f16'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. <em>Isabella Boyd</em>, second child of Isabella Southgate and Joseph Coffin +Boyd. She died of consumption, the fatal disease which carried off so +many of her aunts, sisters, and cousins.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f17'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. <em>Rufus King</em>, oldest son of Richard King and Isabella Bragdon, and +brother of Mrs. Southgate. He was born in 1755 and married Mary +Alsop. He was delegated by the State of Massachusetts to the Convention +for framing the Constitution of the United States, was a member of +Congress from Massachusetts, Senator of the United States from New +York, and at this time Minister to the Court of St. James.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f18'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. <em>Mary Alsop</em> was born in 1786. She was the daughter of John Alsop +and Mary Frogat.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f19'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r19'>19</a>. Mr. and Mrs. Southgate’s “profiles” hung in Mr. King’s house at +Jamaica until about 1875, when they were given by his granddaughter to +Mrs. Southgate’s grandson, Mr. Lawrence, of Flushing, L. I.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f20'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r20'>20</a>. <em>Broads</em>, a tavern near Portland, to which gay parties of young people +went on frolics.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f21'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r21'>21</a>. The manuscript which was under the seal was so torn as to make +this sentence illegible.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f22'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r22'>22</a>. <em>Paulina Porter</em>, daughter of Dr. Aaron Porter of Portland. She married, +first Enoch Jones, and then Edward Beecher. Her sister Harriet +married Lyman Beecher.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f23'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r23'>23</a>. <em>Miss Rice’s</em> father was Joseph Rice; he raised a company of fifty men +and, after the receipt of the news of the skirmish at Lexington, set out as +soon as possible for Cambridge and joined Colonel Phinney’s regiment. It +was the first regiment that marched into Boston after its evacuation by the +British on the 17th of March, 1776. In a letter from Rufus King to Dr. +Southgate, dated August 6, 1776, he says: “Phinney’s regiment is ordered +from Boston to Ticonderoga. I guess the pious Elder would as lieve +tarry where he is, but he was formerly fond of action—hope now he +will be satisfied.... Gen. Gates will doubtless make a stand at Ticonderoga.”</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f24'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r24'>24</a>. Phippsburg.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f25'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r25'>25</a>. This letter was never finished.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f26'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r26'>26</a>. Mary King Porter (at this time twenty years of age) married Nathan +Coffin.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f27'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r27'>27</a>. E. Hasket Derby, Jr., was born in Salem in 1766, and died in Londonderry, +H. N., in 1826. Mr. Derby married, in 1797, Miss Lucy Brown. +He was the son of E. Hasket Derby, who married Elizabeth Crowninshield, +a leading merchant of Salem, and founder of the East India +trade; known in the annals of Salem as “King Derby.” Mr. Derby, the +father, had four sons, who married and had families. They were E. Hasket, +Jr., just mentioned; John, who married Miss Barton and secondly +Miss Eleanor Coffin; E. Hersey, who married Miss Hannah Brown +Fitch; and Richard C., who married Miss Martha Coffin. The father +of E. Hasket Derby, Sen., was Richard Derby, merchant, a delegate to the +Provincial Congress in 1774–5.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f28'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r28'>28</a>. The Rumford kitchen or Roaster was invented by Benjamin Thompson +(Count Rumford), a native of Salem. Mr. Thompson, after passing +through various phases of existence, went to Bavaria, where by his powers +of pleasing and wonderful inventive faculties he attracted the attention of +the king, and by him was created Count Rumford. One of Count Rumford’s +particular studies was the laws which govern heat and cold, and to +him we are indebted for great improvement in our chimneys, fireplaces, +and kitchen ranges. Before his time all cooking was done over an open +wood fire. In the “Life of Count Rumford,” by Ellis, page 240, we find +the following: “The Roaster, if not the first, was the most simple, ingenious, +and effective apparatus of the kind which, by its arrangement of +flues for conveying hot air around the food in the oven as well as by economizing +fuel, allowed of the preparation of many articles by one fire, and +greatly facilitated the labors and added to the comfort of the cook. +They were especially popular in Salem, where many of the flourishing +citizens had occasion to recall over their dinners the ‘apprentice boy in +Mr. Appleton’s shop.’”</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f29'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r29'>29</a>. Mme. Milliken, probably the daughter of John Ayer. She was the +wife of John Milliken of Boston.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f30'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r30'>30</a>. Dr. Southgate’s family resided at Leicester.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f31'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r31'>31</a>. Woburn.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f32'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r32'>32</a>. Billerica.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f33'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r33'>33</a>. Dracut.