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 B.,tov>e, Llli.J ( :>ot-fh<^5Te) 
 
 Letters of 
 
 GliEa SoufliQ'afe, 
 
 o 
 
 ^'Irs. VDalfcr "Zonule. 
 
 Bom, Scptoiibcr 24, /7S1 
 Married, Spring of 180}. 
 Died, February li), 1809. 
 
 Aged 2 T years. 
 
 U 
 

 
 H'M^^s 
 

 /(. 
 
Bowuc l-^ninilv Record. 
 
 X. 
 
 Thomas Bowne, Bom in Mathck, Derbyshire, England, 
 
 1595; 'f'<-'(i '677. 
 X 
 
 Jolm, Son of Thomas, born in Matlock, 1627 ; married Hannah 
 
 Field, 0/ Flushing, L. I., i6j6 ; died 1695. 
 
 Set Jin t el. Son of John, son of Thomas, born 1667 ; married 
 Mary Becket. 16^1 ; died 1745. 
 
 SciDlliel, Son of Samuel, son of John, son of Tliomas, born i6g2; 
 married Sarah Franklin, 1724.; died 1767. 
 
 JClllies, Son of Samuel 2d, son of Samuel, son of John, son of 
 Thomas ; married Caroline Rodman. 
 
 yValfey, Son of James, son of Samuel, son of Samuel, son of 
 John, son of Thomas, born 1770; married Eliza Southgate, 
 of Scarborough, Me., iSoj ; died 1846. 
 
 Children of Walter Bo'wne. 
 Walter, Born 1806; married Eliza Rapalje, 1826 ; died 1877. 
 
 Mary King, Born 1808; married John W. Lawrence, 1S26; died 
 1874. 
 
Southgate Family Record. 
 
 John So/lf/lgate, Horn in Combs, Suffolk County, England; 
 married Elizabeth , of Combs. 
 
 Richard, Son of John, born in Combs, March, 1671 ; married, 
 October ij, 1700, Elisabeth Steward; died in Leicester, 
 Mass., April, 17-; 8. 
 
 Stewani, Son of Richard, son of John, born in Combs, Septem- 
 ber iS, 170^ ; married, March 2S, 17;^ 5, Elizabeth Scott of 
 Palmer, Mass.; died December, 176.}.. 
 
 Robcyt, Son of Stc-vard, son of Richard, son of John, born October 
 26, 171.1 ; married, June jj, I77ji, Mary King, daughter 
 of Richard King of Scarborough, Me., and sister of Hon. 
 Riifiis King; died November 2, /Sjj. 
 
 Children of Robert Southgate mentioned in these letters : 
 
 Isabella, Married Joseph C. Boyd, Died 1821. 
 
 Horatio, " Abigail McClelland, " 1864. 
 
 Eliza, " Walter Bowne, " /8op. 
 
 Octavia, " William Broivn, " 1813. 
 
 Miranda, " Tillottson, " 1816. 
 
 Arixene, " Henry Smith, " 1S20. 
 
 Mary, " Grenville Mellen, " /82p. 
 
Letters of liliza Southgate zchile at School. 
 
 Medfoi'd, January 2j, Jjgj 
 My Mamma: 
 
 I went to Boston last Saturday, and there I received your letter. I have nothing 
 new to communicate to you. only my wishes to tarry in Boston a quarter if convctiicnt. 
 
 In my last letter to Father, I did not say anything respecting it, because I did not 
 wish Mr. IVytnan to know that I had an ittclination to leave his school, but only because 
 I thought you would wish me to cotne home luhen my quarter was out. I had 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 acquaintance that I remain the same Eliza, 
 and that T bear the same love I ever did to them, zuhether they have forgotten me or not. 
 
 Tell tny little brothers and sisters I xvant to sec them very mjich indeed. Write me 
 
 an answer as soon as you can conveniently. I shall send you some of my work which you 
 
 have never yet seen, — it is my arithmetic. Permit me, my honored mother, to claim the 
 
 title of 
 
 Vour affectionate daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHG.4TF. 
 MRS. .M.4RY a: SOUTHGATE. 
 
Medford, May 12, 1797. 
 Honored Parents : 
 
 With pleasure I sit down to write to the best 0/ parents, to inforyn them 0/ my situa- 
 tion, as doubtless they are anxious to hear. Permit me to tell something of my foolish 
 heart. When I first came here, I gave myself up to reflection, but not pleasing reflection. 
 
 When Mr. Boyd left tne I burst into tears, and instead of trying to calm my feelings, 
 I tried to feel zuorse. I begin to feel happier, and will now gather up my philosophy and 
 think of the duty that now attends me, to think that here I may freely drink of the fount- 
 ain of knowledge. But I will not dwell any longer on this subject. I am doing nothing 
 but zuriting, reading, and ciphering: 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, and Mr. F. L. Boyd says it is not best to learn French yet, if I do at all. 
 I wish you to lurite me very soon what you think best, for the school begins on 
 Monday. Mr. Wyman says it will take up but very little of my time, for it is but 
 two or three days in the week, and the lessons only two hours long. Air. Wyman says 
 I must learn geometry before geography, and that I had better not begin either till I 
 have finished ciphering. We get up early in the morning, and make our beds and sweep 
 the chamber. It is about as large as our kitchen chamber, and a little better finished. 
 There are four 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 attentioti whieh 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 itiexperienced life to the present tnomctit. 
 In my infancy you nursed and reared tne up, my inclittations you have indulged, and 
 checked my follies, — have liberally fed me zoith the bounty of your table, atid 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 heai't with grateful feelings beat. 
 
 With filial duty I my parents greet ; 
 
 Your fostering care hath reared me frofn my birth. 
 And been my guardians since I've been on earth ; 
 
 With love unequaled taught the surest way, 
 And checked my passions when they went astray. 
 I zi.iish 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 SOUTH GATE. 
 
Medford, June g, fjg?- 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I am sensible of my being deficient in my duty, in not complying with your request 
 
 sooner, but perhaps I am not so negligent as you may imagine. It was so rainy when 
 
 1 7vas in Bostofi that I could not go out, and Mrs. Boyd advised me not to get them until 
 
 the spring ships came in. Your bonnet cost gs., and the veil is. 6d., and the ribbon 2s. 6d. 
 
 I should have gotten satin ribbon, but I could not get any that teas so handsome ; but if 
 
 you dotit like it, I will get some satin. The children's were 6s. apiece. I did not trim, 
 
 your bonnet, for I was afraid it wotild get tumbled. They trim them with a large 
 
 rose bow before, and a great many ends to the ribbon, and a bow and streamers behind, 
 
 and not let the ribbon go round the crown ; and trim the children's in the same tnanner ; 
 
 or nothing but a ribbon round the crown. You may trim them zuith any color you 
 
 please, but I think pink will look best for A rex ine. You must line them with the same color 
 
 you trim them with, if you please ; bonnets like yours are worn very much by old and 
 
 young. I got me one; it is shaped very much like you7's ; it is blue satin and straw. 
 
 Sarah's car- rings cost me ijs. 6d. Be so kind as to write me very often, and I shall feel 
 
 much more contented in perusing your letters, and in following your advice. Please to 
 
 send those things that you have got ready as soon as you can conveniently ; I loant them 
 
 very much. I have concluded not to learn French ; I am very sorry I began. I hope I 
 
 have not displeased you. I go to dancing, for I thought I had better go the first quarter 
 
 with the others. > 
 
 I am your affectionate daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 MRS. .MARY a: SOUTHGATE. 
 
Mcdford, Jiate ij, //p/. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 With what pleasure did I receive your letter, and hear the praises of an approving 
 mother. It shall be my study to make you happy. Y^ou said you hoped I was tiot 
 disappointed in not learning FreJich. I hope you think I have too much love and rever- 
 ence for my parents, to do anything 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 Hoi-atio since I have been here. I expect to begin 
 geography as soon as I have done ciphering which I hope will soon be, for I have got as 
 far as Practice. Tell Isabella and Mama 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; yet I intend to the first opportunity. I have found the 
 nubs, and sent thcyn to Portland. I received your letter by tny brother Boyd, and was 
 very much surprised to hear that Octavia was going to have the small-pox. Please 
 give my love to Harriet Emerson and Mary Rice, and tell them that I intend to write 
 them very soon, and shall expect some letters from them. Give my love to all my friends, 
 and tell them that I often think of them, and I hope they will not forget 
 
 Vour affectionate daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 
Medford, 25th '797- 
 
 Dearest Mother : 
 
 I received your packet of things the 20th inst., and zvas very glad of them. If you 
 will be so kind as to send me word whether the ear-rings were in the basket, I will be 
 much obliged to you ; I have forgotten whether I did or not. Write me loord if you like 
 your bonnet and the children's. I hope you do. Give my love to Sarah and all the 
 children, and kiss Arexine 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 so much, and above all 
 thitigs our cheese and butter, which we have but very little of but I am very contented. 
 I wish you could send me up my patterns, all of them, for I want them very tnuch indeed, 
 for I expect to -work me a gown. 
 
 I am, with all due respect, your dutiful daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 
Med/ord, August ii, ijgj- 
 Dear Parents : 
 
 It is a long time since I received a letter fro7n yon, and I have neglected my duty in 
 not writing home of tetter. I shall send you with this some of my pieces, and you will 
 sec 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 mc when he was up; only called and delivered 
 me the letter. I have never heard anything 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 the time alloted to my stay here will be too short 
 for me to go as far as I wish, for I shall have to go much farther in arithmetic than I 
 had any idea of, then go over it again in a large book of my own writing ; for my 
 instructor does not xvish to give me a superficial knowledge only. He says, if I am very 
 diligent, he thinks that ?iine months from the time I came will do if / cannot stay longer. 
 I should feel happy, and very grateful, if you thought it proper to let me tarry that time. 
 I have ciphered now farther than Isabella did. I have been through 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 SOUTH GATE. 
 
Medfordy August /^, ry^j. 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 I am very sorry for your trouble, a^id sympathize luith 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 fiot got patience enough to bear it, without a great 
 deal of trouble. 
 
 I suppose Isabella xvill be very much worried about her baby. I would thank you to 
 write me very often now, for I shall be very anxious to hear from the children. I believe 
 I have got some news to tell you, that is, I have fotmd one of your acquaintance and 
 relatiott, — it is Mrs. Sawyer. Before she was married her name was Polly Kijig, and 
 she says that you kept at their house when you zuerc 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 mtich. 
 
 I am your ever affectionate and dutiful daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 MRS. .MARY K. SOUTHGATE. 
 
Mcdford, September JO, ijgj. 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 You mentiotied in yours of the i6th 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 abse?ice" ; not more certainly than I shall ; but having 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, 
 toward whom my heart overflows with gratitude. You jnentioned in your letter about 
 my winter clothes, of zv Inch I will make out a tnemorandum. I shall want a coat, and 
 you may send it up for me to make, or you may make it yourself, 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 could pattern my dark slip to make long sleeves. I want a 
 flannel waist and a petticoat, for tny 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 K. SOUTHGATE. 
 
Medford, November lo. rygj. 
 
 You mentioned in yonr letter, my dear mother, that Cousiti 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 
 two or three iftvitations, but I would not accept of anything. 
 
 My cloak, likewise, you mentioned something about, which I shall attend to when I 
 go to Boston at Thanksgiving ; for then 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, zohich I am sorry to hear; if the wishes and prayers of Eliza 
 would heal the wound, it would not long remain tcnhealed. My love to all the child- 
 ren ; 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 SOUTHGATE. 
 MRS. MARY K. SOUTHGATE. 
 
Medford, December i6, ijgj- 
 A/y 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 vacatioji there. T zoenl to the theater the night before 
 for the first time, and Mr. Turner came into the box where I was. I did not kjiow him 
 at first, neither did he me, but he soon found me out. With this I shall send some 
 prices. My respects are justly due my good mother, and my love to all loho ask after 
 me. the children in particular. 
 
 I hope to improve to your satisfaction, lohich will amply rez^'ard me for all my pains. 
 I must conclude zvith wishing you health and happitiess. 
 
 Vour ever affectionate daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 ROBER T SOUTHGA TE. , 
 
Afcdford, January y, ijgS. 
 My Good Father : 
 
 The eontents of yotir letter surprised me at first. It may sometime be of service to 
 me, for while I have such a monitor, I ?tever can act contrary to such advice. A^o, my 
 father ; I hope by the help of Heaven never to cause shame or misery to attend the gray 
 hairs of tny parents or 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 attachmcfit except to my family. I respect many of my frie7tds, 
 but love none but my parents. Your letter shall be my guide from home, and when I 
 again behold our oion peacefil matision, then will I again be guided by my parents' hap- 
 piness. Their happiness shall be tny pursuit. My heart overfiows with gratitude to- 
 ward you and 7?iy good mother. I am sensible of the innumerable obligations I am un- 
 der to you. 
 
 You mention in your letter about tny pieces, which yoti say you imagine are pur- 
 loined. 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 Thanksgiv- 
 ing at Mrs. Little's and Christmas here. I have finished my large tnanuscript arith- 
 metic 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. 
 fVyman'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, atid love. 
 
 My quarter will be out the eighth day of next month. It will be in about four 
 weeks. I wish you would write me soon how I am to cotne home, for I wish to know. 
 I should be very glad if you could make it convenient to cotne for me, for I tvish you to 
 cotne. Give my love to Irene, atid tell her I believe she owes me a letter. If you please 
 you tnay tell the part of tny letter which concerns tny school afil'airs. My love is due to 
 all who xi'ill take the trouble to inquire after me. Tell Mama I have begun her turban 
 atid xvill send it as sooti as I finish it. 11 hen I see her I -luill tell her 7i'hy I did tiot do 
 it before. Accept my siticcre wish that tny parents tnay enjoy all the happittess that ever 
 mortals know. Still I hope I atn your dutiful daughter, 
 
 ELIZA SOUTHGATE. 
 ROBERT SOUTH G A TE, ESQ. 
 
Boston, January jo, ijgS. 
 My Honored Father: 
 
 By Captain Bradbury I was informed that you wished me to come home with him, 
 which I should have complied with had not I seen my Uncle William 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 noio wait until I hear certain, which I wish you to send me 
 word by the next boat. I shall inclose in this a card of Mrs. Rawsons terms, ivhich you 
 may peruse. Until then, I remain, ivith the same affection, 
 
 } 'our dutiful daughter, 
 
 ELIZA S . 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHGATE, ESQ. 
 
Boston, February ij, ijgS. 
 Honored 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 could 
 win the attention of the most savage heart, though scarcely able to receive an impression 
 of the kind. I learn embroidery attd geography at present, and loish your permission 
 to learfi music. Vou 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 tne, I 
 know you do zohat you think best, and I am sure I ought not to coinplaiit, for you have 
 not yet refused me anything that I have asked. My best of parents, how shall I repay 
 you ? You answer. By your good behavior. Heaven grant it may be such as shall 
 repay you. 
 
 A year will have rolled over my head before I shall see 7ny parents. I have left them 
 at an early age to be so long absent, but I hope I have learnt a good lesson by it ; a lesson 
 of experience, tvhich is the best lesson I could learn. I have described one of the blessings 
 of . . . in Mrs. Rawson, and now I will describe Mrs. Wyman, as the nurse. She 
 is the worst woman I ever knezu : nobody knozcs luhat I suffered from the treatment of that 
 woman. 
 
 I had the fnisfortune to be a favorite with Miss Haskell, and Mrs. Wyman treated 
 me as her own evil heart dictated ; but whatever is, is right, — I learnt a good lesson by it. 
 I wish you, my father, to write 7ne an anszcer soon, and let me know tchether 1 7tiay learn 
 music. Give my best respects to my mother, and may it please the Disposer of all Good 
 to restore me safe home to the bosom of my family. I never was happier in my life. My 
 heart overflows with gratitude to my heavenly Father for it, and may it please him to 
 continue in you '' his favor which is life, and his lovingkindness which is better than 
 life," is the sincere wish of 
 
 Your daughter. 
 
 F.LIZ.I SOUTHGATE. 
 
Boston, May 12, ijgS. 
 My Dca}' Parents : 
 
 Noii\ at the end of the week, wheii 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 mothers 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 zootcld any longer cherish a passion you disapproved, after expressing your dis- 
 approbation f It zuas enough; your wishes are, and always shall be, my co>n?}iands. 
 
 I have spent a week of painful anxiety ; no letter, tto brother, no father has come, and 
 I am now in painful expectation to receive a letter to-night, but I dare not hope it will 
 be so. Do, my father, as soon as you receive this, send for me as soon as possible ; for my 
 quarter at Mrs. Rawsons was out last Saturday, and as circumstances are, I thought 
 proper not to go to Mr. Boyd's. I beg of you to send for me home directly, for I only 
 board at Mrs. Rawsons now ; for I am in expectation of seeitig or hearing every day, 
 and, therefore, I have not begun any more work. My time is spending tcithout gain. I 
 am at Mrs. Fraziers, and have been here ever since Thursday. I shall go back to Raw- 
 sons to-night, and there wait for further orders. Time hangs more heavy than it ever 
 did before. , 
 
 / atii, with the most sincc/'e respect and affection, your daughter, 
 
 ELIZA S . 
 
Boston, February 7, iSoo. 
 
 After the toil, the bustle, and fatigue of the week, I turn toward home to relate the 
 vianner in zvhich I have spent my time. I have been continually engaged in parties, 
 plays, balls, etc., etc. Since the first zoeek I came here, I have attended all the balls 
 and assemblies, — one Ofie week and one the next. They have regular balls once a fort- 
 ttight and regular assemblies once a fortnight, so that I have been every Thursday 
 to one or the other. 
 
 They are very brilliatit, and I have formed a number of pleasing acquaintances there. 
 Last night, which was ball night, I drew No. ^2. Drew a Mr. Snow — bad partner ; 
 danced with Mr. Oliver, Mr. McAndrctvs, Mr. AlcPherson ttntil one d clock. They 
 have charming suppers — table laid out entirely with china. 
 
 I had a charm iitg partner always. To-day I intend going to Mrs. Codmans. En- 
 gaged to a week ago, but zorote a billet saying I xoas indisposed ; but the truth of the mat- 
 ter was, I wanted to go to the play to sec Bunker Hill, and Uncle wished I should ; there- 
 fore,! 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 instru- 
 ments, we have one picked out that I imagine we shall like — -^/jo — a charming toned 
 one, and not tnadc in this countiy. I am still at Mrs. Fraziers. She treats me with 
 the greatest attention. Nancy is indeed a charming girl. I have the promise of her 
 company the ensuing sum7ncr. I have bought me a very handsome white satin skirt. 
 Richard Cutes went shopping with me yesterday moj-ning ; engaged to go to the play 
 next xceek with him. For mourning for Washington, the ladies dress as much as if 
 for a relation — some entirely /;/ black ; but now many wear only a ribboti zvith an urn 
 painted on it. I have not yet been out to see Mrs. Rawson and Miss Haskell, but inland 
 to next week. Uncle Williams has been very attentive to me indeed — carried me to all 
 the plays thixe or four times, and to all the balls and parties excepting the last, to which 
 I wetit tenth Mr. Andrews. 
 
 Give my best respects to Papa 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. I ynust conclude zoith saying how viucli /think of you. and accept the sincere 
 
 affection of 
 
 Yours, 
 
 ELJA.l SOL TJ/GA TE. 
 
Boston, June 12, iSoo. 
 To Octavia, at Mrs. Frazier's : 
 
 In the hospital! Bless your heart, I am not there. Who told you /was/ Air. 
 Davis, I knoio. If you see him, tell hiyn 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. Hoxv, Octavia, shall we discharge the debt of gratitude which loe otoe her? 
 It had exceeded my hopes of payment before you went ; surely it is now doubled. You 
 mention nothing of any lettei-s from me. I have written several, and in one told you par- 
 ticularly that Mamma wished you by all means to take lessons in 7nusic. You dont tell 
 us what you have done since you have been in Medford. Martha writes me that you are 
 to spend part of vacation at Mt-s. Trufne?is. What has become of Attn and Hai-rietf 
 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 i?t Boston, btit does not mention her name, — Miss Park man. I guess ; he was 
 said to be her swain last zuinter. Mary Porter went home last week. I went with her. 
 She has now gone to Topsham, to tarry tmtil Uncle returns. I anxiously expect a letter 
 from Ann or Harriet, to know the reason that they don't hasten their visit. I am Icapi- 
 ing my twelfth tune, Octavia. I almost i>.<orship my instrument. It reciprocates my 
 sorrows and joys and is my bosom's 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 dimmed when compared with the luster of yours. Pooh .' Eliza, you are not serious. 
 A^o, I li'ill excel in something else, if not in music. Oh, tionsense / this spirit of emula- 
 tion 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, tcill 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 
 
fric7id and as viuc/i my sister romp as ever? Tell licr I am so affronted with her that 
 I wont speak to her. Sister Boyd is over, — wont go home this zoeek. About your work, 
 I will go doivnstairs and ask Mamma. A mourning piece toith a figure in it, and two 
 other pictures, — mates. Figures of females / think handsomer than landscapes. Mrs. 
 Rawson knows what is best, — thus says Mamma; she don't wish any scenes. Mr. Little, 
 the bearer of this, another beau I send you ; and here is poor I, not a bit of a one. Dr. 
 Bacon, and even him Cousin Mary, — selfish creature f — has lugged off his heart and left 
 the remainder here ; so we might as zuell have a stump. Poor soul f his face looks like 
 a peony — one continual blush ; I suppose, for fear of hearing his name mentioned ; and 
 she — unreasonable creature ! — thinks heis not all perfection. Unaccountable taste ! he is 
 very delightsome, surely. How long shall I rant at this rate ! I long to go to Port- 
 land, and there I shall see some being that looks like a beau, — or a monkey, — or any- 
 thing you please. To supply the loss, I often look out of 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 loaiting. Give my love, 7-espects, everything to all. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 OCTA VIA SOUTHGA TE. a Sister. 
 
