Chapter VI: Part 6

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.

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.

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.