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f34'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r34'>34</a>. <em>Francestown</em>, named so after Gov. Wentworth’s wife.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f35'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r35'>35</a>. Lady Nesbert, wife of Sir John Nesbert, celebrated for a race ridden +against John Randolph in 1719.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f36'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r36'>36</a>. Joseph Allston, of South Carolina, had married, February 2, 1801, +Theodosia Burr, only daughter of Aaron Burr.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f37'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r37'>37</a>. This was Mr. William Constable, who married, February 26, 1810, Miss +Mary Elizabeth McVickar, daughter of John McVickar, Esq.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f38'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r38'>38</a>. The Patroon Stephen Van Rensselaer had lately married his second +wife, Cornelia Patterson. Miss Southgate spelt the name as it was then +usually pronounced.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f39'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r39'>39</a>. Rensselaer Westerlo and his sister Catherine Westerlo, who afterwards +married Mr. Woodworth. Their mother was Catherine Livingston, oldest +daughter of Philip, commonly known as the “Signer,” he having been one +of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Miss Livingston had +first married Stephen Van Rensselaer, Patroon of the Manor, and by him +had had three children: Stephen, who succeeded his father; Philip, mayor +of the city of Albany; and a daughter. Mrs. Van Rensselaer remarried +Dominie Westerlo.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f40'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r40'>40</a>. Walsh (?).</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f41'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r41'>41</a>. Oliver Kane, a merchant of New York. He married, at Providence, +Rhode Island, May 22, 1803, Miss Ann Eliza Clarke, daughter of John +Innes Clarke.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f42'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r42'>42</a>. James G. King.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f43'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r43'>43</a>. General Henry Knox was a general in the American army during +the Revolution. He entered it at the beginning of the war as a captain of +the Boston Grenadiers. He was the first Secretary of War of the United +States. He married the daughter of Secretary Flucker. General and +Mrs. Knox grew to be enormously stout and were perhaps the largest +couple in the city of New York at the time when Washington was inaugurated +as first President of the United States. General Knox’s home +was at Thomaston, Maine.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f44'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r44'>44</a>. General Pinckney of South Carolina had served in the American +army. He had two daughters, one of whom married Col. Francis K. +Huger.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f45'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r45'>45</a>. Hodgkinson made his first appearance in New York as <em>Vapid</em>. He +was born in Manchester, England, 1767; his father was an innkeeper named +Meadowcraft. Young Meadowcraft ran away from home, took the +name of Hodgkinson, and joined the stage. His wife, to whom he was +married on his arrival in America, by Bishop Moore, was Miss Brett of +the Bath Theatre. She died in New York of consumption, September, +1803. Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkinson received $100 a week for their services, +which was the highest amount yet paid to any two performers in +America.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f46'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r46'>46</a>. This Joseph Jefferson was the grandfather of the present Joseph +Jefferson.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f47'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r47'>47</a>. Mr. and Mrs. William Codman. Mrs. Codman was a Miss Coffin. +William Codman had at that time an insurance office at No. 28 South +Street, New York.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f48'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r48'>48</a>. Mrs. Henderson and Miss Denning were daughters of William Denning, +a well-known New York merchant.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f49'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r49'>49</a>. <em>Columbia Gardens</em> were on the corner of Broadway and Prince +Street.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f50'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r50'>50</a>. <em>Mt. Vernon</em> Gardens, afterwards called Contois’s Gardens, were on +the northwest corner of Broadway and Leonard Street.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f51'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r51'>51</a>. Mrs. Delafield was a Miss Hallett. She married, December 11th, +1784, Mr. John Delafield, an Englishman, who had arrived in New York +in 1783. They had twelve children. Among them were Major Joseph +Delafield, who married Miss Livingston; Mr. Rufus Delafield married +Miss Bard; Dr. Edward Delafield married Miss Floyd; Henry Delafield +married Miss Munson.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f52'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r52'>52</a>. <em>Malbone</em>, a celebrated miniature painter. He was born at Newport, +Rhode Island, and when very young showed great taste for painting. He +travelled about the then known portions of the United States, painting +portraits of people in Charleston, Boston, Philadelphia, New York, etc., +many of which are now in existence. His price for painting a head +was $50. He died of consumption in Savannah, May 7, 1807, in the +thirty-second year of his age.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f53'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r53'>53</a>. Lucia, Zilpah, and John were the children of Genl. Peleg Wadsworth. +Zilpah afterwards married Stephen Longfellow, and was the mother of +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Genl. Wadsworth lived at Hiram, on the +Saco River.