Tops ham, July i, iSoo. 
 
 I niust tigain trouble my dear mother, by requesting her to send on my spotted muslin. 
 A li'eck from next Saturday, I set out for Wiscassett, in company with Uncle William 
 and Aunt Porter. Uncle will fetch Ann to meet us there, and as she has some acquaint- 
 ance there, we shall stay some time, and A utit will leave us there, and return to 
 Topsham. So long a visit in Wiscassett will oblige me to nutster all my muslins, for, 
 I aiii ijiformed, they are so monstroics smart as to take no notice of any lady that can 
 condescend to icear a calico gown ; therefore, dear mother, to insure me a favorable recep- 
 tion, pray send my spotted muslin by the luxt mail after you receive this, or I shall be 
 on my journey to Wiscassett. / shall go on horseback. How I want my habit ! I wish it 
 had not been so warm ichen I left home, and I should have worn it. I am in hopes you 
 will find an opportunity to send it by a private conveyattce before I go ; but my muslin 
 you must certainly send by the mail. Aunt Porter s little Rtifus is very sick ; he, poor 
 child, was born under an evil star, and I believe Pandora opened her box upon him when 
 he first came into existence. The mumps, I believe, now afflict him ; ttight before last 
 we were alarmed for fear of his having the quinsy ; but I believe he is in no danger of 
 that at present. 1 wish to hear from home very much. 
 
 ELIZA. , 
 I shall anxiously wait the arrival of the next mail after you receive this. 
 
Tops ham, Jji/y j, iSoo. 
 
 I believe, my dear mother, that yoii meant to give me a zvry e/ose lesson in economy, 
 luhen you cut out the shirts for me to tnake. Vou had measured off the bodies of tzuo, 
 and cut them part way in, and also the sleeves were marked ; after I had. cut these off, 
 there was about a quarter of a yard left. 
 
 I now wanted the collars and all the trimmings. I made out, after a great deal of 
 plannifig, to get out the shoulder-pieces, wrist-bands, one pair of neck gussets, and one 
 of sleeves. Do send the collars. One pair of neck gussets and one sleeve are still 
 tuanting. I shall send this on by Mrs. Smith, and if you can find out when she returns, 
 I wish you would send me some linen and some more skirts 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 tvish you would send it to tne. Aunt Porters child is 
 one of the most troublesome oties I ever saw ; he cries continually, and she is at present 
 destitute of any help, except a little girl about twelve years old. I wish, 7ny dear mother, 
 that you would forxuard all letters that come to Scarborough for me imitiediately. I hope 
 you will enjoy yottrself in Portlatid this zucek. I was almost tempted to wish to stay a 
 week there ; there were so many parties, and so gay everybody appeared, that I longed 
 to stay and take part. I forgot all about it before I got to Topsham. Afuch as I enjoy 
 society, I am never unhappy iK'ithout it. I cannot but feel happy that I was brought up 
 in retirement, since from habit, at least, I contracted a love for solitude. I never feel 
 alone when I have my pen or books, d feel that I ought to be very happy in the comfhnv 
 of such a woman as Aunt Porter, for I really don't know of any one li'hose mind is more 
 improved, and which makes her both a useful and instructing companion. Her senti- 
 ments and opinions are more like those I have formed than any person I knotv of I 
 think my disposition is like hers, and I feel myself draion toxvard her by an irresistible 
 impulse. Not an hour but she reminds me of you, and I sincerely think her tnorc like 
 you than your oxvn sister. 
 
 I shall zcrite you when I go farther east. I don't knozo zvhat I shall do about zcriting 
 to Octavia, as Mrs. Razvson told her that I zcrote on an improper subject when I asked 
 her in my letter if Mr. Davis was paying attention to Eleanor Coffin, and she zvould 
 7 
 
not let her ansiccr the question. This is refining; too much, and if I can t ic rite as I 
 
 feel, I can't write at all. Now I ask you. Mamma, if it is tiot quite a nattiral question, 
 
 when we hear that any of our friends are paid attentions 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 allowances for the volatile expressions I of ten make 
 
 use of. 
 
 I never felt the least restraint in company with my parents which would induce me 
 
 to stifie my gaycty, and you have kindly permitted me to rant over all my nonsense. And 
 
 I strictly believe it has never injured me. 
 
 I must bid you good-night. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Pray dont forget to send some more shirts. I wish my father or you would write 
 me while I am from home. 
 
 MRS. MARY K. SOUTHGATE. 
 
Bath, Sunday, Septctnbcr ij, iSoo. 
 Mr. Moses Porter : 
 
 There are some kinds of indisposition that, instead of weakening the faculties of the 
 mind, sej-ve only to render them more vigorous aiid sprightly, attd, 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 does in sickness. Bid, where am I, 
 and what about ? Well may you ask the question. Believe me, cousin ; I have attempted 
 to finish this letter four times this day. I cannot accomit for my inability to write ; it 
 used to be the joy of my life. Nothing delighted me so much as to steal into the chatnber 
 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 braiti. It must be coaxed, not driven. I 
 find there is tiothitig so tedious as to write when we are not in the mood for it : yoii may 
 easily see I am not in 07ie at present. Now, for heavens / see what T have written, and 
 find the chain that cotmccts. When I began, I meant to say I had been quite unwell 
 ever since I left Portland ; that some disorders only sei-ved to gi'oe vigor to the mind, and 
 — but I meant also to say mine was altogether of a dififei'ent nature ; but, as I left that 
 out, so I had better done the other. O Lord ! 'tis too bad. I'll not xcrite another word 
 till I think I can understand it after it is loritten. I am low-spirited, stupid, and 
 everything else. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Now I shall really think I have no soul, if f find myself as destitute of ideas as I 
 was on Sunday. I have just been viewing the most delightful pi^pspcct T have seen this 
 long time, and yet it has left no greater impression on my mind than objects passing 
 before a mirror. I shall think myself devoid of every faculty 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 ivater prospect. The river is 
 about a mile in breadth at this place. The opposite banks are — sublime or beautiful. 
 What if I J'or a moment should take a poet's license, and, by the force of imagination, 
 project steep and ragged rocks, bid them stoop with awful majesty to reflect their 
 
gloomy horrors in the wave / See you not that enormous precipice whose awful sum- 
 mit was fie'er profaned by human footstep? Does not your blood freeze as it creeps 
 along your veins? Behold again that barren waste! The ax or the plow has 
 tievcr clothed it tuith a borrowed charm nor robbed it of those Nature bestowed oft it. ft 
 still boasts its independence of the labor of man. But, to leave fiction for reality, the sur- 
 face of the ivater is a perfect mirror. I never saru it so perfectly smooth. At this mo- 
 ment there is a boat passing rowed by txvo men. The refection in the water is so dis- 
 tinct, so very clear, it looks like ttao boats. I admire to see a boat rowed. It seems to 
 look like arms or wings movitig with graceful majesty, zohile the boat cuts the liquid 
 bosom of the water, leaving as it recedes a widening track. There is always to me some- 
 thing 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 big vessel here. ' Twas within hearing, — very near. I never was more forci- 
 bly struck than at the moment. I longed to prostrate myself in humble admiration as 
 she approached with a slow, commatiding, 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 
 satu Juno ! 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 niotio7i of the gods. 
 Sometimes they make them glide through the air, sometimes approach ruith 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 imper- 
 ceptibly. A bird glides through the air ; yet there is nothing celestial in the flight of a 
 bird. It seems to be 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 groveling, — too like us mortals ! Yet that, in my opin- 
 ion, is better than the other. The place on which this house stands seems to project a 
 small degree toward the water. I believe there is not a room in the house that does not 
 command a view of the water. In front there is a kind of a 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 luater. Last year I recollect sailing along in front of 
 the settlement, and remarked hoto 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 distinctlv. I 
 think nothing can be more beautiful than a town built on a sloping ground ascending 
 from so fine a river as this part of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging to the 
 different ports on this river above Bath pass directly bv here, and several times J have 
 
seen twelve or fourteen at a time. To me, 7uho have been brought up amidst salt marshes 
 and fiats, this fine river affords much novelty and ainusenient. I cannot but confess the sen- 
 sations I feel in viewing it are more pleasing than those produced by the stagnant water 
 in a Scarborough salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet ivithout saying a rcord about 
 your letter. Indeed, I have forgotten what tuas in it. .It the time you gave it to me, I 
 know I received it with much pleasure, as it robbed me of some painful fnotnents. 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 violetit clap of thunder (the same that struck Air. Hooper's 
 house) shook the pen from tny hand and the desk from my lap. I do not imagine even 
 by this otnen that I ofietid the strictest laivs of virtue and p7-opriety by contimting to write 
 you ; therefore, shojcld something equally poweiful wrest the pen fi-om my hand, depend 
 jcpon it, I will seize it zoith rcnczued vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, etc. 
 
 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 for- 
 ward from a certain pair of spark I i fig 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 the 
 said eyes. 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 yoicr duty. 
 
Scarboroug/i, Scptcvibcr 14, iSoo. 
 
 I suppose I ought to commence my letter with a humble apology, begging forgiveness 
 for past offenses, and promising to do better in future, — biit no, I will only tell you 
 that I have been so much engaged since I got home from Tops ham, that I could not write 
 you. Martha tells us you were in Boston last Sunday. Mamma thinks, Octavia, you 
 are there loo much, — we do not knozo hoiv often, but we hear of you there, very often 
 indeed. I think, my dear sister, you ought to improve every moment of your time, luhich 
 is short, very short, to complete yotir education. 
 
 In November terminates the period of your instrucliott, — the last, perhaps, you will 
 receive ever, only what you may gain by observation. Yoti will never cease to learn, I 
 hope : the world is a volume of instruction, which will afford you continual employ- 
 ment, — peruse it with attention and candor, and you will never think the time thus 
 employed misspent. I think, Octavia, / would not leave school again until you finally 
 leave it. You may — you will think this is harsh ; you will not al'ways think so — 
 remember those that wish it must know better what is proper better than you possibly 
 can. Horatio will come on for you as soon as your quarter is 02it ; we anticipate the 
 time with pleasu7-e. Employ yo7ir time in such a manner as to make your improvetncnts 
 conspicuous. A boarding school, I know, my dear sister, is not like hotne ; but reflect a 
 motnent : is it not necessary, absolutely necessary, to be more strict in the government of 
 twenty or thirty young ladies, nearly of an age and different dispositions, than a private 
 family? Your good sense will tell you it is. No task can be greater than the care (^ 
 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 care for the world in general. I say this, not because I think you are discon- 
 tented, — far from it ; your letters tell us quite the reverse, and I believe it. Surely, 
 Octavia, you inust allow that fio woman was ever better calculated to govern a school than 
 Mrs. Rawson ; she governs by the love zuith which she always inspires her scholars. } 'on 
 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 con- 
 vince 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, saiii biil little to you about it. Yesterday Miss Haskell's letter, luhieh I so 
 muck wished for and so highly prized, 2uas sent me. Tell her to trust no more letters to 
 the politeness of Mr. Jcwett, for he zoi II forget to deliver them. He has been studying in 
 the same office zcith Horatio ever since he returned, and never told him he had a letter 
 for me till I told Horatio to ask him. I've got it at last, a7id will answer it as soon 
 as I have an opportunity, which I expect soon ; my letters are of too little conseqjience to 
 seftd by post. Tell Miss Haskell how highly I am obliged to her for eve7y letter, and 
 
 how much it gratifies me to have her write thus. 
 
 My love and esteem ever await our good Mrs. Rawson, and I hope she does not 
 intend my last letter shall go unanszvered. Susan Wyman is still remembered as the 
 cojupanion of my amusements in Mcdford. 
 
 Irene joins me in love to her. Betsey Browne, my love to her likewise. Family are 
 all well, Octavia. Sister Boyd is here, — has 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 y 071 have 7ievcr answered any of 7ny i7iguiries of this kind ; the7'efore, I sicppose 
 
 I ought not to 77iake them. 
 
 OCTAVIA. 
 
 Your 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
To Afoses Porter, a favorite Cousin. 
 
 September, 1800. 
 
 My most charming cousin, most kind and condescending friend, teach me how I 
 may express the grateful sense 1 have of the obligations / 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 away from home. Oh, shame on you ! Moses, you 
 know I hate this formality among friends ; you know how gladly / 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 anszoered my last letter! True ; atid if I had not answered it, would you never 
 have written me again? I confess that I believe you would not ; yet I am mortified 
 and displeased that you value my letters so little ; that the exertion to continue the cor- 
 respondence 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 ceremo- 
 nious 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 ant at Wiscassett. I have seen Re- 
 becca every day. She is as handsome as ever, and we both of us were in constant expecta- 
 tion of seeing you for two or three days. Vou did not come, and we were disappointed. 
 I leave here for Bath next week. I have had a ranting time, and if f did not feel so 
 offended, I would tell you more about it. 
 
 EL/Z.4. 
 
September, iSoo. 
 
 As I look around me, I am S7irpriscd at the liappiness 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 declar- 
 ing 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 alto- 
 gether uncertain zohcthcr either of them will particularly distinguish her. If they 
 should, surely she is 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 zcere 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 liuth 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 connection :' Ciratitude 
 is undoubtedly the foundation of the esteem we commonly feci 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 mar- 
 riage 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 most despicable, — she tvho marries a man she 
 scarcely thinks well of to avoid the reputation of an old maid, or she who, with more 
 delicacy than to marry one she could not highly esteem, prefers to live single all her life, 
 and has 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 Un>e for must makef I wish not to alter 
 9 
 
the laws of nature ; neither will I quarrel with the rules which custom has established 
 and rendered indispensably necessary to the harmony of society. Hut every beino 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 
 m no instance is it greater than in the liberty of choosing a partner in marriage. 7 rue, 
 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 ash you, ?ny dear girl, what must be that love 
 wliich is altogether voluntary, which rve ran luithhold or give, ivhich sleeps in dullness 
 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 f 
 And after a long calculation in which the heart never tvas consulted, toe 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 fuechanical rules, which can say " thus far will I go and no farther," whose 
 feelings can keep pace ivith their convenience, and be awakened at stated periods, — a mere 
 piece of clockwork which always nio'ves 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 ive had no power of controlling, nay, of conquering, them if occa- 
 sion 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 zvith so fe^o 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 pity, 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 zuord, but I can t find 
 a better) is gratified by the distinguished preference given us. There must be an essen- 
 tial difference in the dispositions of men and tcomen. I am astonished when I think of it, 
 yet — But I have loritten myself into sunshine ; 'tis always my way, when anything 
 oppresses me, zuhen any chain of thoughts particularly occupies my mind and I feel dissat- 
 isfied at anything which I have not the poxver to alter, to sit down and unburden them 
 on paper. It never fails to alleviate me, and /generally give full scope to the feelings of 
 the moment; and as I write, all disagreeable thoughts evaporate, and / end contented that 
 things shall remain as they are. When I began this, it absolutely appeared to me that 
 no 'u'oman, or rather not one in a hundred, married the man she should prefer to all the 
 
world, — not thai 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 womaii of delicacy suffers herself 
 to think she could love any one before he had discovered an affection for her. For tny 
 part, I should tiever ask the question of myself. Do I love such a one, if I had no reason 
 to think he loved fne ; attd I believe there are many ivho 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 straitt every nerve and rouse every faculty to quell 
 the first appearance of it. Iltere is no danger, however. I could never love without being 
 beloved, and I am confident in my own mind that no person johom I could love would ever 
 think me sufficiently worthy to love me. But I congratulate myself that I am at liberty 
 to re f ISC 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. 
 
To Moses Porter, a Cousin and great Favorite. 
 
 October, iSoo. 
 
 I want to write, yet J don't want to write to you, my ceremonious cousin, hit at the 
 same 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 didzorite 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 icish I could give you an 
 account of my spending my fortiiight at Wiscassett, which would amuse you as much as 
 the reality did me; but that is impossible. I have seen so tnany new faces, — / was 
 ^oing to say new characters, but they 7(>ere getierally such as we see every day, — so many 
 handsorne 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, sensible, animated, genteel, and apparently has one of the mildest and most amiable 
 dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis you knoiL<. There was a Miss Paine, daughter 
 of Judge Paine, spent two or three days at Mrs. Lee's. She was — was — I^ord, I can't 
 tell you rvhat — you »!ay have heard of her — celebrated for her wit ; lost her lover by 
 expressing it rather too severely, poor soul ; it was a sad affair. She has at length 
 become sensible of the impropriety of her conduct, and nozu hopes to atone for it by fia tier- 
 ing every gentleman she sees. Time will show whether this plan will succeed. She 
 talks incessantly, laughs always at zohat she says herself. At table, where the judges, 
 lawyers, and a dozen gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss Paine engrossed all the 
 conversation. I defy any person to be in the room with her and not be compelled to con- 
 verse with her; not by the irresistible force of her charms, — they are rather on the 
 wane. If yoic look at her, she asks what you were going to say. "/ know you teas 
 going to speak by your looks." Of course my gentleman tvalks up ; how cafi he help i^i* 
 In this manner she draws a whole swarm around her. 'The poor souls rattle out their 
 outrageous complaints, t7rmbling 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 Mama 
 King. Last night xuhen I began this, I felt cjuite disposed to thro'w axvay an hour — for 
 mv letters to you are thrown away, as you won't take the trouble to answer them — n'ithout 
 consulting anything but my feelings. I began, and soon found to my mortification that 
 
I ought to have cotistiltcd my candle ; for, as if piqued at nty neglect, it took ''French 
 leave to doze," and broke off my description of Miss Paine 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 charily 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, dont 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 your and my letters, and settled the account by some rule in 
 arithmetic. But let me entreat you not to estimate mine by the zoeight, but the tminber ; 
 i?i 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 doubtitig 
 a moment that this was the true cause. 
 
 What prevented your coming to Wiscassett f I thought 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 everybody that asked me that I was your confidante, and, of course, must keep your 
 attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive your thanks. Mr. Kensman has 
 been down to Wiscassett. He attended the courts, as he says, to acquire a better knowl- 
 edge 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 datigerous a stibject, or 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 fro/n you, according to your new arra7igements, 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 lohen I have written a dozen fnore letters, I may be 
 richly rewarded with one from you. Where is Mary ^ How does she do? Rebecca 
 wrote her while I was in Wiscassett, and told me undoubtedly she is expected to spend 
 
 the winter there. I must finish. Uncle calls 
 
 EL/ZA. 
 
 I believe it is about the loth day of October Eliot Coffin is going to be married to 
 a widower and three children, — think of that, sir ! I had a letter from her last week. 
 She is not coming home till she leaves Portland as Airs. Derby. 
 
 9^ 
 
Bath, October, Sufiday. 
 Octavia: 
 
 After a fortnight vet-y pleasantly spent in IViscassett I return to Bath. In my last 
 I mentioned that Judge Lozoe II' s family were expected in IViscassett. They came itnme- 
 diately after. Eliza, the youngest, brought letters from Ellen Coffin; thus I very read- 
 ily got acquainted with them. Judge Lowell appears to be one of the mildest, most 
 amiable of men. Mrs. Lowell is a fine, lady-like wotnan, yet her maimers are such as 
 7vould have been admired fifty years ago ; there is too much appearance of whalebone and 
 buckram to please the depraved taste of the present age. A^ancy L., the oldest daughter, 
 is 7na king rapid strides to old age, — the finger of time begins to furrow her cheek, and 
 has stolen the blush of youth f?'om her countenance ; yet her eyes sparkle with intelli- 
 gence, she is animated, sensible, enthusiastic, and very easy and pleasing in her conver- 
 sation and manners. You would be delighted with her conversation, — 'tis elegaiit and 
 refined ; she has no airs. Eliza is a little, charming, sweet creature; she is about sev- 
 enteen or eighteen, short, fat, and a blooming complexion, handsome blue eyes, light 
 hair, beautiful dimples, artless and itnaffected 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. .It J i'iscassett I was invited to accompany them to Bath ; as 
 they were going in a boat, I accepted with pleasure. In the morning, which was Thurs- 
 day, they called for me, and I went ivith them as far as Turkham's, where they kept. 
 At last, after a lofig debate, it teas thought too hazardous to go by water while the xuind 
 blew so violently : 'tivas determined to go by land. Mr. Lee took the two Miss Loxuells 
 and myself in his carriage, which holds four very charmingly ; Judge Lowell and wife 
 in a chaise, with a boy to carry it back ; Judge Bourne in a chaise zcith a boy ; and 
 Mr. Merz'ill on horseback. About five miles on our way, Mr. Lee took Mr. Mervilfs 
 horse, and he got in with us. lie sang us a number of songs ; ice had a charming time, 
 .it the ferry Mr. Lee, Mr. Mei~cill, and the boys left us with the chaise ; xce then all 
 got into a boat and landed at Uncle's wharf, — 'tis about three miles, a most charming 
 sail. Indeed, we had a z^ery pleasant time. They went directly to Page's, and in the 
 evcnins^ I zcent up to see them ; left them at eight, and icith real regret. I had passed some 
 very 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 it the 
 moment I heard it. Poor Mrs. Summers ! rvhat an affecting loss she has met with. My 
 heart bleeds while I think hoxv very fond she was of the little creature, — she was a lovely 
 child. How do all do at home f 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 my habit or great- 
 coat to ride home in; send it by Uncle. Pray get the instrument timed. If you see 
 Moses soon, tell him I think it impossible to find words to express my obligations to him 
 for his many and long letters ; yet I shall endeavor to convince him I have a due settse 
 of them, /shall make all the return in my power, /was going up to Topsham this 
 week; / wish to very much. But, Mama King and Uncle both going, Nancy would 
 be quite alone. / 7inist stay to comfort her. As to Aunt /^orter, / believe she will think 
 / am never coming to Topsham. — / begin to think so myself ; what can / do ? //owever, 
 / must ; / shall go as soon as Uncle returns, and stay till / return home. / want to see 
 A tint Porter very much. Write me soon and tell me all the news, //as Papa gone to 
 Salem ? 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Scarborough, December i6. 
 
