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+*** 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 ***