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f54'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r54'>54</a>. Dr. William Moore was a celebrated physician of New York. He +married Miss Sarah Fish and had by her a numerous family. Among +them being Nathaniel Moore, President of Columbia College, and Dr. +Samuel Moore, also a favorite physician.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f55'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r55'>55</a>. He was returning from his mission in London, where he had been +Minister to the Court of St. James from the United States.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f56'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r56'>56</a>. Nicholas Low, a merchant in New York. Among his descendants +are Mrs. Eugene Schuyler and the wife of M. Waddington, at present +ambassador to the Court of St. James from France.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f57'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r57'>57</a>. Mr. Watson was at this time a widower with one son, James Watson. +This son became a great beau in New York society, but died unmarried +and insane.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f58'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r58'>58</a>. William Henderson, who had married Sarah Denning.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f59'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r59'>59</a>. George III of England.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f60'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r60'>60</a>. Bethlehem. This is a place originally settled by a religious sect +called Moravians. They were famous for their schools,—one for boys +kept by the Brothers, and a girls’ school kept by the Sisters. Young +ladies were sent to Bethlehem from New York, Philadelphia, and distant +parts of the country, to receive their education at this place. In a letter +from John Adams to his daughter, dated Monday, Feb. 10th, 1823, he +speaks of it: “I have seen a remarkable institution for the education of +young ladies at Bethlehem. About 120 of them live under the same roof. +They sleep all together in the same garret. I saw 120 beds in two long +rows in the same room. The beds and bedclothes were all of excellent +quality and extraordinary neat. How should you like to live in such a +nunnery?”</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f61'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r61'>61</a>. The yellow fever having broken out in New York, the city was deserted +by all who could leave it. Even the business was transacted in the +neighboring village of Greenwich, which is now incorporated in the city +itself and its boundaries lost in the surrounding streets. The following +advertisements have been copied from the “Evening Post,” Thursday, +Aug. 25, 1803, as being of interest, as the advertisers were not only well-known +New Yorkers, but personal friends of Mrs. Bowne:—</p> + +<p class='c019'>Woolsey & Rogers’ Counting House is removed to No. 28 Courtlandt +Street.</p> + +<p class='c019'><span class='sc'>Removal.</span> William Codman has removed his Counting House to the +N. E. corner room in the 2nd Story of the City Hotel, Broadway.</p> + +<p class='c019'>John G. Bogart, Attorney at law & Notary Public, has Removed his +office to the House of Judge Livingston, No. 37 Broadway, near the Custom +House.</p> + +<p class='c019'>John Murray & Sons have removed their Counting House to Mr. +Murray’s country seat on the Harlem Road, 3 1–2 miles from town.</p> + +<p class='c011'>[This was at Murray Hill, about the corner of 37th Street and Fifth +Avenue.]</p> + +<p class='c019'>The Editor being obliged to be absent from town a few days, the discussions +respecting <em>yellow fever</em> will, of course, be suspended for a little +time.</p> + +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f62'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r62'>62</a>. Mr. Boyd, Mrs. Bowne’s brother-in-law, had been in England for +some months and was now expected to return to his home.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f63'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r63'>63</a>. Mrs. Boyd, Isabella Southgate.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f64'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r64'>64</a>. Beau Dawson, Mr. J. Dawson of Virginia. He had been sent out by +President Jefferson in April, 1801, as bearer of the Treaty or Convention +between France and the United States as ratified by the latter. The +ship in which he sailed was wrecked and the Treaty lost, although the +envoy was saved. Another treaty was drawn up and dispatched as soon +as possible, but there was great annoyance at the delay.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f65'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r65'>65</a>. Highlands. The hills about West Point on the Hudson are so +called. The road from Peekskill to Garrison’s over the hill called +“Anthony’s Nose” is particularly steep and stony. The Beverly Farm, +which was owned by Mr. William Denning, lay in the midst of these hills. +The house is still standing and is almost unaltered.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f66'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r66'>66</a>. To Miranda Southgate, or, more likely, to Octavia. (M. K. L.)</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f67'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r67'>67</a>. From Octavia Southgate to Mrs. Southgate.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f68'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r68'>68</a>. Mr. Newbold and Mr. Philip Rhinelander were well-known New +Yorkers. The latter married, December 22, 1814, Miss Mary Colden +Hoffman.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f69'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r69'>69</a>. Mr. Jephson was an Englishman who had lately arrived in New +York.