 I am sorry to have given Aunt Porter such an opportunity of charging nic 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 November 22d, and I shall 
 execute that part of Aunt's request which J can in Scarborough, but the patterns of 
 satin I cannot get in Saco nor in Scarborough. The gown patterns I shall inclose. 
 The one with a fan back is meant just to meet before, and pin the bobbins in string, belt, 
 or anything. The other pattern is a plain waist, with strips of the same stitched on, 
 and for zohite lace betxveen with bobbin or cord. 
 
 I have a tnuslin 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 sazv one Mary had made in Boston. It was a separate waist, or, rather, the breadths 
 did not go quite up. The waist was plaiii, with one stripe of corditig set in behind, and 
 the rest of the luaist perfectly plain. The skirt part was plaited in box plaits, three of 
 a side ; which reaches to the shoulder-sti'ap, and only enough left to meet straight before, 
 as is one of the patterns I have sent. You ask so many questions that I hardly ktiow 
 how to answer them. 
 
 Isabella is almost recovered ; her family well. The baby, I believe, will be named 
 Charles Orlando. The assemblies begin on Thiirsday, as also do Saco assemblies. Prob- 
 ably I shall go to next Portland assembly. You ask how Mrs. Little and Lama do. 
 A strange question. Lama is well, or was last Thursday, and Airs. Little is soon to be 
 married to Mr. Bowtnan, of Exeter. 
 
 Papa has been confined to the house a week yesterday, by a wound on his leg xohich he 
 made with an ax. He zvoujided the tendon which leads from the great toe up. He cut 
 it a little above the ankle. It has been very painful. Give my love to A unt. Tell her I 
 shall not be able to come down this winter, for my Jiext route will be to Boston. Write 
 me the next opportunity, respecting the sables and the trimmings, and hoiv Uncle goes to 
 Boston, that I may be in readiness. Family all zvcll 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Portland, March lo, 1801. 
 To Moses : 
 
 Tliajik you for your being so particular in your description of your Eastern tour. I 
 told you that Wiscassett would delight you, — ease and sociability, you know, always 
 pleased you. By the bye, Jezvett thought Saw was the latid of tnilk and honey ; suck 
 fine, buxom girls, so easy and familiar. Dorcas Stores charmed him most, — her haughty, 
 forbidding manners corresponded loith the dignity of her sentitnents, so he says; some- 
 thing congenial in their disposition, I think. But he has made his selection. Miss 
 Weeks is handsome, censorious, animated, violent in her prejudices, genteel, impatic7it of 
 contradiction, speaks her sentiments freely, has many admirers and many enemies; on 
 the whole, a pleasant cotnpanio7i among friends. Hoto think they will do together? 
 Jewett you know. Last evetiing / teas out at Broad's. We had only seven in our party, 
 a very pleasant otic, — Jewett, Horatio, William Weeks, and Charles Little were our 
 beaux ; A/iss Weeks, Miss Boardman (from Exeter), and myself the ladies. Mr. Lit- 
 tle is engaged to Miss Boardman. He is an open, honest, unaffected, plain, clever fellow. 
 She has a pleasatit face, an open, guileless heart, plain, unaffected manners, a clunAy 
 shape, easy in company, but it is rather the ease zchich a calm, even temper produces than 
 that tvhich is acquired in polite circles. I think they are as much alike as possible; 
 'twill be a pleasant couple. We played cai'ds, talked and icrote crambo after wc had 
 scrubbed the backs of two packs of cards, cut half of them up and ate our supper. We 
 set out for home about one d clock. Vou say in your last that if reports arc true, /am on 
 the highway to matrimony. You knoxv what I have always said zcith regard to those things. 
 If they are true, well and good ; if they are not, let them take their course : they zcill be 
 short-lived, /despise the conduct of those girls who think every man that pays them any 
 attention is seriously in love zvith them, and begin to bridle up, look conscious, fearful 
 lest every zi'ord the poor fellozc utters should be a declaration of love, /have no idea 
 
that every gentleman that lias a particular partiality foi- a lady thinks seriously of being 
 contiected 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 J kttow myself at all, 
 my heart readily assents to its truth. I think no lady has a right to cticourage 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 orvn, pays me more attention than many other gen- 
 tlemen, yet I say sincerely I dont think he means anything 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 J shall not be ashamed to acknowledge. Our intimacy has been of 
 long standing. He and Enoch Jones were Martha s most intimate acquaintances. They 
 were there almost every evening. " There comes Enoch and William," 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 at Portland. I could not be intimate with them. I liked them both, — 
 they were pleasant companions, and I zcas 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, drawing, a?td 
 music ; he used often to be my gallant home from parties if I walked, and if I rode he 
 helped me to the sleigh ; yet, every gentlemen does the same, — all have a favorite, some for a 
 month and some a little longer. It seems like making you a confidant to talk thus, but 
 I say many things which would appear ridiculous if commtmicated to a third person, 
 and I know you would have too much delicacy to connnunicate anything which would 
 hurt my feelings. I have heard all these stories before, yet I must act and judge for 
 myself I know better than any other peison how far they are true, and I catididly con- 
 fess that he never said a zcord to me xohich I could possibly construe into the most faint 
 or distant declaration of love. Then think for a moment how ridiculous it would be f&r 
 tne to alter my conduct toivard him. No ! while he treats tne as a friend, I shall treat 
 him as such ; and let the world say ichat they will, I will endeavor to act in a manner 
 that my conscience zui II justify, — to steer between the rocks of prudery and coquetry and 
 take my own sense of propriety as a pilot : that will conduct me saj'c. I zvould not have 
 been thus pai-ticular, but I felt unwilling that you should be led into an error that I 
 could easily remove from your mind. It zcould seem like giving a silent assent. As I 
 profess 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. Lei the luorld 
 still have it as they 'will. I confess it would be more pleasing to me if my name was not 
 so much talked about ; yet, what Johnson says of an author may apply to a person who is 
 
 II 
 
much known in the world, that " his name, like a shuttlecock, must be beat backward and 
 forward or 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 zvhich 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 ivould not abuse the frankness. But letters may be miscar- 
 ried, may fall into hands we wot not of. But I never think of these, or, I am sure, I 
 should burn this in a moment. Another thitig: it requires a quick discernment, a 
 correct judgment, and a thorough knowledge of the ivorld, of human nature, to form a 
 just character of any one that we are not intimately acquainted with. However, we 
 all of us form our opinion of every person we see ; and whatever I shall say, or have 
 said, you must recollect is only the opinion of one loho is oftener wrong than right, and 
 you can form no correct idea of any character from what I say. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Scarborough, Sunday, March, 1801. 
 
 Congratulate me ; I am at last at home. Come and see us. We expect Miss Tappan 
 to-morrow, and Pauline, and Miranda. I zoish much to see Miss T. I think I shall 
 like her, hut tell her she docs not know what she lost last week. A young gentle- 
 mati came several miles out of his way only to see her, and she was not here, and 
 he returned to Portland with a heavy heart. Jezvett says she is rather shy. I 
 meant to have written more about Wiscassett, about Miss R., 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 exactly the same 
 observation, and yet that very gentleman is raving distractedly in love. He is a little 
 calm now, but he was a madman. He, like you, is always upon extremes ; extravagant 
 
 beyond all bounds. 
 
 More hereafter. 
 
 A man of your gallantry might make a small exertion to confer ayi obligation on 
 
 two of the fair. Octavia and myself are very anxious that Miss Tappan should make 
 
 us a visit. My father luill 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 borroived. Why cant 
 
 you take a chaise, and bring over Pemhire and Miss Tappan f and besides gratifying 
 
 me xvith their presence, I shall be very glad to see you. No coaxing, Eliza. But I am 
 
 in earnest. Come, and you may see some of Martha's letters from London and Bath. I 
 
 will tell you everything I can think of and perhaps invent something, if all these wott^ 
 
 do. Lord, bless me ! I should not have to urge every one so hard to come and see tnc. I 
 
 am. I should be, discouraged. But, seriously, I zoish you to come very much. But if you 
 
 think it impossible, or, rather, very bad, don't mind zohat I say. Hozoever, come ; I shall 
 
 expect you. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Scarborough, Tuesday Night, 1801. 
 Dear Mother : 
 
 \Vc have got Miranda alljixed; only her clothes to be mashed, or, rather, ironed. You 
 have undoubtedly got all things ready for her, or you would not send for her immediately. 
 I suppose ive shall send her over in the stage, as the riding is as yet too bad to go in the 
 chaise. She wants some handkerchiefs, and a pair of cottoji gloves to wear to school ; she 
 had three pair 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 
 loaist, sleeves, and a hetn put on the bottom, and we could get no muslin to pattern it. 
 You can buy a piece, and it can be sent on any time ; she will not want it imtnediately. 
 Charles says you told him I must send to you for attythitig I wanted. 
 
 I want nothing so much as some new lineti and some English stockings. Excepting 
 the txuo fine pair, I have nothing but home-spun ones. I should like half-a-dozen pair ; 
 four at least. If you see anything that loould be light and handsome for summer gowns, 
 I should like you to get them. 
 
 Why can t you go and see McLcllan's f Perhaps he may let you have one reasonably- 
 I think there are some for twelve shillings a yard. They would not come to more than 
 eight or ten dollars. You can look at them at least. I should like one very muck- 
 Sally Weeks has taken one of them. 
 
 We do very well here, and all goes oti charmingly. Arexine loses her thimble, her 
 needle, and anything to avoid work. Sally Selaid 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. Oc- 
 tavia and I both loant 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 ozvn don't seem more 
 natural than they did. 'The little Isabella (so they say) is Aunt Elizas favorite. I 
 loi'e that little thing dearly; I never loved an infant more in my life. Isabella says 
 'tis because it has blue eyes. She will make mc selfish. I had a letter from Martha 
 
yesterday, the t/itrd since you left. She 7nentions Uncle Ruf us' s family in all of them. 
 In her last but cue, she says A unt King is confined. She had dined there the Sunday 
 before, and they requested her to bring yours and my father's piofiles, which /gave her 
 some time before you went away. 
 
 She carried them, and Uncle thought them good likenesses. She admires Uncle 
 Ruf us. She says when he first called on her he staid 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 the confinement of Aunt King prevented. As soon as she gets out, she is to be 
 introduced. She shall write again, she says, by the " Minerva," and send me the fashions. 
 
 Mr. Smith, the Russian, was here last week ; brought me some letters from P . / 
 
 am now writing to Martha, to send by William IVccks. ' 7\jill be a fijie opportunity, 
 and I shall write as much as I can. Mis. Coffin will be delighted ivith this opportunity. 
 Don't come home. Mamma, till you have staid as long as you wish, for I do not know 
 anything at present that requires your presence. 
 
 I think I make a very good manager, and tell Sister Boyd I atn astojtished to find 
 how much I have improved in my house-wife talents this last wittier. The cliildt'en 
 will allow me absolute rule among them, but I have the worst of it. They do vety well, 
 considering lohat a young gay mistress they have. I sometimes get tip to dance, and all 
 of than fiash up to help me, and zohen I am tired I find it difficult to stop them : as I 
 set the example, I am obliged to put up with it. I have not been out of the yard since 
 I came hotne, till this afternoon. I rode a mile or two on horseback, just to breathe the 
 fresh air. I never was so contented in my life, though I have not seen any one but Mr. 
 Smith these three weeks almost. I have not had an hour hang heavily upoti ?ne. ' Tis 
 charming to get home after being absent so long. I believe yo7i will think I am never 
 going to leave off. 
 
 i our affectionate daughter, 
 
 ELIZA S . 
 
Scarboroiighy Me., Thursday, April 8, 1801. 
 
 I have been thinking on that part of your letter which interests me most, — respecting 
 the propriety of conduct, opinion of the world. I don't exactly recollect zvhat I wrote 
 in »iy 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 luhich I have ever condemned as 
 those I noiu 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 your candor to judge with lenity, and to 
 your knozuledge of my heart to believe I wotild not intentionally deviate from the laws 
 of female delicacy and propriety. Reputation undoubtedly is of great importance to all, 
 but to a female 'tis everything. Once lost, 'tis forever lost. Whatever I may have sa^, 
 my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of that boasted independence of mind zohich can 
 stand collected in its own worth, and let the censure and malice of the world pass by, as 
 " the idle ivind which we regard not." / have ever thought that to be conscious oj' doing 
 right 7c>as insujficient, but that it must appear so to the zoorld. 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 hc\ve 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 ivorld, but as the most effectual 
 method to presen'c it. Vou say, as 7ir II as myself that 7i.<hate:'er ar say in vindication 
 of ourselves only makes the matter tcorse. 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 toward him had eve7' been of a kind that required an alteration, or anything 
 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 icould sanction. I 
 knmv not ndiat you think it has been, but if / can j'tidgc of tny ozvn actions, — their motives 
 I knotv I can, but I mean the outward appearance, — / have never treated him with any 
 more distinction than any other gentleman, nor have appeared more pleased with his 
 attentions than zvith another's. Believe me, I have kept constantly in view the opinion of 
 the world, and if you knew every circumsta7ice of my life, you would be convittced my 
 feelings were " tremblingly alive " to all its slanders. But " something too much of this." 
 You who knozi' my disposition may easily conceive how often I subject myself to the 
 envenomed shafts of censure and malice. By that gayety and high flow of spii'its, which 
 I sometifnes think my greatest misfortune to possess, sometimes I err in judgment, — 
 do?it always see the right path. Sotnetimes I see it, yet the warmth and ardor of my 
 feelings force me out of it. i'ct in this affair 1 feel confident I have acted from right 
 principles. There are a thousand trifiing things that at times influenced my conduct 
 which you cannot know, and you may be sujprised when I say that his attentions were of a 
 kind that politeness obliged me to receive. Nor shotild I ever have suspected they meant 
 anything more than gallantry and politeness, had not the babbles of the zuorld put it into 
 my head. You have been misinfortned 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 mo}-ning aj'ter 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 ati evening with him all zvinter, excepting 
 once, and then there was a mistake. This surely zvas tiothittg remarkable, for I always 
 danced two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were at. I danced with one as with 
 the other. True he was my partner at tzco parties at Broad's. I at the time asked 
 Horatio, when he mentioned the party, zohy he would not carry me. He said, if I z9as 
 asked by any other, to say I was going zvith my brother zvould be considered as a tacit 
 declaration that I had an aversion to going with him ; therefore, ' tzuould have been folly. 
 You cannot judge, unless you knozv a thousand customs zvhich they have in Portland. 
 But I declare to you, cousin, I am much gratified that you told me what you thought. 
 Had you locked it in your bosom, I should never have had an opportunity to vindicate myself 
 I beg of you alzoays to zurite with freedom. Alzcays zorite with the same openness you 
 did last : 'tis one of the greatest advantages /expect to derive from our correspondence. 
 I enjoin it upon vou. as you value my happiness. I told you I zvould show you some of 
 Martha's letters. / had one from her since / zvrote you, in Zi'hich she says I must 
 
on no condltioyi zvhaiever show her letters. However, I will read you some passages in 
 some of them. You shall see sotne parts. I icill make my peace with — indeed, I know 
 she would not object. I love to show you her letters, because yott feel something as I do in 
 reading them. ]'ou adinire her as you should, 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 con- 
 venient for giving you my sentiments, — no fear of intrusion ; I therefore take my pen 
 and scribble what I send you. But I believe I must adopt your plan, and settd it imme- 
 diately to the office ; but I repent, and bu7'n it. I find in reading it that I have said not 
 half I i/teant to: but I will send it azuay immediately. I a?n almost ashamed to answer 
 you so soon, — 'tis so unlike the example you set me, that I suppose you will say 'tis a 
 tacit disapprobation of your conduct. 
 
 MR. .UOSES PORTER, 
 
 niDDEFORD. 
 
Scarborotior/i, Sunday, May, 1801. 
 
 Wlicn one C07nmences an action with a full conviction they shall not acquit themselves 
 with honor, they arc sure fiot to succeed, hnpressedwith 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, /assure 
 you it proceeds from different motives. When I first proposed this correspondence, I 
 thought 07ily of the amusement and instruction it tuould 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 mc to hope yoti would forget the engagement. Fully convijiced of tny 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 uwuld throzv aside the critic and assume 
 the friend, I should never dare, with all my vanity (and I atn not deficient), give you so 
 fine an opportunity to exercise your favorite pjvpensity. I know you will laugh at all 
 this, and I mtist confess it appears rather a folly, first to reqtcest your correspondence afid 
 then with so much diffidence and false delicacy, apparently to extort a compliment, talk 
 about my inability and the like. You ivill not think I intend a compliment, luhcn 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 aji opinion, said all my imagination 
 could suggest in support of it and viewed xvith pleasure the little fabric, ivhich I 
 imagined to be founded on truth and justice, with one word you ivould crush to the 
 ground that which had cost me so many to erect. These things I think in time zcill 
 humble my vanity. I tuish sincei-ely 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 zchich ivarp all the faculties of my mind. I zoas 
 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 
 '3 
 
iluDi tlic heart, for ivc all have a kind of inhercnl pozuer 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 fixed principle, yet it will not materially err. 
 Possessing a gay, lively disposition, /pursued pleasure with ardor. I wished for 
 admiration, and took the means which ivould be most likely to obtain it. I found the 
 mind of a female, if such a thitig existed, was thought not worth cultivating. I dis- 
 liked 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 / freguented. I cared but little about the mind. 
 I learned to flutter about xcith a thoughtless gayety, — a mere feather, which every breath 
 had power to move. I left school with a head full of something, tutnbled in withotct 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 i7i 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 tny ideas I loas 
 obliged to throw away, without knowing where I got them or what I should do with them. 
 
 IfViat remained I pieced as ingeniously as I cotild into a few patchwork opinions. They 
 are now almost worn threadbare, atid 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 jny turn. By this 
 time I suppose you have found out luhat you have a right to expect f-om this correspond- 
 ence, and probably at this moment lay dow7i the letter with a long, sage-like face to p07ider 
 on my egotism. ' Tis a delightful employmetit ; I will leave you to enjoy it while I eat 
 my dinner. And what is the 7-esult, cojisin ? I suppose a few exclamatio/ts on the girl's 
 va7iity to think no subject could i7iterest 77ie but where herself was concer7ied, or the 
 barren7icss of her head that could ivrite 07i 7io other subject. But she is a female, say you 
 with a manly conte77ipt . O you lords of the world, what are you that your 7inhallozc'ed 
 lips should dare p7-ofane the fairest part of creation ! But, honestly. I wish to say 
 S07nething by way of apology, but do7it see/n to k/tozo what. It is true I have a kind of 
 7iatu7al afifectio7i for myselj'; I fi/id /lo one 77iore ready to pa /-d on my faults or fi7id excuses 
 for 77ty faili7igs. — it is iiatu7-al to love ourj'riends. 
 
 I have positively 7iot said one si/igle thi/ig which I intended whc7i I sat dozi.<7i. My 
 motive zcas to answer your letter, and I have /lot 7ne7itioned 7ny having received it/ 
 
 Your opinio7i of Sto/y's Poems I think ve7y unjust. As to the man, I cannot say, for I 
 k7iozi> nothing of hi/n, but I think you are too seve/'e up07i hi7n. A ma7i zuho had not a 
 "fiber of 7ejinement in his cotnpositio/i" could 7iever have ii.iritten some passages in that 
 poem. What is refi7ie77icnt :' I thought it zcas a delicacy of taste which 7night be 
 acquired, if /tot a/tything in our natu/e. True, there a/-e some so organised that they are 
 
incapable of receiving a delicate impress ioti; but we woiit say atiy thing of such things. I 
 
 just begin to feel in a mood for answering your letter. What you say of Miss Rice, — / 
 
 hardly know hoiv to refuse the challenge ; she possesses no quality above mediocrity, and 
 
 yet is just what a female ought to be. A^ow what I would give for a little logic, or for 
 
 a little skill to support an argument ! But I give it zip, for though you might not convince 
 
 me, you would confound zue with so 7nany learned obscrvatiotis, that my vanity would 
 
 oblige me to say I was convinced, to prevent the mortification of saying I did not undei- 
 
 stand yoji. Hoxu 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. 
 
 Vou must be here by nitie d clock (riot before) in the morning. My love to the girls, and 
 
 tell them — no. I'll tell them myself. 
 
 ELJZA. 
 TO MR. MOSES PORTER, 
 
 BIDDEFORD. 
 
To lite Same. 
 
 Scarborough, June r, 1801. 
 
