path: root/76799-0.txt

*** 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 ***