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f70'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r70'>70</a>. John Duer married Miss Anne Bunner October 19, 1804, and his +brother, William Duer, soon after married Maria Denning. Mr. Rhinelander +engaged the two Miss Duers to the wrong men. Fanny married +Beverly Robinson, and Sally married, March 10, 1805, John Witherspoon +Smith, and died July 10, 1887, in the one hundred and first year of her +age.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f71'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r71'>71</a>. Mrs. Kane’s “charming little girl” became Mrs. James King of Albany, +and the mother of many well-known New Yorkers.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f72'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r72'>72</a>. Lady Temple was the daughter of Governor Bowdoin, and had married +Sir John Temple. Their daughter, afterwards Mrs. Winthrop, was +the mother of the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop. She was long the reigning +belle in Boston.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f73'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r73'>73</a>. Mr. and Mrs. Bogert were intimate friends of Mr. and Mrs. Rufus +King’s, and they occupied adjoining places at Jamaica.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f74'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r74'>74</a>. Mrs. Heyward was Mr. and Mrs. Rogers’ daughter. She married Mr. +Heyward of South Carolina. Miss Heyward married Mr. Cutting of New +York, and was the mother of Messrs. William, Heyward, and Brockholst +Cutting.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f75'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r75'>75</a>. Wolsey Rogers married, Thursday evening, December 1, 1807, Miss +Susan Bayard.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f76'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r76'>76</a>. Harriet Clarke, a daughter of John Innes Clarke of Providence, and +sister of Mrs. Kane.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f77'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r77'>77</a>. Mrs. Oliver Kane had married, at Providence, R. I., May 22, 1803, +Mr. Oliver Kane, merchant of this city. Her children were Mrs. King +of Albany, Mrs. William Russel, Mrs. Nicholsen, John, De Lancey, and +Miss Lydia Kane.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f78'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r78'>78</a>. Mrs. Gilbert R. Livingston (Martha Kane), a sister of Oliver Kane. +Her children were Mrs. Henry Beekman, Mrs. Codwise, Mrs. Constable, +the Rev. Gilbert R. Livingston, and James Kane Livingston.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f79'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r79'>79</a>. Mrs. Fish (Miss Elizabeth Stuyvesant) had married, April 30, 1803, +Colonel Nicholas Fish. This daughter was Mrs. Daniel le Roy. The Hon. +Hamilton Fish and Mrs. Richard Morris were also children of Colonel +Fish’s.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f80'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r80'>80</a>. <em>Pauline Porter</em>, daughter of Paulina King and Dr. Aaron Porter of +Portland, had married Edward Beecher.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f81'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r81'>81</a>. Mary King Porter, her sister, married Nathaniel Coffin of Saco.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f82'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r82'>82</a>. Horatio Southgate married his first wife, Nabby McLellan, September +29, 1805. Mrs. Bowne is here alluding to her sister Octavia’s engagement +to William Browne.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f83'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r83'>83</a>. Robert Murray, Mr. Bowne’s nephew.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f84'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r84'>84</a>. <em>Frederic Southgate</em>, her youngest brother.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f85'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r85'>85</a>. John, Charles, and James King, sons of Rufus King, Mrs. Bowne’s +cousins. James was at that time at Harvard College.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f86'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r86'>86</a>. Mrs. Gillespie (Amelia Denning). This daughter died when a very +young girl of a putrid sore throat.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f87'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r87'>87</a>. Walter Bowne, Jr. Eldest child of Walter Bowne and Eliza Southgate.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f88'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r88'>88</a>. Kitty Bayard married Duncan Campbell. Her sister Susan had married +Woolsey Rogers, December 1, 1807.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f89'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r89'>89</a>. Mary, oldest daughter of Robert Watts and his wife Lady Mary Alexander, +married Dr. Romaine, who left her a widow after a few years of +married life. At the age of seventy-three Mrs. Romaine married her first +love, Peter Bertram Cruger, a widower with eight children. Miss Watts’s +engagement to Dr. Romaine was a surprise to her friends, who knew of +her attachment to Mr. Cruger.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f90'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r90'>90</a>. John Alsop King, oldest son of Rufus King and his wife Mary Alsop. +John A. King was twice governor of the State of New York. He married +in 1810 Mary Ray. Charles King, the second son of Rufus King, for some +time President of Columbia College, New York. He married twice: first, +Miss Gracie, and for his second wife Miss Low, the daughter of his father’s +intimate friend Nicholas Low.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f91'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r91'>91</a>. Miss Fairlee was the daughter of Major Fairlee of the British army, +who was a noted wit. Many anecdotes are told of his odd sayings. One +of them was, that being on his death-bed he was told by his physician to +take yeast as medicine. “What for?” said the Major; “to make me +rise?” Miss Fairlee married Cooper the actor.