 As to the qualities of mind peculiar to each sex, /agree with you that sprightlincss 
 is in favor of females, and profundity of males. Their educations, their pursuits, would 
 create such a quality, even though nature had not implanted it. The business and pur- 
 suits 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 researches require, unless they are 
 absolutely necessary to our pursuits in life. PVe rarely find one giving one's self up to 
 profound investigation for amusement only. Necessity is the muse of all the great quali- 
 ties of the mind ; it empties all the hidden treasures, and by its stimulating power they 
 are "polished into brightness." Wojnen, who have no such incentives to action, suffer all 
 the strong, energetic qualities to sleep in obscurity. Sometimes a gleam of genius gleams 
 through the thick clouds ivith which it is enveloped, and irradiates for a moment the 
 darkness of mental night. Vet, like a comet that shoots wildly from its sphere, it excites 
 our zoonder, and we place it among the phenotnena of nattire, zvithout 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 molder 
 in vain, fn this dormant state they become enervated and itnpaired, and at last die for 
 the want of exercise. The little airy qualities which produce sprightlincss are left to 
 flutter about like feathers in the zvind, the sport of every breeze. Women have more 
 fancy, more lively imagination, than men. That is easily accounted for. A person of 
 cort-ect judgment and accurate discernment will never ha^'c that flow of ideas which one tf 
 a different character might ; every object has not the pozver to introduce into his mind 
 such a variety of ideas ; he rejects all but those doubly connected zoith it. On the other 
 hand, a person of small discerufnent zcill receive every idea that arises in the mind, 
 making no distinction betzvcen those nearly related and those more distant. They are all 
 equally welcome, and consequently such a mind abounds zvith j'ancijul, out-of-the-way 
 ideas. Women have more imagination, more sprightlincss, because they have less discern- 
 ment. I never was of opinion that the pursuits of the senses ought to be the ,• on 
 
 the contrary, I believe it would be the destruction to happiness. 'There zvould be a degree 
 of rivalry exist incompatible with the harmony zcezcish to establish. I have ever thought 
 it necessary that each should have separate sphere of action. In such a case there will be 
 
no clashing, unless one or the other should leap (heir respective bounds ; yet, to cultivate 
 the qualities with which we are endoioed can never be called infringing the prerogative 
 of man. Why, my dear cousin, were we furnished with such powers, unless the improve- 
 ment of them would conduce to the happiness of society f Do you suppose the mind of 
 women the only zvork of God that " was made in vain "^ The cultivatioti of the powers 
 we possess I have ever thought a privilege (or I may say duty) that belonged to the 
 woman 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 titter at every jar. 
 Women xi<ould be under the same degree of subordination that they are now: enlighten 
 and expand their minds, atid they would perceive the necessity of such a reputation to 
 preserve the order of happi?iess of society. Yet you require that their conduct should 
 always be guided by that reason which you refuse them the power of exercising. I know 
 that it is generally thought that iji such a case luomen would assume the right of com- 
 manding ; but I see no foundation for such a supposition. Shall I repeat that they 
 would perceive the necessity of such a submission? — 7iot 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 ice aj-e under a prior engagement to conduct in all things accordifig to the 
 dictates of reason. J had rather be the meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon 
 the wide zoorld, 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 b7-ave that censure that I know 
 to be undeserved. It does not follow (Oh, what a pen! ) that every female who vindicates 
 the capacity of the sex is a disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft. Though I allozu 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. I'et, prejudice set aside, I confess I admire many of her sentiments; 
 yet, notwithstanding, I believe, should any one adopt her principles, they zcould conduct m 
 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 refine- 
 ment, but I shall only have room to touch upon it if I begin; therefore, I'll leave it until 
 another time. Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us, 7c>e had a fine "dish 
 of conversation" served up ivith great taste, jine sentiments dressed with elegant language, 
 and seasoned zuith 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 7ne 
 some pens. I have got one that I have been zchi tiling this hour, and have at last got it 
 to make a stroke, (ft liked to have given me the tie.) I believe I must give up all 
 
 '4 
 
pretension to profundi ty , for I am much inore at home in my female character, though 
 no argumentative style is conformed to my taste. I never could do anything by rote. 
 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 itf 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 tnoment, 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 impu- 
 dence to tell me that the most interesting part was the blank papers. It has provoked my 
 ire to such a degree that I positively declare I never will send you any more blatik papers 
 I can possibly avoid, "to spite you." 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
To the Savic. 
 
 Portland, July //, iSoi. 
 
 I almost at this inoinent wish myself in your situation, — meeting old acquaintance, 
 shaking hands with old friends, and telling over with renewed pleasure your college frol- 
 ics. 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 humor/ what flashes of wit/ what animated descriptions / Oh, 
 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 about Commencement. I heard 
 yesterday that Sam Fay, of Concord, delivered an oration the ^th of July. I should 
 admire to see it; I know it tnust be fine. In my opinioti he is a man of excellent talents, 
 capable of ii.'riting on the occasion an oration that would reflect great honor on himself. 
 The sentimetits must be noble and generous. He possesses so much feeling, there must be 
 many gloiuing passages in it. If it is printed, I beg you will get me a copy, and I will 
 confess myself greatly obliged. Last time I attended the theater Speed the Plough was 
 performed, and I assure you very decently. The characters in general were well sup- 
 ported. Billius, in Farmer Ashficld, really outdid hiinself; he threw off the monkey 
 and became a good, honest clown, and did not, as he ustcally docs, outstrip the bounds of 
 nature and all other bounds. Mrs. Powell, a Miss Blandford, delighted us all. How 
 I admire that woman / She is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet there is tio levity in 
 her appearance ; she has great energy, acts with spirit, with feelitig, yet never rants. 
 Her private character we all know is exceptionable. Mr. Downie, as a young buck, is 
 very pleasing ; he has a most melodious voice in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish 
 air: good figure, though small. As for Mrs. Harper, she is my aversion ; for, as Shaks- 
 pcre 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 amidst 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 Billius: he has much greater resources within 
 himself. Billius gains approbation by distorting his face attd playing the monkey, tchile 
 Harper adheres more strictly to nature. In Billius we cannot help seeing the player 
 
through the thin disguise, and Billius, not the character he presents, is continually in our 
 minds. S. Poicell is contemptible as a player (and / 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 remaitis ; 
 he cannot gradually bring his passion to the height, but thunders it out, without any 
 preparation, and the unvarying monotony of his voice is disgusting. I am sure by his 
 strutting and bellowing, Hamlet would think he was made by one of '' Nature's journey- 
 men." But it is time to have done with players, for you will think my head tiirncd 
 ittdced 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 is a sufficient reason zvhy I should give them a place. Society, 
 bustle, and noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot -write anyichere but at home. I am 
 ashamed that things of so little conseqtience should turn my head, but 'tis a melancholy 
 truth. Oh, you malicious fcllozv ! do7it talk to me about my favorite topic, ''female edu- 
 cation"; doiit tell 7ne of your philosophical indifference. O Moses, you can't leave the 
 subject ; every word that could any way dart at it is inarked. I believe you do itch to 
 comtnefice the attack. IVell, rail on ; you shall not say it is in compassio7i to me that 
 you desist. God forbid that your greatest enemy should ever inflict so severe a punish- 
 ment as to prohibit you from speaking on your ''favorite topic." f fancy you have for- 
 gotten that it is not, Mr. Indifference ; your ironical letter has had a wonderful effect^ 
 but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not to confess myself most contemptibly infe- 
 rior to my afttagonist. Y^ou ought to blush, but from a different cause. But I had for- 
 gotten myself and 2oas takijtg things too seriously. I am not slow at taking the hint; 
 perhaps my presumption merited the rcpi'oof I receive it, and will endeavor to profit by 
 it. And pray, cousin, how does Mr. Symmes's coat suit you? His "haughty humil- 
 ity," his " condescend ifig pride." Vou have assumed the habit, and I hope will ever 
 clothe yourself with it lo hen you meet your inferior antagonist. You have a fine imag- 
 ination, and have pictured a chain of delightful events which loill probably exist Ihete 
 alone. Yet I should have no objection to your being a true prophet. We all can plan 
 delightful schemes, but they rarely ever became realities; but no mallei', we enjoy them in 
 imagination. I expect from you a pai'ticular account of yourself when you return ; you 
 will have many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you rvill take the tj'ouble. I have just 
 read your last, and perceive something in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. 
 You say all you have said on the subject of female education was merely the thought of 
 the moment, xvritten not to be received, but laughed at. What shall I think.' — that you 
 think tnc too contemptible to knoio your real sentiments f I should be very unwilling to 
 admit such a suspicion; yet, what can you mean? With the greatest apparent serious- 
 ness you speak of the sincerity with which yon conduct this corresfondiiue • iluim that 
 
likewise meant to be laughed at .' I had Jlattered myself, xvhcn I cotnmenced this corre- 
 spondence, to reap both instruction and amusement from an undisguised communication 
 0/ sentiments. I had likewise hoped you would not think it too great a condescension to 
 speak to me with that open7tess you would to a female friend. However, I shall begin to 
 think it is contrary to the 7taturc of things that a gentleman should speak his real senti- 
 ments to a lady. Vet, in our correspondence I wished and expected to step aside from the 
 world and 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 floto until I have filled my paper. 
 Do not imagine from tuhat I have said that the most disagreeable truths will offend me. 
 I pivmisc not to feel hurt at anything you write, if 'tis your real sentiments. But, 
 cousin, doiit trifle with me ; do not make 7ne think so contemptibly of myself as you loill 
 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 luritc 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. 
 
 TO MR. MOSES PORTER, 
 
 B/DDEFORD. 
 
 '5 
 
Portland, July, iSoi . 
 To Octavia: 
 
 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 yon ivere not pres- 
 ent. Mr. Kensman would certainly have gone out for you (so he said), had he ever been 
 at our house ; he really asked one or tzvo gentlemen to go. Hes a frothy fellow, — he 
 rattles without a spark of fancy, and stuns you with his ziolubility, as anything empty 
 or holUnv ahuays makes the most noise. I told him I received a letter from you yester- 
 day. 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 itisignificant an admirer to be so much hottored. 
 
 Col. Boyd arrived last night. I found him in the parlor when I went down to 
 breakfast ; he inquired 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 oppor- 
 tunity to send me the money, if Mamma pleases. Harriet will sail to-morrow ; she sends 
 
 an abundance of love. 
 
 t 
 ELIZA. 
 
Topskani, October 2g, 1801. 
 Moses Porter : 
 
 Why, you unaccomilahle wretch ! you obstinate fellow ! yoti malicious, you vain, you — 
 / am 7-un out. I will e'en call in the assistance of Sir John Falstafjf to help me exclaim 
 against you. Proi'oking creature / zvith one scrawl of your pen to banish sjich delightful 
 thoughts. 1 2aas applauding myself for my condescension in writing so often without 
 answers. I exulted in the thought of your shame and confttsion as the proofs of my 
 superiority, so much above the little forms that narrowed yozir own heart. How did I 
 see you hanging your head with penitence and sorrow, while your face glowed with con- 
 scious shame .' Oh. 'txvas delicious ! Every day I reflected on it with renexued pleastire. 
 I felt assured that nothing prevented your writing but an aversion to acknowledging how 
 humble, hotv little, you felt. Yet the letter at length arrived. My hand trembled with 
 delight, a gloza of triumph flushed my face ; I saxu the humiliation so grateful to my 
 vanity. / 7oas at the Lieu fable. I hurried the letter into my pocket. I had no loish 
 to read it. I knciv — / thought f did — what it must contain, [could scarcely breathe, — 
 vanity, exultation, revenge (sweet sensation), gave 7ne unusual spirits. I stood and 
 called five. I was sure of a pahn fiush ! ' Twas impossible anything could go ivrong. 
 ' Twas a frail hope ; I got nothing, — xvas 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 declai-ation, it would not put me 
 in a ivorse fust rat ion. Put ah ! 'ttvas so different ; I did not blush, look down, tremble, 
 fear to raise my eyes ; my heart did not dissolve away in melting tenderness. Heyday / 
 I had no notion of telling you lohat I did not do, but xvhat / did. Well, then, I sat 
 so upright, I ZL'as a foot taller. I looked at everybody for applause. I zuondered I did 
 not hear them exclaim, O generous, exalted girl .' I demaiided it with my eyes ; 'twas all 
 in vain. I heard nothing but " Eliza, yoti must follow suit. M'^hy do you play that card? 
 You 2i'ill certainly be lieued." I teas vexed, I thought of the letter ; all was sunshine 
 again. I am called, — dinner. O Lord ! this eating seems to clog all my faculties, f 
 never write icith half so much ease as wheti I am half-starved. I believe it is true that 
 poets ought not to live loell. 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 / retired to bed, out came the letter. I toas sleepy, and had a 
 great mind not to open it till morning. However, I thought I loould, to have the satis- 
 faction of the confirmation of my hopes, not once thinkino of the stroke that should 
 annihilate them. It came ; hoio shall I tell you my consternation ! " Description falters 
 at the threshold!' Yet I did not rave. I did not tear my hair in a frenzy of passion. 
 I did not stand in mute despair. ^Vo, I collected all my dignity and stood fixed and 
 immoi'able. I xvas convinced it xuas obstinacy alone ; t'was envv, 'twas a somcthint^ that 
 prevented you giving me what you knezc I deserved. I am called again. 
 
Portland, Nov. lo, iSoi . 
 
 I had almost determined to light the fire with this seraiol, hut npon second thoughts 
 I zi'ithdrerv 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. 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 itnpressions it made were on me. Unluckily, I was called 
 from the pleas i tig task while in the midst of it, and as I never feel the same ttvo hours 
 together, I was lutable to contittue as I began, — 'twould have been cold and studied, — so I 
 left it. I threw it into my trunk, determining not to have anything ?uore to do with it. I 
 had grown amazingly wise. I loondered how I could suffer myself to write such non- 
 sense. To-day I have received an invitation to the second wedding of C apt. Stephetison ; 
 I shall go. I thought I would write you a line to let you know I was still in existence, 
 and on my way hontc. I could not find any paper, and -was compelled to tumble over my 
 trtmk to find this. I have a world of nezus to tell you, but I don t know that you would 
 care a farthing about any of it. Mary has been at Bostoti; Capt. Stephenson told me all 
 about it. Tell her I hear she has got a heap of fine things, at luhich, together with her 
 ladyship, I hope to have a peep. I have something of vast importance to say to her like- 
 wise : a thing on ivhich depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. O Mary ! 
 who would have thought cruelty one of the failings of your heart/ But I shall out tvith 
 this secret to you before I am awa7-e of it. Now, I have a great mind to turn this into a 
 letter to Mary ; I have as much again at this moment to say to her as I have to you, but 
 she xuould not know what to make of some of it. I expect to be at home on SaturdoQi 
 next. Bring Mary over Sicnday, — 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. 
 
To the Sajue. 
 
 Scarborough, December 4, 1801. 
 
 "I give you thanks" as Parson Fletcher says, for yotir 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 quantity. However they are things I trouble myself but little about, and 
 I should rather be inclined to join in railing agaitist them than in enumerating their 
 good effects. I perceive that you were much more inclined to be their advocate after sup- 
 per than you were before you had just laid down your pen. After venting all yojir spleen 
 and ill-nature (occasioned by your impatience for roast beef) upon these poor, harmless 
 sayings, you return with an entire new set of sentiments on the subject ; you commence 
 to advocate them with more vehemence than is usual with you, and conclude by making 
 them the foundation of every virtue. Noio, 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 ivith eloquence too powerful to be resisted? Or, was it a bumper of 
 wine which proved so zvarm a friend to thetn / Or, zoas it the good-natured effect of the 
 roast beef which, exhilarating your spirits, made you look ivith an eye of pity and com- 
 passion on these poor, neglected things, and endeavor, by rubbing off the rust and polishing 
 
 them anew, to compensate for your malicious endeavoi's to lessen their But, after all, 
 
 I must confess I am a great enemy to them, in conversatiojt particularly. I never knew a 
 person who made a frequent use of them but I pitied them for the scanty portion of ideas 
 which must have drawn them to such a paltry theft ; and, moreover, if I must steal the 
 idea, I would clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray tne. I dislike them because 
 they are in cvetybodys mouth ; the greatest fool on earth has sense enough to use them 
 tvith as much propriety as any other; and you will find every old beggar has his wallet 
 stufi'ed full of them, ready to launch out on every occasion, /don't know, however, but* 
 that you are perfectly right in xohat you say in their defense. I am inclined to believe 
 what you say is just ; but I have so often seen instatices of their meaning being perverted 
 to answer some vicious purpose, that I am compelled to believe that 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 zuhen we know ourselves in fault, and that we ought alzoays to 
 suspect the sincerity of any one luho made them, you certainly must have knozon instances 
 Zi'herc they were essentially necessary, and not to have made them zvould ha-ve proz'cd an 
 obstinacy of disposition quite as disagreeable as insincerity, /hate this parade and non- 
 sense about independence zohich every gentleman often puts on ; it a Izvays proves that the 
 
 16 
 
reality is small xvltcn suck a fuss is made for the appearance. I know some gentlemen 
 who boast of never kaving made an apology, yet at the same time would say a fid do a 
 tkousand tkings much more dcf'ogatory to their independence thaii fifty apologies^ such as 
 any man of sense might make. I should like to sec our fine gentlemen more careful in 
 avoiding anything that zvould require an apology, and not, like cowards, skulk behind 
 their flimsy shield of independence for defcttse or security. / 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 con- 
 ceive, nay, I have knoicn instances when an apology has heightened my opinion of a per- 
 son instead of lessening it. If ivc arc in fault, ought we not to confess it* If we arc 
 not in fault, ought we not to exculpate ourselves.' I should like a person who valued my 
 approbation very little if he knczi< I had every reason to censure him, and yet would not, by 
 a single ivord, convince me I had been deceived. However, I did not meati to dip so far 
 into this weighty subject ; 'txvould have been better to have touched the edges, and atoay. 
 Noio, really, Moses, I turite in pain. If I am not good-natured, you must attribute it all 
 to the cold, ivhich makes my fingers tingle. I cant write beUno, there is such a gabbing, 
 Tis a cold, comfortless night ; the raiti patters against the ivindow, and the wind whis- 
 tles round the house : it sou7ids 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 shel- 
 ter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that I would not walk ten steps to do good 
 to any one. Our old tvindows 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 between the blasts of 
 
 wind, which sound holloti.' and dreary. Even now the shadow of my peti 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 litem. I sometimes, ivhen sitting 
 alone after all are asleep in the house, get my imagination so raised that I look in fear- 
 ful expectation that the tall, martial ghost of Hamlet zvill stalk before my eyes, or that* 
 some less dignified one will step through the key-hole or pop down chimney. Ghosts, — 
 7<.<hat a boding ruind that is.' JVonsense; ivhal was I going to say, — something about 
 ghosts, and all not wanning my fingers. I declare, this shall be the last letter I zcill 
 ic rite from the fire ! December, atid writing in the chamber without fire ; oh, mon- 
 strous/ But here I am at the end without saying one of the things I meant to. I never, 
 iL'hen I sit down to, "write anything I wish or intended to when I began. You found my 
 letter, you say : 'tzoas not worth the finding, as it zcas too late to ans-wer the purpose I 
 wish. Write me often. I have been entertained with Johnson s Life. Jf'e arc alone, .w 
 •i'-ritr often. 
 
 E. S. 
 
Portland, January 24, 1802. 
 
 Now, at this moment, imagine yottr friend Eliza half double with the cold, two 
 children teasing and playing around the table, sister and nurse talking all the time, and 
 you will then be p7-cparcd to receive a letter abounding ivith 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 Jacky 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 corresponding. 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 icait just as 
 long before I answer your letter as you do before mine are noticed, and you have nothing 
 to prevetit but — pshaiv / I am only spending time to give you something to laugh at. I 
 must honestly acknowledge, hozuever, that your last letter was very acceptable, though I 
 was piqued at your neglecting me so long. I tuish I felt adequate to giving an opinion 
 on your perfect character, but, as I have told you before, I canjiot think when all is noise 
 and confusion around ?)ie. But I have endeavored in vain to Jind fault tuith it. I am 
 really sorry that your setitiments so perfectly coincide with my own, for you have said all 
 I think on the subject, and much more thaji I could have expressed; therefore, I am com- 
 pelled to assent to all you have said. I am very glad we do not agree on every subject, 
 for our letters (mine, I mean) n'ould be very uninteresting ; indeed, they have no jncrit 
 to part Ziiith. I do not rnean to send your perfect character away without a more intimate 
 acquaintance : when I feel in a proper mood for it, I will take it Jtp and exatnine every 
 quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on my mind, but I cannot refer to your 
 letter, for it is up in my trunk, and I feel no disposition to leave the fire. With your 
 permission, I 'will lie by till another time. In the mean time, let us descend from these 
 important discussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With great satisfaction we 
 again behold the ground covered with snow, for we arc almost freezing here ; it has been 
 almost impossible to obtain wood to keep us warm, and I declare I have thought a log- 
 house a clay chimney — the bell rings — / inust stop . 
 
«l 
 
To Moses Porter. 
 
 Portland, Monday, February i, 1802. 
 
 The sudden ringmg of the bell last Monday stopped me in the midst of a very homely 
 catalogue of blessings ; 'tis not worth fnishing, and if it was, I could not take up a 
 broken sentence arid finish it a xoeek after it ivas 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 atid that side, yet still cannot think. Scarborough — desolate, dreary 
 Scarborough / — is the only place from whence I can write with ease. A^o thing pixsetit 
 engages my attentions, and I then have leisure to turjt over the rubbish zuhich I have 
 collected frotn home, ponder on things past, and anticipate those to come. 'Tis sorncthing 
 like dreaming, — we are insensible to everything around us. The imagination is un- 
 checked 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 hoza I feel, look, and act at this 
 moment, — if your penetration does not discover a sotnething utilike my letters in general, 
 cold and studied. / zvill not, I cannot write. Atiother post must pass and no letter; 
 yet, 'tis labor, 'tis pain to write thus. 
 
To Moses Porter. 
 
 Sunday, February 8, 1802. 
 
 To see the dates of this sheet, one zuould 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 stich a dull, studied letter as this is. The 
 "seven days tzvice run" has put something into your head that ought tiot to be there, 
 and you are laughing in your sleeve at the discovery. Noiv, 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 con- 
 firmation of the truth, and frequently arc 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 shoxo what is true and ivhat is not, and the 07ily 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 p7'epare herself for such vexa- 
 tions. It has one good effect, — that of making us 7nore circumspect in our conduct. I 
 do not say I am not in love, if your penetratioii has not discovered that I am ; neither 
 will ivhat I say convince you. Hoiv such a report came to you, I do not know. I had 
 hoped it would zcither and die in the hot-bed of a scandal from which it sprang. If you 
 lived here, you would not be surprised at anything of the kind. I declare to you I don't 
 know the girl in town ofzi'tiom the same is not said. The prevailing propensity this 
 winter is match-making, and at the assemblies thet'e 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 7nuch, there 
 must be a lover in the way. If a gentleman looks at you at tneeting, you are suspected. 
 If he dances xvith you at the assembly, it must be true, and if he rides zcith you, 'tis 
 " confirmation strong as proof of holy writ." I am vexed to have spent so much time on 
 this subject, but I care nothing about it. ' lis zuell I have found something to fill my 
 sheet, and had it not been for that lucky seven days ticice over, I should not have finished 
 
 it this month, and the finishing now has been a week's jvork. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 n 
 
Sunday, February 14. 
 
 Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed through toxvn ! I did not expect 
 you as soon, although you said you should retjirn on Friday. I thotight something 
 might detain you in Wiscassett or Portland longer than you expected, but you are one 
 of those odd fellows which nothing can turn aside, — no, not even the most spark litig 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 steadfast / It will come at last, 
 Sir 3foses. Bellamy says there is as much time for love as for death, and every one as 
 surely, one time or the other, will feel it. I expected to see you throw off the philosopher 
 and assume the inan : 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 vulgar phrase ) 
 you are struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive this, and tell me about 
 yo7ir Journey. Don't wait as long as you commotily do. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 * 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
JJ'ri//cu the Ycai- before Iter Afaj-7'iage. 
 
 Portland, March i, 1802. 
 
 Such a frolic ! Such a chain of adventures I never before met with ; nay, the page 
 of romance never presented its equal. ' Tis nozo Monday, — but a little more method, that 
 / may be understood. I have just ended my assembly's adventure, — never got home till 
 this morning. Thursday, it snozued violently; indeed, for two days before, it had been 
 storming so much that the snoiv-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 seven I xvent downstairs, and found Charles Coffin, the minister, in the 
 parlor. After the usual inquiries were over, he stared awhile at my feathers and 
 fozi'crs ; asked iff zluzs going out. I told him I was going to the assembly. "Think, 
 Miss Southgate" said he, after a long pause, " think you zoould go out to meeting in such 
 a storm as this f" 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 argurnent that 
 I was unable to support. The stopping of the carriage roused me. I immediately slipped 
 on my socks and coat, and met Horatio and Mr. Afotley in the entry. The snow zoas 
 deep, but A/r. Motley took me up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without diffi- 
 culty. I found a full assembly, many married ladies, and every one disposed to end the 
 zvinter in good spirits. At one we left dancing, and went to the card-room to wait for A 
 coach. It stormed dreadfully. The hacks were all employed as soon as they rettirned, and 
 zoc could not get one till three d clock ; for about tzco they left the house, determined not 
 to return again for the night. It zvas the most violent storm I ever knew. There were 
 now twenty in waiting; the gentlemen scolding and fretting, the ladies tnurmuring and 
 complaining. One hack returned ; all flocked to the stairs to engage a scat. So many 
 crowded down that 'twas impossible to get past. Luckily, I zcas one of the first. I 
 stepped in, found a young lady, almost a stranger in tozvn, zvho keeps at Mrs. Jordan's, 
 itting in the back seat. She immediately caught hold of me, and begged if I possibly 
 lould accommodate her, to take her home with me, as she had attempted to go to Mrs. 
 ./onldJi's. but the drifts were so high the horses could not get through, — that they were 
 
compelled to return to the kail, where she had not a single acquaintance with whom she 
 could go home. I was distressed, for I could not ask her home with me ; for sister had 
 so much cotnpafiy 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 itito the 
 carriage. It presently was stowed 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 pro- 
 tested 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 
 p7'oper riot. I was really alarmed. My gentleman, with a vast deal of fashionable 
 independence, szuorc that no poiver on earth should make him quit his seat ; but a gentle- 
 man at the door Jumped into the carriage, caught hold of him, and would have dragged 
 him out, if ive had not all entreated hitn 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 insiilt 
 him before thctn, — mean creature! The carriage at length started, full of ladies, and 
 not one gentleman to protect us, except otir 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 tnust be left. Luckily, two gentlemen 
 had folloiocd by the side of the carriage, and, when it stopped, took out the ladies as they 
 got to their houses. Our sweet, little, trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat immovable 
 whilst the two gentlemen that ivere obliged to walk through all the snow and storm 
 carried all the ladies from the carriage. M7iat could be the motive of the little wretch 
 for creeping in zvith us I knorv 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 ask(jfl 
 Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl's name) to go home with her, zi'hich she 
 readily did. The gentlemen then proceeded to take us out. My beau, unused to carry- 
 ing such a weight of sin and folly, sank Jinder its pressure, and I was obliged to carry 
 my mighty self through the snow, xohich 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 stonn 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 zveather 
 (for it still snoxued) 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 fo}"ward nor lurn roicttd. After waiting till I was tiiost frozen, we got out, and 
 with the help of a trjichnan the sleigh was lifted up and turned toward a cross-street 
 that led to Federal street. We again went on. At the corner we found it impossible 
 to turn up in turn, but must go down and begin where we first started, and take a new 
 course ; but suddenly turning the corner, we came fill up07t 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 
 boftnct. J I 'hat was to be done? Ojir horses' heads touched before we saw them. I 
 jumped out ; the sleigh was unfastened and lifted routid, 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 sank 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 feel. 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, an immovable. He could not get his feel out to take another step. At 
 length, making a great exertion to spring his whole length foi-ward, he made out to 
 reach the poor horse, who lay in a worse condition than his master. By this lime all 
 the family had gathered to the window ; indeed, they saw the whole frolic, but 'twas not 
 yet etidcd ; for, unluckily, in pulling off Miss Weeks' s bontiet 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 ludia'ous figure I must have been, still standing at the 
 gate, my bonnet halfway to the sleigh, ajid my wig in my hand / However, I hurried 
 it on, for they were all laughing at the window, and tnade the best of my way into the 
 house. The horse was unhitched, and again set out, and left me to po?ider on the inci- 
 dents 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. 
 
 E. S. 
 
 iS 
 
March 12, 1802. 
 
 William Weeks is going to Philipsburg, atid 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 Jcwett, 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 the 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 Williant : he will ride six or eight miles further than necessary, fatigue 
 his horse, wear out his sleigh-runners, and certaijily be detained three houj's. Now, as 
 we know a gentlema7i s time is much more valuable than a lady's, it must be a real loss 
 to him ; three dollars a day for posting books any comtnon accountant would have, and 
 allowing him but just so much, his loss would certainly amount to four or six shil- 
 lings on that score. I speak merely of the loss Ofi the score of interest ; how deeply it 7nay 
 affect him otherwise may be better imagined from the ravages she has cotnmittcd in Mr. 
 Orrs heart than from anything I can say. This short visit may derange all his rea- 
 soning faculties, and give a different hue to all his future prospects ; it 7nay give him a 
 disrelish for all amusements, and 7nake hi7n sigh for the calm serenity of do/7testic life ; — 
 to SUI71 up all together, it 7/iay //take /wn /« love. But I shall have 710 time to say a7iy- 
 thi/ig else if I run o/t with this a7iy further. To-7norrow I expect to go to Gorham, 
 return the same eve7ii/ig, or Sunday 7nor7ii7ig. I a7n still at Mrs. Coffi7is, but shall 
 relur7i to sister when I co77ie from Gorham. We have had a 7iu77ibcr of pleasa7it parties 
 this week: Tuesday Mrs. Robert Boyd had a char/7iing one; Wednesday had a large 07ie 
 here, and to-day all going to Capt. Robi7iso7is, where we expect to da/ice. To-7nor7vw I 
 go to Gorham. I wrote to Mamma requesting money to buy a lace shade. I called to 
 look at the/7t again, a7id the shopkeeper told 7ne he was 7nistake7i /« the price, for it zvas 
 twenty-one shilli7igs per ya7-d, itistead of the whole patter7t, rvhich 7nakes a vast differ- 
 ence. I, of course, think /lo 7nore of lace shades, but I still think of so77ie //toncy. I have 
 
but /our cents in the ivorld, 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 ifyozi wish ; 'tivill 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 Jllatnma comes over and I return home ; 'tis delightful weather. Hozv do the daisies 
 and gillyflowers? Mrs. Parker is going to give me some flower seeds. I hear frequent 
 inquiries for you, — when are you coming in town? Tell Miss Tappan I had the honor 
 of dancing a voluntary dance ivith Mr. Orr at the last assembly. " The floor was very 
 tinyielding," etc., etc. I did not tell you any ones adventures but my own on that event- 
 ful night. Poor Mr. Orr, itnpaticnt to get home, plunged into the snow without wait- 
 ing for a carriage, and, unfortunately, turning up street instead of down, got most to Mr. 
 Vaughns before he discovered his mistake, and was obliged to turn round and worry his 
 way back again. He was half dead whefi he got to his lodgings. Eunice Deeriij,g was 
 tumbled over, and when Mr. Little took her from the carriage 
 
To Moses Porter. 
 
 Portland, May 2j, iSo2. 
 
 I received your apology, and am satisfied. ' 'Pis not the manner of making apologies I 
 think most of, but that long dissertation on the subject contiimally obtrzides itself on your 
 mind whenever you feel conscious an apology is necessary. But zvhile I am convinced 
 nothing but the fear of appearitig inconsistent prevents your making those said apologies, I 
 will not complai7i; 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 ivould form a delightful chapter in a novel. Our novelists 
 have xvorn the pleasjires of a rui-al life threadbare. Every love-sick swaiti ima<rines 
 that with the mistress of his heart he could leave the noisy, ttamiltuous scenes of life, and 
 in the shade of rural retirement feel all the delightful security and peace ascribed to the 
 golden age ; the philosopher and the poet fly to this imaginary heaven with as much 
 enthusiasm as the lover. Then, say they, loe can contemplate the beauty atid sublimity 
 of nature free from interruption ; then the reflecting mind can flnd endless subjects for 
 contemplation! Here all is peace and love! No discord can find place amofig these inno- 
 cent 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 hai^ 
 seen what the pleasures of rural life are ; and whatever poets mav have ascribed to it, we 
 must know there is much depravity, and conscquetitly as much discontent in the inhabitants 
 of a country village as in the most populous city. They are generally ignorant, illiterate, 
 without knowledge to discoi'er 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 proportionate to their rank and poiver. I am convinced that a country lij'c 
 is better calculated to produce that serenity and happiness tee 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 ivho quit the busy scenes of life disgusted by the duplicity or ingratitude of the 
 world, or oppressed by the xvcight 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 and similarity of sentiments that genuine 
 happiness can be enjoyed. Your mind is cultivated and enlarged, your sentiments delicate 
 a?id 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 busy myself in solitude; nay, I should be unwilling to con- 
 fess I felt myself U7iable to preserve my virtue where there were temptations to destroy it. 
 There is no merit in being virtuous when there is ?io struggle to preserve that virtue; 'tis 
 in the midst of temptations and allurements that the active and generous virtues must be 
 excited in their full force. One virtuous action, their temptations and delusions to sur- 
 mount, would give more delight to my own heart, more real satisfaction, than a whole life 
 spent in mere negative goodness. He mtist be base indeed who can voluntarily act 
 wrong when no allurement draws him from the path of virtue. Vou say you never dipped 
 much in the pleasures of high life , and therefore I 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 power and talents. We all have a preference for some particular mode of life, 
 and we surely ought to endeavor to arrive at that which will most probably insure us 
 most happiness. I have often thought what profession I should choose were I a man. I 
 might then think very difi'erently from what I do nozv, yet I have always thought, if I 
 were conscious of possessing brilliant talents, the law would be my choice; then I mic^ht 
 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 pos- 
 sessed the txlents which wjiild distinguish tm as a s/)eaker, I would be anything rather 
 than a lawyer. For the dry sameness of such employment as the busitiess of an office all 
 my feelings would revolt, but to be an eloquent speaker would be the delight of my heart. 
 I thank heaven 1 was born a woman. I have only now to wait patiently till some dear 
 fellow shall take a fancy to me and place me in a situation I am determined to makg 
 the best of let it be what it will. We ladies, you know, possess that "sweet pliability 
 of temper" that disposes not to enjoy any situation, and we must have no choice in 
 these things till we find what is to be 07ir destiny ; then we must consider it the best in 
 the world. But, seriously, I desire to be thankful I am not a man. I should be content 
 with moderate abilities, — nay, I should not be content with mediocrity in anythim^; 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 wzre a man. Should you ever become an inhabitant of Box- 
 fotd, I 7nake no doubt you will be very happy, because you will reap all the advantages 
 and disadvantages. Yet, I do not think you qualified for the laborious life farmers (gen- 
 erally lead, and it requires a little fortune to live an independent farmer, without labor. 
 19 
 
Rebecca zootild do charmingly. I kticio yoii were imaginitig her the partner of all your 
 joys afid cares, of all your hartnony and content, when you charmed yourself with your 
 descriptions of rural happiiicss ; with her you imagine 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. Y'es, my turn now to rail a little ; the world 
 has also linked you to a certain persofi as firmly, — nay, more so than it ever did me; but, 
 however, I will not press too closely on this subject. I shall not expect that candid confes- 
 sion I made you, as yotir feclitigs and mine are so diff^erent on the tivo subjects, f want 
 to ask you a question, which yo7i may possibly think improper ; but if so, do not answer 
 it. Is Mary really engaged to Mr. Coffiti f I hear so from so many persons, and in so 
 decided a tnanner, I cannot doubt. I xvould ask her, but in these things there is so much 
 deception in finding out ; however, I think I should never deny such a thing when I once 
 became so. However, oiough of this. I am now in Portland; shall return to-morrow to 
 Scarborough, rohere I shall be very happy to see you and Mary; so I depend upon 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. 
 Remetnber, you have it i7i your power to amuse and gratify 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
To the Same. 
 
 Portland, May 28, 1802. 
 
 I hardly know what to say to you, cousin. You have attacked my system^ with a 
 ki?td of fury that has entirely obscured your judgment, and instead of being convinced 
 of its impracticability, you appear to fear its justness. Yo2c tell me of some excellent effects 
 oj my system, but pardon me for thinking they see distaste by prejudice rather than reason. 
 I feci fully convinced in my own tnind that no such effects would be pardoned. You ask 
 if this plan of education will render me a more dutiful child, a more affectionate wife, 
 etc. Surely it will. Those virtues which now are merely practiced from the momentary 
 impulse of the heart xuill then be adduced 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 guide for our conduct, we have acquired a reputation for 
 caprice, which we justly deserve. J can hardly believe yoit serious when you say that the 
 enlargement of the mind will inevitably produce superciliousness and a desire of ascend- 
 ency. I should much sooner expect it from an ignorant, unctdtivated mind. IVc cannot 
 enlarge and improve our minds without perceiving otir weakness, and wisdom is always 
 modest, unassuming. On the contrary, a mind that has never been exerted knows not its 
 deficiencies, and presumes tnuch more on its pozvers than it otherwise would. You 
 beg me to drop this crazy scheme, and say no more about enlargijig the mind. As it is 
 disagreeable, and you are too much prejudiced even 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 against 
 imagination gave birth to a presumptuotis 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 yon which I wish 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 atid true. I beg 
 you to say no more to mc on the subject, as I shall know it will be only a favor of polite- 
 ness which I will dispense with. You undoubtedly think I am acting quite out of my 
 sphere in attempting to discuss this subject, and my presumption probably gave rise to 
 that idea, which you express in your last, that however unqnalijied a woman might be, she 
 iuas always equipped for the discussion of any subject, and overwhelms her hearers with 
 
her " clack." On xvhat subject shall I ivrite you /" / shall either fatigue and disgust you 
 with fctnale trifles, or shock you by stcppi?ig beyond the limits you have prescribed, as I 
 cannot preserve a medium. I fear I shall be obliged to relinquish the hope of pleasing, — 
 of course, of tvriting. Good-night; I am sleepy and sttipid. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Oh, hou I hate this tcarm weather.' It deprives me of the poiver of Jising any e.xcrtion ; 
 it clogs my ideas. I ask no greater felicity than the pleasure of doing nothing. I 
 intended to amuse you zoith some of the trifles of the day, but I shall scarcely do them 
 justice this morning. Friday night zee had a ball ; the hall loas decorated with much 
 taste, — 'twas fitted up for the " Masotis." A t the head of the room there was a most romantic 
 little house : Jour large pillars, formed of green and interspersed with flowers, supported 
 a kind of canopy, lohich was arched in front, with this inscription, '' Here peace and 
 silence reign," — filled with a parcel of girls whijiing sentiment and silly fellows spouting 
 love. It produces a most laughable scene. The deities to whom it was dedicated with- 
 dreio from the sacred retreat which was so prof a tied, and noise and folly reigned supreme. 
 So szceet a place, so fine an opportttnity for making speeches, — 'tzoas irresistible; even you 
 would have caught a spark of inspiration from the szirrounding 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 zvith a torrent of eloquence, yet his compassionate 
 heart often prompted him to hesitate, that I might recover myself Such stores of learn- 
 ing did he display, such mines of wisdom did he open to my view, that I gazed with 
 astonishment and azve, and scarce believed " that one small head could carry all he knew." 
 Mr. Hirsman, zoith a countenance that beamed with benevolence and compassion, gazed 
 on all around. While a benign smile played rotind 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 pains of hopeless love utipitied I etidure, and feel 
 a wound within my heart zchich death alone can cure." 
 
 Alonday Alight. 
 
 }'ou zoill easily perceive that I am obliged to ivrite where and when I can. / have 
 not quite so much leisure as when at Scarborough, and though in the very place to hear 
 nczcs. 1 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 'twas too tempt- 
 ing an occasion to be resisted. I wish you tvere acquainted with some of the Portland 
 ladies ; I would then tell you many things that might anntse. But I dare not introduce 
 you to Ihcm, 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 character. Yesterday I spent the day with Martha. I wish you were 
 acquainted with her; she is truly an original. I never saw one that bore any resem. 
 blancc to her. She despises flattery, and is even above praise ; beautiful without vanity, 
 possessing a refined uiiderslanding without pedantry, the most exquisite sensibility con- 
 nected with all the great and noble qualities of the mind. She laiows that no woman in 
 America was ever 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, and the same iridepejidetit 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 
 two years. Two years / how 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 dozvn with misfortune, I shall have lost all relish for life; all hopes of 
 pleasure may have ceased to exist, ajid 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 attention. Write by the post, if you have no other opportunity. The players 
 
 will commctice acting next Wednesday. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
To her Mother. 
 
 1802. 
 
 Now, Mamma, what do you ihitik I am going to ask for? — a wig ! Eleanor has 
 got a new one just like my hair, and only Jive dollars ; Mrs. Mayo, one just like it. J 
 must either cut my hair or have one. / cannot dress it at all stylish. Mrs. Coffin 
 bought Eleanors, and says that she will write to Mrs. Samson 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 assejnbly of my head, for nobody had long hair. If you will consent 
 to my having 07ie, do send me over a five-dollar bill by the post immediately after you 
 receive this, for I am in hopes to have it for the next assembly. Do send one word 
 immediately, if you can let me have one. Tell Octavia she must write soon, and that 
 there are many inquiries after her. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Tuesday, July 6, 1S02. 
 