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f92'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r92'>92</a>. The wife of the French General Moreau. They came to the United +States in 1805, but he returned to fight with the Allies, and was killed in +1813, some say by a bullet aimed by Napoleon himself.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f93'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r93'>93</a>. Mrs. Stevens was Miss Rachel Coxe, of Philadelphia, and had married +Colonel Stevens, of Hoboken, New Jersey.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f94'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r94'>94</a>. Miss Lyde married Jonathan Ogden. Among her children were Mrs. +Robert Goelet, Mrs. Dominick Lynch Lawrence, and Mrs. Joseph Ogden.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f95'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r95'>95</a>. Mrs. John Lawrence.</p> +</div> +<div class='footnote' id='f96'> +<p class='c011'><a href='#r96'>96</a>. Ralph Izard and his wife, the granddaughter of Etienne de Lanci, a +Huguenot nobleman who came to this country in 1686. Mr. Izard had +been appointed Commissioner from Congress to the grand-duchy of +Tuscany, and had performed other important diplomatic services. He +was one of the first United States senators from South Carolina. Mrs. +Mannigault’s husband was the grandson of Mr. and Mrs. Izard. She was +related to the Misses Watts of New York, and for their sake was particularly +attentive and kind to their friend Mrs. Bowne. Mr. and Mrs. Heyward +were the parents of the celebrated beauty Miss Elizabeth Heyward, +who married James Hamilton.</p> +</div> + +<div class='pbb'> + <hr class='pb c003'> +</div> +<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'> + +<div class='chapter ph2'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c004'> + <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + + <ul class='ul_1 c002'> + <li>Non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + + </li> + <li>Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. + </li> + </ul> + +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76799 ***</div> + </body> + <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57e (with regex) on 2025-09-02 20:45:57 GMT --> +</html> + diff --git a/76799-h/images/cover.jpg b/76799-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e806a59 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_001.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d95784 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_001.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_021.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_021.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..88c356f --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_021.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_044.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_044.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..90d1700 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_044.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_068.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_068.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4c22fb --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_068.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_098.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_098.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..db37e9e --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_098.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_144.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_144.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..48abf54 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_144.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_154.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_154.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..baab464 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_154.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_172.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_172.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f06d60b --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_172.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_186.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_186.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..98f8e1a --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_186.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_198.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_198.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e8f4d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_198.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_211a.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_211a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f7e4ef --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_211a.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_211b.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_211b.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5df9ac8 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_211b.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_223.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_223.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..829d5d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_223.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_255.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_255.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..81d7882 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_255.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_272.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_272.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1d7e82 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_272.jpg diff --git a/76799-h/images/i_280.jpg b/76799-h/images/i_280.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..24ae665 --- /dev/null +++ b/76799-h/images/i_280.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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