 Arrived in Salem, met Mrs. Derby at the door, who received us joyfully. At tea- 
 time saw the children, — fine boys, very fond of Elleti, and are managed by their father 
 with great judgmetit. How few understand the true art ofmanagi7ig children, and how 
 ofteji is the important task of foj'ming young minds left to the discretion of servants, who 
 cairss 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 ; atid at that early period of life, when 
 the mind is open to every new impression, and ready to receive the seeds which tnustform the 
 future principles of the character, — at that time, how important is it to be judicious ifi your 
 conduct toxvard them. In the evening Mr. Haskct Derby came in o?i his retur?t from. 
 New- York. He is a fine, majestic-looking ma7i, though he strikes you rather heavy and 
 unwieldy on his first appearance ; he says little, yet docs not appear absent ; has trav- 
 eled much, and in his manners has an easy, unassuming politeness that is not the acquire- 
 ment of a day. Wednesday morning had an agreeable tite-d-tete with Ellen, talked over 
 all our affairs ; in the afternoon rode out to Hasket Derby s farm, about three 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 three divisiojis in the gardens, 
 and you pass J'rom the lower one to the upper, through several arches rising one aboz'e 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 through it with three doors on each side, which open into little apart- 
 ments, and one of them opens to a staircase, by which yoji ascend into a square room, the 
 whole size oj' the building, ft has a fine, airy appearance, and commands a view of the 
 tvhole garden. Two large chestnut-trees 07i each side almost shade it J'rom the vietu when 
 seen from the sides. The air from the windows is always pure and cool, and the eye 
 
watidcrs tvith dclighl and admiration over the extensive landscape below, so hcautifully 
 variegated ivith the charms o/ nature ; imagination luxuriates tuith delight, and as it 
 plays o'er the beauties 0/ an opening Jlowcr, ijnpcrceptibly luanders to the first principles 
 of nature, its wojiderful and surprising operation, its harmony and beauty. The room 
 is ornatncnted with some Chinese figures, and seems calculated for scrcjiity and peace. 
 ' Tis like the pavilion of Caroline, and / almost looked around me for the music of the 
 guitar and books ; but I heard not the tramplings of Lindorfs horse, nor did I seem to 
 hear the echo of his voice. ''Listen to love, and thou shalt know indifference, or to bless 
 the foe." Certain it is, however, I thought of Caroline the moment / entered. We 
 descended, and, passing through 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 through the opening of the trees. Ft was covered with bark ; a 
 stnall, low door, slightly latched, immediately opened at our touch ; a venerable old man 
 was seated in the center with a prayer-book in one hand, while the other supported his 
 cheek, and rested on an old table which, like the hermit, seemed molding to decay ; a 
 broken pitcher, a plate, and tea-pot sat before him, and his tea-kettle sat by the chimney ; 
 a tattered coverlet was spread over a bed of straw which, though hard, might be softened 
 by resignation and content. I left him, impressed ivith veneration and fear, tvhich 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. On one orange-tree there were green ones, ripe ones, and blossoms. Every 
 plant and shrub which zvas beatitiful and rare was collected here, and I looked around 
 with astonishment and delight. At the upper end of the garden there was a beautiful 
 arbor, fortned of a mound of tiirf which we ascended by several steps, formed likewise 
 of turf, and 'tzuas sttrrounded by a thick row of poplar-ti'ees, which branched out quite 
 to the bottom, and so close together that you could not see through. ' Tioas a most chang- 
 ing 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 shojild not 
 like to walk over to his house and see the garden. IVe readily consented, as I had heard 
 much of the house. The evening was calm and delightful, the moon shone in its great- 
 est splendor. We entered the house, and the door opctied 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 aftd gave us a full view of the garden below. The moon shone 
 toith uncommon splendor ; the large marble vases, the images, the mirrors to correspond 
 
with the windoivs, gave it so uniform and finished an appearance that I could not think 
 it possible I viewed objects that were real. Everything appeared like enchantme7it. The 
 stillness of the hour, the imperfect light of the tnoon, the novelty of the scene, filled my 
 mind with sensations / never felt before, /could not realize everything, 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 tneant. You can scarcely conceive anything more superb. 
 We descended into the garden, which is laid out with exquisite taste; an airy irregular- 
 ity seems to characterize the whole. At the foot of the garden there was a summer-house 
 and a roiv of tall poplar-trees, 7vhich hid everything beyond from the sight, and formed 
 a kind of walk. I arrived there, and to my astonishment foicnd through the opening of 
 the trees that there was a beautiful terrace, the whole width of the garden. ' Twas twenty 
 feet from the street and graveled on the top, with a white balustrade round; 'twas almost 
 level, and the poplar- trees so close that tve 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, 
 though 'lis the back one. A large dome swells quite to the chamber windows, and is 
 railed round on top, and forms a delightful walk; the tnagnificent pillars which support 
 it fill the mind with pleasure. We returned into the house, and on passing the mirrors 
 I ijivoluntarily started back at seeing so tnuch compafiy in the other room. We entered 
 the drawing-room, which is sziperb,fur7iished with blue and wood color. There was the 
 grand piano, the most charming instrument I ever heard. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, Mr. 
 Hasket D., Fratik Coffin, and myself were the party. I was requested to play, and took 
 my seat at the instrument atid had just begun playing, when a slight noise in the entry 
 made me turn my head. A gentleman entered, and was introduced as Mr. Gray, — made 
 a tnost graceful bow a7id took his seat, and I resumed my playing. We rose to depart, 
 atid Mr. G. accompanied us home. I was delighted with his conversatiott, 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 wets 
 uncommonly fine. The moon shines brighter in Salem tha7i anywhere else. Here, too, 
 is ati elegant garden, full of fruit-trees, the walks kept as nice as possible, a7id shaded on 
 each side by plu7)i-trees ; very handsome summer-house, where we sat a« hour or two, 
 ra77ibled i7i the ga7-de7i all the eve7iing, which was the fi7iest I ever saw, — so very light 
 that, as Shakspere says, "'twas but the daylight sick, 07ily a little paler." There is 
 S07ncthi7ig in a fine 7noo7ilight evening exquisitely soothi7ig to the soul. I have fell as if 
 I could melt away with the exquisite enthusias/n of my sensations. We were called into 
 the house, and fou7id Mrs. West, a sister of Mrs. Derby's ; but 7/iore of her by and by. 
 Friday, Dr. Coffi7t arrived, and Dr. Lathrop a7id Ilaskct Derby dined with us, and set 
 out for Boston. 
 
Saturday, July i r, 1802. 
 
 We rode out, Ellen and myself, with the three boys, in a hack; went to Danvers (Par- 
 son Wadswortli s ) to see Mrs. Rickina?ts children; took thein in to ride ; came down by the 
 mills and went across to Hasket Derby s farm, — all the cherries gone, — rainbled about 
 the gardens an hour, and returiied home. Charmi?tg ride / The country round Salem 
 is delightful, although 'tis situated rather in a plain; 'tis surrounded with beautiful hills, 
 handsome trees, ponds, brooks, etc. We got home at dusk, and found Mr. Coffm just 
 retm-ncd from Boston. Mrs. Hasket Derby sent a great basket of cherries and her com- 
 pliments ; she would come over in the morning. I wished very much to see her; she had 
 been gone five weeks to the Springs. I had heard Martha say 7Huch of her, and wished 
 much that to-morrow could come. 
 
 Next mornitig, Sunday, we7it to meeting. Mr. Dana, of Marblehead, preached; 
 very devout, unaffected yoimg ma7i; saw not a soul I had ever seen before, excepting Mr. 
 Gray ; thought I should not have known him, as I scarcely saw his face before; found 
 Mrs. Hasket Derby on my returtt; was disappointed in her personal appearance. Instead 
 of fitiding the elegant, majestic, beautiful creature my imagitiation had pictured, I beheld 
 a little, short, plump woman, dressed in black, a coarse cotnplexiott, and anxious eyes; yet 
 I had not been in company an hour, without confessing to myself that she was the most 
 agreeable, fascinatittg woman I ever saw. She co?iti7iually pleases a7id delights you; she 
 appears to live for others, 7ior ever bestows a thought tipon herself, yet so perfectly unco7i- 
 scioiis of it, that it see77ts inherent in her dispositio7i, a7id to flow without a/iy effort. Ske 
 plan7icd parties of a7nuse77ie7tt, as I was a st7-a7iger, a7id we fixed npo7i Friday for a fish- 
 ing party to Nahant ; se7it to Bosto7i for so77ic to 7neet us. Mo7iday, a S7nall party at 
 Mrs. Derby's came to tea. 1 7-ode i/i the chaise with M7'. Gray ; Mrs. G7'ay a7id a Mr. 
 White, an E7iglish7/ia7t, i/i her carriage ; Mr. Coffui a7id Miss Gray, /« another chaise ; 
 Mr. a7id Airs. Hasket Dci'by. We walked 07i a hill, 7icar the house, where we had the 
 771 OS t exte7isive p/vspect I ever saw; the whole world see77ied spread bcfo7'e us, covered with 
 the richly va7-icgatcd carpet of nature. We returned home i7i the cvc7ii7ig, with a fi7ie 
 jnoon, a7id all went to Air. Grays to spc7id the eve7ii7ig, — 7nost char77ti7ig time ; treated 
 with great atte7itio7i by Mrs. G7-ay, who is, i7i my opi7iio7i, a fi7ie wo77ia7i, do77iestic, fond 
 of her childre7i, a7id never so happy as ?'« contrib7iling to their a7nusemc7tt, a7id possesses 
 
fine sense, anintated, unceremonious, and agreeable. Tuesday, Doct. and Airs. Coffin 
 and Mrs. Sumner came down from Boston ; dined together, and all went to Has/cet 
 Derby's farm in the afternoon ; Mrs. Gray and Miss Bishop of the party. Glad to see 
 Miss Bishop, — one of my old school-mates. Had a most charmittg ride ; went in the 
 carriage with Mrs. Gray. All returned to Mr. John Derby's and spent the evening. 
 William Gray and his father came in the even i fig ; walked in the garden. Wednesday, 
 large party of gentlemen to dine tvith Doct. Coffin ; in the afternoon, all went to Mrs. 
 Gray'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 ; everything elegant and pleasant. Friday, to Nahant, fishing, — Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hasket Derby, Mr. and Mrs. John Derby, Mr. and Mrs. Kersey Derby, Miss 
 Bishop, Mr. Gray, Mr. Coffin and myself , Miss Heller, Mr. Prince (who looks very mjich 
 like Horatio), and several others. Met there same smart Boston beaux, — Mr. Afuory 
 Parkman, Turner, etc., etc. Spent a most charmifig day ; caught but few fish, a?td very 
 warm, yet pleasant notwithstanding ; set out for home just as the sun was setting. I 
 returned in the chaise with William Gray, Frank with Miss Bishop ; rode two miles 
 on the beach, the tide down, sun just setting. ' Twas charming and delightful. Satur- 
 day, went out to Kersey Derby's farm to tea ; went to the bathing- house, stimmer- house, 
 and saw the Rtimford kitchen / — elegant place, beautiful children ; rainy afternoon, we 
 could not enjoy the pleasures of the country so well. Sunday, xuent to meeting, and to tea 
 with Mrs. Hasket Derby ; met cofnpany from Boston, — two beaux, — Mr. Lee and Mr. 
 Davis. Monday, a party of young ladies at Mrs. Grays ; 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. Gray after dining ; returned and drank tea with Mrs. Lam- 
 bert ; found company at Ellens on my return, — Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby, Kersey 
 Derby and wife, Mr. Prince and wife. Patty Derby, that was, looks like old Madame 
 Mill i ken very much. Mr. and Airs. Hasket Derby wish me to go to the Springs ; witk 
 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, as they go to-morrow. What shall I do ? I must go 
 over after breakfast ; I will consult Mrs. John Derby. I would not go for the world if 
 I thought my father or mother would not be pleased. Air. and Airs. Derby go alone in 
 their carriage. I must think of it. 
 
 ELJZ.-t. 
 
Salem, Jjily 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 ; though gay, volatile in my 
 disposition, I feel that I shall return home with the same sentiments with which I left 
 it. True, I am in the midst of gayety and splendor such as I never before witnessed ; 
 yet a something withift whispers true happiness resides not here. In this family all is 
 calm contentment and peaceful pleastire. Mr. Derby is everything his best friends can 
 wish him, and the whole family consider him as everything good and beticvolent. 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 imexpectedly 
 and so immediately ; yet I know not hew it could be avoided. I am in the midst of 
 amusement and pleasure, — they drive all melancholy reflection from my mind ; but when 
 alone, my feelings warmly pay a tribute to the merit ofoiir departed Moses. Yet I cannot, 
 do not, realize it. Everything 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 oui'selvcs to the loss of the dearest friends. What zc/ould almost 
 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 who7n I felt so interested in. Yet he is dead, he is gone ; and I can speak of It 
 without emotion, and — / am called. 
 
 Adieu ; I will write soon. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
Salem, Wednesday, Jjily, 1802. 
 
 What will you say, my dear moihcr, whett you find I am gone with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Haskct 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 traxieled without 
 some lady, and urged my accompany i7ig her. I thought 'twas only a compliment, and 
 treated it as such ; but when I /outid she serioitsly wished it, and her luisband joined 
 his infiucnce, 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, per- 
 haps, may never again occur, — a better one surely can never offer. To go with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Derby is surely an advantage I can never hope to tneet with again. Believe me, nothing 
 would have induced tne to think of going with them, unless they had bce7i very urgent. 
 Ellen and Mr. Derby both say they doubt not you would approve the plafi if you were 
 here to constclt. If I did not think so myself, nothing wojtld induce me to go. Still, I 
 regret not havijig it in my power to wait an answer from yo7i ; but to-morrow afternoo7i 
 we must set out. Ellen has lent me cverythi?ig necessary for my journey ; ittdeed, I can 
 never repay her. She is the most generous being I ever saw. She has nothing in the 
 house but is at tny 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 7'cturn. I 
 think I shall borrow some money of her, as it is impossible I can receive any from ho?nc, 
 and if I do not need it, I need not spend it. Vou may assure yourself / shall re7nembei» 
 to cco7iomize as much as possible. It scet7is as if Elle7i and Airs. Derby tried which 
 should tnost oblige 77ie. As I 7iever deter77iined to go till this morni7ig, Mrs. Derby said 
 'twas impossible to 7nake any 7iew clothes, nay, un7icccssary, and i7isisted I should take 
 a7iything of hers I should wa7it ; but Ellen 7uould 7iot ad7nit of that. I k7iow not the 
 route lue shall take, but Mrs. Derby says we shall probably go or retu7'n through 
 Leicester. I shall be gratified very much at a7i opportu7iity of seci7ig our relatio7is there. 
 Ellen promises to write. I never was t7xated with mo7'c attc7tlion in my life. Ellc7i 
 heaps me with favors, a7id now I have tho2igkt of this J07ir7iey, she thinks she cant do 
 enough. I i7itc7id keepi/ig a particular jou7-7ial while I c;« gone, which you shall all 
 
 peruse 07t my retu)'7i. We shall probably be g07ie four or five weeks, as it is two or 
 22 
 
II 
 
three ItJtndred miles from here. When you write me, direct your letters to Salem, and 
 Mr. Derby iv ill forward them, as he will know n'here we are. Has Octavia returned? 
 Tell her I shall leave my Salem journal to be sent to her the first opportunity. If I go 
 through jVcwport, /shall endeavor to find Miss Crary and Miss Clarke. I wish I had 
 a letter from her. And nozv, my dear tnother, assure me you approve of my going, and 
 J shall have nothing to trouble me. My father, I think, xuould not object to it, if I 
 could know his opinion. Mr. Gray ( William Gray) says he is sure he would fiot 
 disapprove of it if he knew in what good protection I was. By the bye, I have received 
 every attention from Mr. G^-ays family, atid Airs. Gray 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, zohich would be frustrated. But she acknowledges I was 
 perfectly right to go, and that, if'twas her daughter, she should be mtuh 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 soott, 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 thoicght 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. 
 
Francestoivn (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 affcctiofiate father, who, I trust, knows 
 my heart too ivcll 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 Charlcstown ; 
 breakfasted in IVoburn, and dined in Billerica. 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 twenty-five 
 miles in length when completed, running from Dracut to Medford River. The river of 
 Concord supplies it with water, boats pass every day, and parties of pleastire are always 
 sailing on it. In my journal I have been more particular ; here I say but little, as we 
 are in a jniserable 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 coutitjy that he has 
 not seen before. From Billerica we came through Chelmsford and lyngborough, where 
 old Ifoing lived, and Miss Pitts, now Mrs. Brimby, the heiress of his fortune, has a most 
 elegant, tasty country house on the banks of the Merrhnack, %v hie h forms a most beauti- 
 ful scene in front of the house and gives fill view of the river in each direction. More 
 of this in my journal. We are now on a new turn-pike road from Amherst to Dart- 
 month. We shall go up to Dartmouth College, as 'tis wholly a jaunt of pleasure, and 
 Mr. Derby is determined to be z'« no haste, to inquire about everything worth seeing, and not 
 to mind six or seven 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 seett before. Mr. Derby 
 has been such a traveler that he is now one of the most useful traveling companions in 
 the world. His xoifc is the most engaging, unaffected, family womafi in the world; and 
 instead of feeling myself a burden to them, they make me feel of the utmost consequence. 
 We passed through several pretty villages on coming here, though it is almost a new country. 
 
scarcely cleared up, excepting a small village every six or seven miles ; the most hilly, 
 mountainous, woody countiy I ever %vas in. Here, as I look around me, I see nothijig but 
 enormous liigk hills, covered with trees, and ahnost mingling with the cloitds. One of 
 them in particular, Francestoivn, is about twelve miles from A7nherst ; 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 
 had a steeple. From Dartmouth zue go down to Northampton, and then to Lebanon Springs, 
 then to Ballston and Saratoga, and return by the way of New Haven, Hartfoi'd, etc. 
 I shall have a fne 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 
 through a part of the States of Vermont, Connecticut, a7id New- York, so that in our tour 
 we shall be in five different States. I shall write very often, and wish you, my dear 
 father, to ivrite fne by the return of the ?nail, and direct to Pittsfield, in Massachusetts, 
 or to Mr. John Derby, in Salem, ffwe go throtigh 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. 
 
dl 
 
Albany, August 8, 1802. 
 
 Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without anythi7ig to mortify or disap- 
 point us. I wrote you the night I arrived at Lebanon. The tiext morning the bell 
 rang, and we all assembled to breakfast. There were about thirty ladies, much dressed, 
 looking very handsofne. It seemed more like a ball-room than a breakfasting-room. 
 M^e were the last that came in, and all eyes were fixed upon us. Lady Nesbert and the 
 A llston family, from Carolina, were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is a little, 
 smart- looking zcoman, very learned ; they say, imderstands the dead languages ; not 
 pedantic, rather reserved. Lady Nesbert, 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. A llston, the mother, is a sour-looking woman; nothing 
 affable or condescending. Miss A llston, they say, is a romp; yet her mother restrains her 
 so much, you would never suspect it. Old Mr. A llston is affable and agreeable. We had 
 likewise there a Mr. Constable, of New- York; has lived in great style, very mtuh the 
 gentleman. Miss Ashley, from New- York, who7)i I mentioned in my last, is a truly 
 fashionable city belle. She has 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 tnotker and adopt the daughter, and a very large sum was 
 given him. The officer s 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 this Miss Ashley'^ 
 French style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Rensselaer left Lebanon the day before we did, with 
 Mr. and Miss Westerlo. Mrs. Welch, the Misses Stephenson and Miss Livingston, the 
 Albany belle, all belottg to Albany. Mr. and Miss Westerlo, Miss Beekman, and Mr. 
 Rensselaer, who is mayor of t/ie city, called last evening, and we all went to walk. Went 
 into Miss Westerlo' s atid spent a charming hour. A II returned with us, and we engaged 
 to go to meeting with Mr. and Miss Westerlo, and take tea at the mayor's this afternoon. 
 Mr. Westerlo is going to Ballston, in company with us and a Mr. Kane, of New- York, whom 
 we met at this coffee-house, — very genteel man. Another little lawyer from Litchfield, 
 who came in with us from Lebanon, is likewise going on Monday, so we s/uill have a very 
 pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet one of their genteclest New- York beaux at 
 
 '3 
 
Ballston, — Mr. Bowne. I wonder if it is the same I have heard you mention. I shall 
 find out. About eleven d clock, or, rather, twelve, I was surprised by some delightful 
 music, — a number of instruments, and most elegantly playiiig '' Rise, Cynthia, rise." I 
 jumped up, and by the light of the moon saw five gentlemen under the ivindow. To Mr. 
 Westcrlo, I stippose, we are indebted. " Washington s March," ''Bluebells 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 hotne this afternoon and tell Mr. Westerlo and his sister, who 
 called again for me, as Mrs. Derby did not go out, that I would go to Mrs. Rens- 
 selaer's after meeting. In the morning Mr. Derby and I went to the new Dutch church, 
 with Mr. and Miss Westerlo, and sat with them, next pew to the patrootis, whom you 
 saw in Saletn with his beautiful wife. After meeting, Mr. Westerlo came with the 
 patroon and his wife to see us. She is really beautiful, dressed very plain, — cotton 
 cambric morning gown, white sarcenet cloak, hair plain, and a black veil thrown care- 
 lessly over her head. They urged our dining there to-7norrozv, but Mr. Derby is 
 determined to set out in the morning for Ballstoii ; 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 New- York, some going to the Sprim^s. 
 Your Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would look rusty alongside them. Hush / not a 
 word. Mr. Kane of New- York, whose sister married Robert Morris, is here, a?id will 
 set out for the Springs in company with us, Mr. Westerlo, a?id several others. Wf 
 shall go to Lake George, and probably make a party from Ballstoti. Mrs. Derby has 
 insisted on my wearing the sarcenet dress to-day, as zve shall drifik 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 lurote Mamma, I 
 suppose. I have not received a line from anybody; shall depend on fijiding letters at 
 Pittsftcld 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 love her. She treats me with 
 so much affection, and says she believes Mr. Derby feels as much interested 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. 
 
/ do not wish to be treated with more affection. Thittk, then, dear Ellen, how sensibly 
 I must feel it ; how i^rati/ying to my feelings. I can never forget the obligation I owe 
 to yon a?id them. My best love to your husband, and tell him when I return I shall 
 have a xvholc world of news for him. I long to hearfrotn you; do turtle soon. At 
 Ballston I shall write again. Many people will be talking abotit my going this journey ; 
 many will cettS7irc me, perhaps. If you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill- 
 natured remarks, you could not do vie 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 tny heart. It was 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 impi'ovement 
 as well as pleasure. J shall have seen that style and splendor, which has so many magic 
 charms when vicxved at a distance, divested of its false face ; find it mingled with as 
 many pains as any other situation in life, — nay, more poignant pains. I feel I shall not 
 be at all injured by this life. Though I enjoy myself highly, a7id mitigle with these 
 people with much delight, I shall return happy and contented. Mr. Derby is quite 
 unwell. He ate nothing but milk since we left Salem; his stomach refuses anything 
 else. I have strong hopes the Ballston waters will have a good effect. Every one tells 
 him so. A gentleman just from Ballston 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 ntttnber of times, which, together with my 
 journal, take up all my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hours devoted to sleep. 
 How delighted I shall be when I return. Any news from Martha f If any letter 
 arrives for me, send it to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if we were all together 
 going to the Springs. I have not time to write anything abotit Albany. Fine society, I 
 believe ; full of Dutch houses. 
 
 Adieu / Love to all friends. • 
 
 ELJZA. 
 
 TO AfA'S. JOHN DERBY. 
 
Ballston Springs, August 22, 1802. 
 
 My Dearest Mother : 
 
 I feel at this moment as if I could fly f — so far from home, received no letters, yet at 
 Albany I expect to find them. Let me at least hope luhat 'twill delight me so mtich 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 tr7<st they are convinced by my 
 past life that I ti'ould not for the universe act in opposition to rvhat I kneiv they approved. 
 I am convinced when you knoiu Air. and Mrs. Derby you ivill feel that I ivas 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 ; tvhat, 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 zvould be no more than just to thank him for the attention and 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 J 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 h^ 
 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 dissi- 
 pation. Have a ball every other night, ride, walk, stroll about the piazsas, dress; indeed, 
 we do nothing that seems like improvement. But still / think there is no place where 
 one may study the differcfit characters and dispositions to greater advantage. You meet 
 here the most pleasant, genteel people frorn every part of our country; ceremony is 
 throiun off, and you are acqtiainted very soon. You may select those you please for inti- 
 mates, and among so many you certainly tuill find some agreeable, amiable companions. 
 For a week we sat down at table every day with sixty or seventy persons ; to-day we zcere 
 all speaking of the table being very thin because we had only forty. There are as many 
 
more at the other boarditig- house, continually going and coming, and now there are scarcely 
 ten persons here that were here when we came. We went last week to Lake George, 
 about forty miles from here; made up a party and went on Tuesday; breakfasted at 
 Saratoga — cohere the Springs formerly most celebrated were — and dined about fourteen 
 miles this side the lake, at the most beautiful place 1 ever saw. Perhaps you have heard 
 of Glens Falls ; they are said to exceed iti beauty the Falls of Niagara, though in 
 sublimity must fall far short. I never imagined atiything so picturesque, sjiblime, and 
 beautiful as the scenery around this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have 
 exactly the appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins ; they arc entirely of slate, and seetn 
 piled in regular forms, with shrubs and grass growing in between. I looked arouttd me 
 for ail hour, and / every moment discovered something new to admire: ttothing could 
 exceed the beautiful variety of the scenery. I left this elegatit place with painful regret. 
 About sunset we came in view of the lake. It is a most beautiful sheet of water (Morse 
 says thirty-six miles long and from one to seven broad ), full of beautiful islands, jdj in 
 all, and of every size and shape. It is surrounded by very high hills and mountains, 
 rising one above the other in jnajestic gi-a7idcur. In the tnornitig we went out to fish, 
 sailed about four miles on the lake to a little island, where we wetit on shore. Nothing 
 could exceed the beatctiful grandeur of the prospect we anchored off. I foutid it very 
 charming fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we could see the fish swimming 
 around the hook. Our first intention was to sail down the lake to Lake Chatnplain, 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 stopped on our return at the field where Burgoyne surren- 
 dered his army ; it is noiu covered with corn, and nothing to distinguish it from the 
 surrounding fields. We returned by a different route. For teti miles we rode directly on 
 the banks of the Hudson River. Nothing could be more delightful; our road wound with 
 the river, which was beajitifully overlnatg with trees. We returned here Thursday 
 night, found thetn dining. I joined, and the next flight we had a ball at the other house. 
 There, again, I danced till twelve 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. They all think leant keep it, but they shall sec I can.* Colonel Boyd came here 
 last zveek, but went away while zve 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 Williamstown Commencement. We are engaged to spend 
 one day at Mr. Rensselaer's, the former lieutenant-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 
 
 '4 
 
If 
 
Saletn, 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 
 hofne agaitt. Believe me, my dear mother, I shall love home more than ever. I long to 
 sit me down by the instrutnent some evefiijig, after the busitiess 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 employ- 
 ment. I have never been in the habit of spending my time in idleness, and they say here 
 that the Southern ladies seetn 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. I zvrote 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 m.e know, as I am 
 atixious to hear about it. Give my best love to all my friettds, and tell Octavia I have 
 more to say to her than I can gabble in a mo7ith. Oh, I long to get home again. I find 
 710 time to write, if I lock tnyself in my chamber, I have so many knocks at the door. 
 " Miss Southgate, go and walk ;" " Go down to the spring," " Somebody 7uants 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 caftnot write. ' Tis Sutiday to-day (thotigh all 
 days are alike here), a7id 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 SoJithem people ; they 
 all speak in raptures. Give my love to Mrs. Coffin, and kiss all the children, Mamy 
 particularly. What would I not give to have 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 ivhilst I am so far off. f shall write again from Albany, where / 
 hope to find letters. 
 
 Ever your affectionate 
 
 ELIZA. 
 TO THE CARE OF ROBERT SOUTH G A TE, 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 (District of Maine.) 
 
Salem, September g, 1802. 
 My Dearest Mother : 
 
 Once more I am safe in Sa/cm, 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 fortoard with delight to a time when I may be able to return it as I xvish. 
 I am in perfect health and spirits, and have enjoyed the jotirney more than I can express 
 to you. I don't ktiow that I have had an unpleasant hour since I have been gone, atid, 
 what is still more pleasing, I look back on every scene without regret or pain. At Leices- 
 ter, I ivcni to Uncle Southgatc's, and Cousin William helped me into the carriage when 
 I left the tavern ticxt morning. We did not return through Northampton, and I conse- 
 quently missed seeing Aunt Dickensoti. I regretted 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 Had ley. I found two letters from Octavia on my returti here ; felt 
 really grieved at Eliza Wait V death. She must feel it sensibly, as they were such inti- 
 mate 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 mo7-e delightful. I have 
 received more attentions at the Springs than in my whole life before ; I know not ivhy it 
 was, but I went under every advantage. Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, and 
 they arc such charming people, and treated tne with so much affection, it could not be 
 otherwise. A mong the many getitlemen with whom I have become acquainted, and who have 
 been attentive to me, one, I believe, is serious. I know not, my dear mother, how to introduce 
 this subject, yet as I infer you may hear it from othei's, 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 f'om New- York; he went on to the Springs the same day 
 we did, and from that time zuas particularly attentive to me. He was always of our 
 parties to ride; went to Lake George in company luith us, and came on to Lebanon when 
 we did. For four weeks I satu him every day, and probably had a better opportunity of 
 knowing him than if I had seen him as a common acquaintance in toicn for years. I felt 
 cautious of encouraging his attentions, though I did not wish to discourage them. There 
 were so many New- Vorkers at the Springs who knew him perfectly, that I easily learned 
 his character and reputation, fie is a man of business, uniform in his conduct, and very 
 much respected ; all this we knew from ixport. Mr. and Mrs. Derby were very much 
 
pleased with him, but conducted toward me peculiar delicacy ; left me entirely to myself, 
 as on a subject of so much importance they scarcely dared give an opinion. I felt m.yself 
 in a situation truly embarrassing, — at such a distance from all my friends, my father 
 and mother perfect strangers to the person, and prepossessed in his favor as much as so 
 short an acquaintance tvould sanction. His conduct was such as J shall ever reflect on 
 with the greatest pleasure, — open, candid, generous, and delicate. He is a man in whom 
 / could place the most unbounded confidence ; nothing rash or impetuous in his disposi- 
 tion, but weighs maturely every circtimstance. 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 ktiown to my 
 parents his character attd wishes. This I promised, and went so far as to tell him, I 
 approved him, as far as I knew him, but the decision mitst rest with my parents ; 
 their wishes were my law. He insisted on coming immediately ; that I absolictcly refused 
 to consent to. But all my persuasion to wait until tointer had no effect; the first of 
 October he will come. I could not prevent it zaithout a positive refusal ; this I felt no 
 disposition to give, and now, my dearest mother, I submit myself tuholly to the wishes of my 
 father and you, convinced that my happiriess is your warmest wish, and to promote it has 
 ever been your study. That I feel deeply interested in Mr. Bowne, / candidly acknowl- 
 edge, and from the knowledge I have of his heart and character, I think him better cal- 
 culated to promote my happiness than atty 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 toward me, — nothing rash or premature. I have re- 
 ferred him wholly to you, and you, my dearest parents, must decide. Octavia mentioned 
 nothing about moving, but I am extremely arixious to know hoiu soon we go into Port- 
 land, 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 mc 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 Airs. Coffin cames 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 7nc immediately. If you wish any 
 furniture, Mrs. Sumner will assist 7nc in purchasing whatever you zuish. I mentioned 
 in my letter when I set out on this journey I borrozvcd fijtecn dollars of I: lien. I wish 
 you to send it to me immediately after receiving this, if you have not already sent it. I 
 
shall likewise stafid m 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 were his daughter, and in such a man- 
 ner as endears him more than I can express. 
 
 You cannot imagi7ie 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. / 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 stibject too delicate to give his 
 opinion, but I can conceive that tny father m,ight request it without any impropriety, and 
 do, my dear mother, beg him to say anything 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 expect it, but, on the contrary, insist 
 that they have beeti more obliged than I have, and really seem to think so ; but this rather 
 strengthctis than lessens the obligation. Nothing should have induced me to receive such 
 from people who felt they were co7if erring favors. I long to hear when we move into 
 Portland, — do_ write me. My best love to Horatio and Octavia, and tell them f 
 shall write as soon as possible. I found a large packet of five sheets from Martha, 
 dated Paris, June 28th ; tells me everything ; speaks almost itt raptures of Bonaparte ; 
 says Uncle Rufus has a little son, about twelve years, at school there, 07ie of the finest boys 
 she ever saw. I find most of the Southertt 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 that I was his niece, and it really gave me great consequence. 
 I thought of Mrs. De Witt and laughed. Judge Sedgwick told me he had letters fro?n 
 him as late as June, and that he was determined on returning in the spring. I long to 
 hear from hotne. My love to all frie7ids, and believe me with every sentiment of duty 
 and affection. 
 
 Your daughter, 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Martha sent me a tnost elegant indispensable, white lute-string, 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. 
 
 (Married the next spring.) 
 '5 
 
Portland, Friday, Nov., 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 som^c of Miss Holmes's wedding-cake ; married on 
 .Monday. You say Uncle Rjifus Eitierson has returticd, and tells the^n a great many 
 stories. When you write next, tell m^e what he says, and where he heard them, and all 
 about it, for everything interests me. Mr. B. has not arrived. I am out of all patience. 
 Cannot imagine what detains him. Four weeks to-morrow since he took Mr. Codmans 
 letter. These Quakers are governed with suck a slow spirit. / wish the deuce had them. 
 I shall be really uneasy if he don't come sooti. I want some money; my last dollar / 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 botight it, btit does not mention the price. I wish the 
 money to send to her as soon as I hear, — a little, likewise, for occasional expenses ; 'tis 
 not pleasant to be without it. I have been to but 07ie party since Mamma's sickness ; shall 
 certainly not go out more than I can possibly avoid. Mrs. Derby is quite vexed at Mr. 
 B.'s not coming. I'll not be so tmgenerous as to condejnn him without giving an oppor- 
 tunity of vindicating himself. Some circtimstances I know fiot 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, who he saw, what they told him, and where he heard all^ 
 Fn some cases tribes acquire importance, mole-hills become mountains. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Love to Matnma, and tell her f am out of all patience. 
 
Boston, May jo, i8oj. 
 
 Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter's, and though 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 through 
 Salem, was Mr. Lee, just coming in town. He bowed very low, and passed. We went 
 to a public-house, and had not been there three minutes before Mr. Lee came in, determined 
 to be the first to call on us. He shook hands very cordially, cotigratulated us, and ivent 
 with us up to Ellen's. We promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Afrs. H. 
 Derby ; spent a charming hour, and returned to Ellens ; dined, and all went to Lucy 
 Derby's to tea, — Mr. Lee and a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself called on Mrs. 
 Gray, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen's, and staid the night, and the 
 next morning, which zaas Wednesday, came into Boston. ' Twas election day. and all 
 the world was in motion. / could not bear to conic 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 mortting, 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 dozett other gentlemen, whose natnes I have forgotten, 
 and who came with the Misses Lowell and the Misses Russell. We have prevented all 
 invitations by constantly saying we were going out of town immediately. Mr. Lee 
 insisted, ivhen I expressed a wish to see Miss Wyre, on letti7ig her know / 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 General Knox found us ojit at Ncwburyport. We always 
 kept by ourselves, but in passing the entry. General 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 General Knox was here last winter). He told him from the eastward. 
 "Alone ? " "No." " Who is with you, — A/rs. Bowne? " So plump a question he could 
 not evade, so the general insisted on being introduced to the bride. J was walking the 
 room and reading, perfectly unsuspicious, when the opening of the door, and Mr. 
 
Bowne's voice, — "General Knox, my love," — quite roused me. He came up, took my 
 hand very gracefully, pressed it to his lips, and begged leave to congratulate me on the 
 event that had lately taken place. After a few mitiutes' conversation : "And pray, sir," 
 said he, turning to Mr. Bowne, " when did this happy event take place f " 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) /found him waiting in the 
 breakfast- room to see me. He introduced me to General Pinckney and his family, from 
 Carolina. General Pinckney, they say, is to be our next President. " Mr. Bowne," said 
 General Knox to General 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 tis out in 
 New- York. Only think, I never thought of the wedding-cake when J was at Salem. 
 You would laugh to hear Mrs. Bowne and Miss Southgate all in a breath : "How do 
 you do. Miss Southgate ? — / beg pardon, Mrs. Bowne ; " and do it on ptirpose, 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 thitigs to say. Some ladies inquire 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, 
 
 ELJZA BOWNE. 
 
New Haven, June r, i8oj. 
 
 VoiiJ- letter, my dear Oetavia. was the first thing to zve Iconic me on my arrival at this 
 city. J cannot describe to yon my sensations when it came. I can rarely think of home 
 without more pain than pleasure ; and yet, if their is a being on earth perfectly blessed, 
 'tis your sister Eliza. Hoiv infinitely more happy than when 1 left you. You cantwt 
 imagine how delightful has been our journey. We have stopped at every pleasant place, 
 enjoyed all the beauties of the spring iti the richest and most luxuriant country I ever 
 saw. I wrote you last from Boston. The afternoon following. Air. Lee called to accom- 
 pany us afezv miles out of tozun. lie had requested Mr. Lyman to go out to his seat, m 
 Waltham, that Mr. Bowne atid myself might have an opportunity to see it, as it is the 
 most beautiful place around Boston. M'e set out about four o'clock ; had a most charm- 
 ing ride. Mr. Lee taas remarkably sociable, attentive, and polite, both to Mr. Bowne 
 and myself. He talks just as social, and called me Miss Southgate and Mrs. B. all in 
 a breath, as fast as he could talk. I have no titne 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 saiv ; beautiful serpentine river or brook thickly planted with trees, and elegant 
 swatis swimming about. You can't imagine, — 'twas almost like enchantment. After 
 Mr. Lee had gathered me a bouquet, large enough to supply a ball-room, of the most ele- 
 gant and rare flowers, — full-blozvn roses, buds, everything beautiful, — wc jumped into 
 the carriage. He shook us cordially by the hand, wished us every happiness, and hoped 
 to see us in A'ew- York ere lotig. Sunday morning we got to Springfield ; staid the 
 day. It recalled so many pleasing sensations. When zve parted there, how difl'erent 
 were our feelings ! our happiness was augmented by the contrast. From Springfield to 
 Hartford was charming. Much pleased ivith Hartford : staid a day and night there ; 
 and from Hartford to New Haven is the most elegant ride you can possibly imagine, — a 
 fine turnpike about thirty miles, and such a picturesque, rich, luxuriant country, suck 
 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 knoxv 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, %vhere we shall be on Saturday. Mr. Bowne s best love with mine to all the fam- 
 ily. Adieu. I have ten thousand things more to say, but can't. Write me immcditrtely. 
 
 Ever your affectionate 
 
 F.LIZA BOWNi:. 
 
 3t) 
 
New- York, June 6, i8oj. 
 
 I sit dorvn to catch a vwmetit to tell you all f have to before another interruption, f 
 have so much to say, where shall f be(;in ? My head is most turned, and yet I am very 
 happy. / am enraptured with New- York ; you cannot imagine anythitig half so beauti- 
 ful as Broadway, and I am sure you would say I zvas more romantic than ever if / 
 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 pleasu7r in showing them to me as / do in seeing them ; you would 
 believe it, if you sa^c hi>n. Did I tell you anything of Brother John ; handsome young 
 ma)i. great literary taste. He is one of the family, nothing of the appearance of a 
 Quaker. Mrs. k'nig. another sister, they all say looks like me. Mrs. Murray, who is 
 7'ery sick noiv, has a daughter, a charming, lively girl, about nineteen, and the little 
 •luitch introduced me in a laughing way last night to some of her friends as Aunt Eliza. 
 I protest against that. — her brother Robert seventeen years old, too; I positively must 
 declare o^ from being aunt to them. Caroline and I went a-shoppitig yesterday, and 
 'tis a fact that the little white satin Quaker bonnets, cap-crowns, are the jnost fashionable 
 that are worn : lined -with pink or blue or white. But I'll not have one, for if any 
 of mv old acquaintance should meet me in the street, they would laugh. I would, if f 
 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. ' 7'is the 
 fashion. / see nothing new or pretty. Large sheer mttslin shawls, put on as .Sally 
 IVecks jcears hers, are much wont. They show the form through and look pretty. 
 Silk nabobs, plaidcd. colored, and ichite, are much worn ; very short waists, hair very 
 plain. Maria Deming has been to see me, I was very happy, — several spring 
 acquaintances. I'.xpect Eliza Watts and Jane every moment ; they did not know 'where 
 I 7i'as to be found. Last night we 7i>ere at the play, " The Way to Get Married." Mr. 
 Hodgkinson in Tangent is inimitable. Mrs. Johnson, a sivect, interesting actress, in 
 Julia, and .fefferson. a great comic player, were alt that x>.<ere particularly pleasing ; 
 house was very thin, so late in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Codman came to see me. / 
 should have kmnvn her in a moment, from her resemblance to Ellen and the family ; 
 appeared I'ery happy to sec me. Mr. Codman was happy, — .Mrs. Codman xvould no'iO 
 have somebody to call her friend, etc., etc. Maria Deming told me Uncle Ritfus was 
 expected every day. We have such contradictory accounts, we hardly know 'what to 
 believe. As to housekeeping, 7(ie don't begin to talk anything of it yet. .]/r. Boione 
 says not till (October. However, you shall hear all our plans. I anticipate so much 
 
li(Xppiiicss. I am sure if anybody ouq/i( lo. I may. My In-art is full sometimes, when J 
 think lioxo much more blest I am than most of the 7corld. At this moment there is not 
 a single circumstance presents itself to my mind that I feel unpleasant to re/lect on, — 
 the sji'eet tranquillity of my feelinos. so different from anything I ever before felt ; such a 
 conjidence ; 7ny every feeling reciprocated, and every wish anticipated. J write to you 
 tvhat 'would appear singular to any other. You can easily imagine my feelings. / see 
 Mi: B. now, where he is universally known and respected, and every hour see some neit.' 
 proof how much he is honored and esteemed their, — the most gratifying to the heart you 
 can imagine ; cannot but make an impression on mine. We talk of you tohen ivc get to 
 housekeeping, how delightful 'twill be. What a sweet domestic circle ! I must leave 
 you, — Gatys says, "Mrs. Walter" (for so the servants call me, to distinguish), "a 
 gentleman beloiv wishes to see vou." .Adieu. IVho can this said gentleman be •'' 
 
 Mr. Rodman was beloiv. whom I saw at the Springs, and for these two hours there 
 have been so many calling I thought I should never get up to finish my letters. Mrs. 
 Henderson, zvhom I mentioned to vou as one of the most elegant women in New- York, 
 and Maria, came in soon after. Engaged to Mrs. Henderson's for Friday. 
 
 Thursday morning. 
 
 I have been to tttw of the gardens. Columbia, near Battery, a most romantic, beau- 
 tiful place ; 'tis inclosed in a circular form, and little rooms and boxes all around, xvith 
 tables and chairs, these full of company ; the trees all interspersed with lamps twinkling 
 through the branches : in the center, a pretty little building with a fountain playing 
 continually. The rays of the lamps on the drops of water gave it a cool, sparkling appear- 
 ance that was delightful. This little building (which is a kind of canopy ), and pil- 
 lars all round the garden, — and these had festoons of colored lamps that at a 
 distance looked like large brilliant stars, seen through the branches ; and placed ail 
 round are marble busts, beautiful little figures of Diana, Cupid, Venus, seen by the glim- 
 mering 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 met some walk- 
 ing 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 tir 
 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. 1 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, ahiiost over the croivded 7i'ater, gives yon such afresh, delightful air, that every evening 
 in summer it is croivded tvith company. Here, too, they have music playing 07t the water in 
 boats of a moonlight night. Last night 7c>e went to a garden a little out of town. Mount 
 
 Vernon garden ; this is surrounded by boxes of the same kind, with a walk on top of them. 
 
 You can see the gardens all beloii.', but 'tis a summer playhouse , — />// and boxes, stage and 
 all, but open on top. I-^roin 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. J 'was in raptures, as you may imagine, and if I had not grown sober before I 
 came to this wonderful place, 'tivould have turned my head. But / 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 sav half. Yesterday Mrs. Henderson 
 came again to see me, and brought two of mv .4 unt King's most intimate friends tointiv- 
 duce, — .Mrs. Dela field and Miss Bull. .Mr. and Mrs. De la fie Id are Uncle and Aunt's 
 X'ery intimate friends; she is called the most elegant ji'oman 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. Dela field 
 said so many tilings of Uticle and . luiit King, — liotv deligfited they would be to find me 
 settled near them, how much I should love them, and everything of the kind, that 7vas 
 very gratifying to me. Miss Denting has been to see me three or four times; several 
 invitations to tea, but we declined, as our family friends were visiting us this week. 
 
 I his morning we go to make calls. / have got a list of names tliat 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 tliem as possible, which astonis/ies 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. Site would be very handsome in a 
 different dress. She looks so like A licia Wyeryou would love Iter, — just such full sweet blue 
 eyes, charming complexiott, and sweet expression ; and her little Quaker cap gives Iter^ 
 such an innocettt, simple appearance, I imagine Alicia luith a Quaker dress, and you 
 will see Iter exactly, uldieu. J 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 confectioneiy without longing to have them 
 here. Love to all. Our best love to my father and mother. Horatio. Lsabclla. and all. 
 I mean to write as soon as I am settled a little. Adieu. 
 
 M]SS SOUTHGATE. 
 
New- York, June i8, fSoj. 
 
 I am J7ist going to set off for Long hlatut, otut 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 mtich longer than ours, 
 and half handkerchiefs are universally worn. At Airs. Henderson's party there was 
 but one lady, except myself without a handkerchief ; dressed as plain as possible, — the 
 most fashionable zvomcn the plainest. I have got yoti a pretty India spotted- muslin ; 'tis 
 fashionable here. My husband sends a great deal of love : says we shall be traveling about 
 all summer, settle do7vn 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 tvith the gown. How could you mistake what I said of Caroline so muchf 
 Far from being "stiff and rigid, ' she is most affectionate, attentive, and obliging; noth- 
 ing was more foreign to my thoughts, and you must have taken your ideas 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 
 coi>er so much affability and siceetness. 
 
 You must give my love to Miranda. I toish 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 has Jiisi 
 finished my picture; I have done sitting / He was not willing I should see it, as 'tis 
 unfinished. When you return, 'twill be done; t/ien I'll tell you whetficr 'tis like, f 
 fiave told you in a former letter we shall go to I^ethlehcm, Philadelphia, and perhaps to 
 the Springs. My trunk arrived safe. I s/iall send a little ring to Cousin Mary Por- 
 ter ; 'tis not the kind I 'wanted, but I had not time to have one made to send by Mrs. C. 
 Is mine, zi.<ith Sister Mary's hair, done' Send it the first opportunity. Adieu. Best 
 love to all friends, 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 yet arrived, though every day 
 expected, and that I can look to the time when we shall see her and my father in New 
 York. Mr. liowtu and myself both will be delighted. Give my best love to Lucia, Zel 
 
 '1 
 
pall, 1111(1 John, and ask the lallci' ij he has discovered on "a'hoin my mantle rested. Tell 
 Zelpali ti.<e pass her friend's, Mrs. Bo^ert's, honsc every day, and never zoithont think- 
 inq of her. The city air has not stolen my country bloom yet, for every one says, "/ need 
 not ask you how you do. Mrs. /io7vne, von look in such fine health." Dr. Moore would 
 not inoculate me for the small-pox after examining my arm, as he was sure, fnmi what 
 I told him. I had had the kine-pox well, and he would insure me against the small-pox. 
 But Mr. Bowue seems to 2i.'ish / should he inoculated, though I care nothing about it 
 nozv. Adieu. My best love to Aunt Porter and Nattcy, Maiy Porter, and all the 
 other friends. li e are going to Flushing to sec our cousins before tvc return. ) 'ou know 
 how Mary laughed about the name. Yesto'day %ve were at Belvidere, the most beautiful 
 place, the finest view in the world, the greatest 'variety, — / never shall be done. Kiss 
 dear little .Uary ,■ / think of her every time I see a sweet little sight. 
 
 Y'oiir affectionate sister, 
 
 ELIZA S. BOlVA'Ii. 
 
 P. .S. — Remember and put an S. in my name, to distinguish: there are two or three 
 Eliza Boiuncs in the family. 
 
New- York. June ^o, /8oj. 
 
 Uncle Rufus has Jus/ landed ! The huzzas have ceased, the populace retired, and J 
 hasten to give you the earliest information. Several thousand people were on the wharf 
 when he landed, my husband among the number. As he stepped from the vessel, they 
 gave three cheers, arid escorted him up into Broadway to a Mr, Lowe's ( his friend ), then 
 three more cheers as he entei-ed 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, were introduced by Mr. Watson ; and immediately after Mr. Henderson said, 
 "A niece of yours, Mr. King, was lately married in New- York to Mr. Bowne." My uncle 
 immediately came tip to him, shook hands a second time, and said, " Miss Soulligatc, I 
 prestime'/ " He staid but a few moments ; the acclamations of the people had rather embar- 
 rassed 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 sensatiotis. 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 like- 
 ness is not striking. He says, 7iot handsome enough; so says Mr. Bowne. But I think 
 'tis in some things much flattered. It looks too serious, pensive, soft ; that's not my style 
 at all. Btit perhaps' twill look different. ' '/'was not quite fnishedwheti I saiv it. How- 
 ever, he insists on taking it again, as soon as he returns frotn 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 com- 
 menced. The king, on the i^th, sent a message to Parliament that he nuts 
 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 Air. King and the news of the war. .\dieu! 
 J' II write again soon. Best love to all the family. We arc in expectation of great enter- 
 tainment on P'ourth of July, — INDEPENDANT Day! as they laugh at us Yankees 
 for calling it, — the gardens, the Battery, and everything to be illuminated ; fireicorks, 
 music, etc., etc. Col. Boyd called to see me: and Mr. Grelett, ivhom I was introduced to 
 
/// Boston, brought tlic handsome Miss Pctnbcrton, tuhom you have heard Col. Ji. speak 
 of, to call on me. She's from Philadelphia. I was out. I hope none of my aegjtaintances 
 ii.>tll come to Neiv- York, pass tlirough. or anythittg, without Jinding me out. J 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. ^Idieu / 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 J: LIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
 lo 6 clock, evening. 
 
 Just returned from L'nclc Rufus's. Mr. B. introduced me to Uncle. He took my 
 hand, introduced us to his wije, and they both seemed much pleased to see us. Uncle is 
 so easy and graceful and pleasing, I zvas delighted with him. Looks very like Mr. 
 Parker instead of Mr. Davis. Inquired particularly after the family, was surprised at 
 hearing of my being here, said everything that was pleasant, hoped we should be very 
 sociable, etc., etc., and after a pleasant half hour zee returned home. I broke the seal of 
 my letter to tell you. ' Tis late : I can't be particular. 
 
 E. S. B. 
 
 .MIS< SOVTHGA TE, 
 
 PORTLAND. 
 
New- York, July 4, rSoj. 
 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 I have written generally to Oetavia, but as I meant my letters /or the family, 'tis not 
 mueh matter to -a'hom they were directed. I wrote you of Uncle Rufus's arrival, and our 
 calling on them the evening after. Sunday they called on us, with Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, 
 their friends tvith xchom 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 7t>e might get houses near each other in the x^'intcr, that zi'e might be sociable neigh- 
 bors, i 'ncle Rufus says 1 remind him of Martha very much. lie inquired particularly 
 after all of the family, and asked if I did not expect you would come on to see me, and 
 both appeared much pleased zchen 1 assured them I depended on seeing you here. Aunt 
 King told Mr. Bowne he must bri?ig me to see them very often, and look upon her as a 
 mother. 
 
 July 8th. 
 
 Mv letter will be an old date before I fnish it. You must have perceived, my dear 
 mother, from my letters, that I am much pleased with Neio- York. I was fiever iti a 
 place that I should prefer as a situation for life, and nothing but the distance frotn my 
 ft lends catt render it other than delightful. U e have thus far spent the summer delight- 
 fully ; we have been no very long journeys, but on a number of little excursions of twenty or 
 forty miles to see whatever is pleasant in the neighborhood. Mr. Bowne' s friends, though 
 all very plain, are very amiable and affectionate, and / receive every attention frimi them 
 I wish, f have a threat 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 lohose prospects of happi- 
 28 
 
ness exceed mine, xvhich I often think of with grateful sensations. Mr. Bowne's sittiation 
 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 zoould be ridiculous 
 from me to any but my mother, hut J knoto it must be pleasing to you to know that I 
 realize all the happiness you can tcish me. J have not a tcish that is not gratified as soon 
 as 'tis known. We intend goi7ig to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and a watering-place, 
 similar to the Springs, about thirty miles beyond Philadelphia : shall probably set out 
 the latter part of this month. At present we have done nothing toward housekeeping, 
 and Mr. Bowne loont let me do the least thing toward it. lest I get my mind engaged, 
 and not enjoy the pleasure of our journeys. ' Tis very difi^erent here from most any place, 
 Jor there is no article hut you can find ready made to your taste, excepting table-linen, 
 bedding, etc., etc. One poor bed-quilt is all / have toward housekeeping, and been mar- 
 ried tzi'o months almost. I am sadly off, to be sure. J I e have not yet found a house that 
 suits us. Mr. Bowne don't like any of his oion, and wishes to hire one for the present, 
 until he can build, which he intends doing next season, which I a7n very glad of, as I 
 never liked living in a hired house, and changing about so often. Uncle and Aunt King 
 want wc shotild get near them ; they have hired a ready-furnished house about two 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-tnaker, as I am having a dress made to wear to Mrs. 
 Delafield's to diftc o?i Sunday. They have a most superb cotintry-seat on Long Island, 
 opposite Hell Gate. He is Uncle Rufuss most intimate friend, and a very intimate one 
 of Mr. Boxunc'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, though the features are striking, he has not caught 
 the expression, particularly of the eyes, which are excessively pensive, — loould 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 zcants me to sit again; so does Mr. BownA 
 Malbone thinks he could do much better in another position. I get so tired, 1 am quite 
 reluctant about sitting again. Hoioever, ive intend showing it to some of our friends 
 before we determine. Hoic do all our friends at Saco and Topsham do' I often 
 think of them ; and Mr. Botvne and myself a ?e talking of coming to see you next summer 
 very seriously. Hotv comes on the neic house ' We are to come as soon as ever that is 
 finished. If you choose to send so jar, I ici II purchase any kind of furniture you may 
 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 tvithoul tvishing them here. Ho7c does Horatio succeed 
 in business, — as xvcll as he expected? How come on Fathers turnpike and diking? 
 Tell him I yesterday met a woman full broke out rvith the small-pox. I ruas within a 
 yard of her before I perceived it. The first sensation zvas terror, and I ran several 
 paces before I recollected inyself As soon as I arrived in toivn. Dr. Moore examined 
 my arm, inquired 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, 
 
 ELJZA S. BOHNE. 
 
 P. S. — All the family desire to be remembered particularly. Mr. B. is out to dine. 
 
 MRS. SOUTHGA TE, 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 (District o/ Maim.) 
 
To Oclavia. 
 
 Nezo- Y'o)'k, July 14, iSoj. 
 
 Friend Greene , frotn Portland, is here, and luill dine with us lo-day : a fine oppor- 
 tunity for me to tvrite to my friends. I have quite a packet of neivspapcrs ivhich I shall 
 send by him to amuse you : they contain all the public amusements and shows in celebra- 
 tion of the Fourth of 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 4000 people there : tickets half a dollar, and 'tis said 
 he made very little money, so you tuay think ivhat the entertainment %vas. Indeed, there 
 is every day something new and amusing to me. Whenever we have nothing particular 
 in viezo, in the cool of the evening tue walk down to the Battery, go into the garden, 
 sit half an hour, eat some ice-cream, drink lemonade, hear fine music, see a variety 
 of people, and return home happy atid refreshed. Sunday, we dined at Mr. Delafield's, 
 near Hell Gate, Long Island : the most superb, tnagnificcnt place I ever saw ; situated 
 directly on the East River, — the fiiiest view you can imagine. I zvas delighted with our 
 visit, — so much ease, elegance, and hospitality. lam very glad yotc liked your gown; long 
 sleeves are very much tcorn, made like mitts, — cross-wise, — only one seam, and that in 
 the back of the arm, and a halfdratun sleeve over, and a close, very short one up high, 
 dratvn up ivith 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 frocks, 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 zuill have returned. I am astonished at what 
 vou say about my calling on Mrs. Sumner, and what Mrs. Coffin said. 1 1 'hen I got to 
 Boston, I determined to call nowhere but at Mrs. Sumner's, as my intimacy in the family 
 
was suc/i, and I was fearful she tnight not hear of my being in totvn, and should not see 
 her. Accordingly, the day I got in town we loetit out purposely to call there ; and to pre- 
 vent any one calling on us (for I did not wish to sec much company), we said we expected 
 to go out of toivn itnmcdiately. However, there were a great many called to see me, not- 
 ivithstanding. hi Cornhill we met Mr. Sumner. I introduced Mr. Bowne, said we 
 were just going to call on Mrs. Sumner, inquired how she did, etc., etc., and Mr. Sum- 
 ner said they were Just going out to ride, but if / would go immediately luith him, I could 
 see her. I was fearful of detaining them, and thought I should certainly see her, 7iow 
 she knew I was in town, and had set out to call 07i 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 txvo 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 itnmediately. Late in 
 the evening, before we left town, Tom Coffin called in ; appeared rather formal ; never men- 
 tioned Mrs. Sumner, or any reason why they did not call, tior any apology ; as I could no 
 way account for such mysterious conduct, it greatly mortified me. This is the true state- 
 ment, which you may mention to Mrs. Coffin, and then ask her who has a right to feel 
 offindcd. The great dittner given in honor of Uncle Rufus I have not yet mentioned. 
 ' Ttoas very superb, and two hundred of the most respectable citizens of New- York attended. 
 Mr. Bowne says, though 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 loitli such ease, elegance, and dignity in his life. He returned 
 quite in raptures, — such insinuating tnanners, such ease in receiving those presented and 
 introdjiccd. He is an amazing favorite here. Democrats and Federalists and all par- 
 ties 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 a« old friend ; without even bowing, 
 said, " How is it, Bowne ; hows your wife ? " — so familiar. I went to see the tables, — 
 very tiovel and elegant. There was one the whole lefigth of the hall, a fid four branches 
 from it. There was an inclosure about two feet wide filled with earth and railed in 
 zi'ith a little white fence, and little gates eve 7y yard or two ran through the center of all 
 the tables, and on each side were the plates and dishes. In this inclosure there were lakes, 
 and szvans swimming ; little mounts covered with goats among little trees ; some places 
 /locks of sheep,- some, cows lying dozvn ; beautiful little arches, and arbors covered with 
 green; figures of Apollo, Ceres, Flora ; little ivhitc pyramids zuith earth and sprigs of 
 myrtle, orange, lemon; flowers in imitation of hothouse plants. Nothing could have a 
 more beautiful efl'cct in the hot weather. Those opposite to you were divided ; their 
 plates quite hidden. Adieu; some ladies have just called. We arc going about twenty 
 
 3M) 
 
miles to enjoy the sea, a place of fashionable resort. ' Tis intensely hot, exceeded only by 
 Balls ton Springs. We don't go to Bethlehem till the last of the month. Mr. Bownes 
 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 ifito 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 Zelpat 
 and Lucia. Tell Zelpat Mrs. Bogert came to see me last week, and is in hopes she will 
 come on with her father. Remetnber me affectionately to all Mrs. Davis's family. I 
 sometimes treat myself with telling my httsband all about our charming frolics. Does 
 not Mr. Davis talk anything of coming to New- York? Louise is quite a belle, I suppose. 
 
 MISS SOUTHGA TE. 
 
Bethlehem, August g, iSoj. 
 
 J intended writing before I left New- York, but was so much engaged in preparitig for 
 our journey I had no time. My great wish to see this famous Bethlehem is at length 
 gratified. You can scarcely imagine aiiything more novel atid delightful than everything 
 about here, so entirely different from any place in New England. Indeed, in traveling 
 through the State of Pennsylvatiia, the cultivation, buildings, and everything are entirely 
 different from ours, — highly cultivated country, looks like excellent farmers'. Barns twice 
 as large as the houses, all built of stone ; no luhite-painted houses as in New England. 
 
 We crossed thefatnous Delaware at Easton. It separated New Jersey and Pe^nisylvania. 
 
 We saw some beautiful little towns in New Jersey likewise ; but in Pennsylvania the 
 villages look like so tnany 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 mostly all Dutch, and such jargon as 
 you hear in every entry or corner makes you fancy yourself in a foreign country. These 
 Bcihlchemites are all Germans, and retain many of the peculiarities of their country, 
 such as their great fondtiess for music. It is delightful. There is scarcely a house in 
 the place icithout a pianoforte ; the postmaster has an elegant grand piano. The 
 barber plays on almost every kind of music. Siitiday afternoon we went to the young, 
 mens house, to hear some sacred music. We went into a hall which was hung round 
 with musical instruments, and about twenty musicians of the brethren were playing 
 in concert ; an organ, two bass viols, four violins, two flutes, two French horns, two 
 clarionets, bassoon, and an itistrument 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 and all kinds of mechanics, so perj'cct 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 breakjast-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 downstairs. Ycster- 
 
day. Daddy Jhoinas, tclio is a head otic, and who comes to the tavern every few hours to 
 sec if there arc any strangers tuish to visit the buildings, conducted us all around. We 
 -went to the schools. First xvas merely a sczoing-school, — little children, and a pretty single 
 sister about thirty, 7i.'ith her 7chitc skirt, ii.'hite, short, tight xvaistcoat, 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, — veiy unbecoming, but very singular ; tied tinder the chin 
 with a pink ribbon, — blue for the married, white for the widows. Here was a piatio- 
 forte, atid another sister teaching a little girl music. We went through all the different 
 school-rooms, — sotne misses of sixteen ; their teachers were very agreeable and easy, and 
 in every room was a piano. I never saw any embroidery so beautiful. Afuslin they 
 don't work ; make artificial flozvers very handsome, paper baskets, etc. At the single 
 sisters house we were conducted round by a fine lady-like looman, who atiswered our 
 questions with great intelligence and affability. I thitik there were one hundred and 
 thirty in this house ; their apartments toe re perfectly tieat. The dormitory, or sleepitig- 
 rooftt, is a large room in the upper part of the building, with dormatit opposite the whole 
 length ; a lamp is suspetided in the middle of the ceiling, which is kept lighted all night, 
 and there were forty beds, in rozus, only one persoti in each. They were of a singular 
 shape, high and covered, atid struck ttie like people laid out, — dreadful. The lamp, — and 
 altogether it seemed tnore like a nuntiery than anything I had seeti. One sister ivalks these 
 sleepitig-rooms once ati hour through the night. We went to a room where they keep their 
 work for sale, — pocket-books, pin-balls, toilette cushiotts, baskets, artificial ff owe rs, etc., 
 etc. We bought a boxful of things, and left them, much pleased with the neatness and 
 order which appeared throughout. The situation of the place is delightful. The walks 
 on the banks of the Lehigh and the moutitains surrounding, — 'tis really beautiful. The 
 widows' house and young metis are similar to the one described. There were many 
 children at the school from Georgia, Motitreal, atid matiy other places as far. There are 
 sotne genteel people from Georgia at the tavern where we are, and Philadelphia. We 
 ititended leavitig here for Philadelphia to-day, but it rains. We shall spend a few days 
 there and go to Long Brattch. If the alarm of the fever cotitinues in N^ew-York, we 
 shall not return there agaitt, but go in the neighborhood ; send in for the trutik which I 
 packed up for the purpose iti case I feared going iti the city, and set off for the Springs 
 or somewhere else. ' Tis vety unccrtaiti when we go to housekeepitig. The alartti of the 
 fever hurried us out of town zuithout atiy arrangemctit toward it, and may, if it 
 continues, keep us out till middle of autumn ; but, at any rate, you ttiust 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 rovmg I dont know but he'll spoil me. We both 
 enjoy traveliiig 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 arc, 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 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 arrived? I want much to hear. Love to sister and 
 the children. Adieu. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 MRS. SOUTHGATE, 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 JJ 
 
Pope and Homer ; but I doiit believe there can be a greater variety, more stiblimity, 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 tuould 
 come here with us, but C/ncle said he must go Bast if anywhere ; but he wanted to be at 
 rest a few months now he was settled. Airs. 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 twenty miles from New- York. 
 The falls, the rocks, the luhole scenery, partake more of the sublime, almost terrific, 
 than Glctis Falls, but not so beautiful. I a7n much delighted to hear of Mr. Boyd's 
 arrival ; sister nnist be very happy. Martha is cotning 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 tne 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 
 catne, and we all left the city. So here I am, perfectly utiprepared 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. Boicne. Oh, I have not 
 told you, — saw the tree Major Andre was taken under, and the house where Artiold fied 
 from, left his loife 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, — dont laugh at travelers' stories, but we really 
 rode over the peaches in the road ; we alivays kept our case full. William brought us 
 some off the finest trees that hutig over the road. Peaches and cream/ They laugh and 
 say Boston people cry out, " ' Tis so good." Well, zvhat have I zcritten about f A little of 
 ei'erything 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 
 not had time to think since I was married. I dont expect to this two or three months; 
 
 so, good-bye. 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
Lebanon Springs, September 24, i8oj. 
 
 Your letter, my dear Octavia, has set my head to planning at a great rate. By all 
 means, come on with Mr. Cults. I am impatient to see you, and I cannot give up the 
 pleasure of having you with me this zc inter. 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 .lunt King, say that it is uncertain when you arrive ; hut / have taken 
 the liberty to request Mr. Cults to leave you ivith her until I demand you. 7 his settled, 
 /proceed. Tell my good mother not to be afraid. I a»i as anxious as herself to be set- 
 tled at home. I am most tired of roving ; it begins to grow cold, and I long for a com- 
 fortable fireside of my ozun. 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 three weeks at Ballston and Lebanon. We had a charming company at Balls- 
 ton ; danced a few nights after I wrote you, and I was complifnetited as bride again, — 
 manager brought me iVo. i ; 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 A tint Porter ; wants to see them very much, etc., etc. She is married to 
 a Mr. Xcufville, 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 talked of naming you for 
 her: she zuishes 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 a?iother 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 7ce left 
 .Vcw- York Mr. Bowne sent it to a commission merchant who does business for several 
 f^ort land people, and requested him to send it by the first vessel. As you haven't received 
 it, I suppose the fever, ichich 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 .Vew- 
 
York. Direct /o Ntui- )'orl- . probably I shall he near New- York in a fortnight. I 
 have but a few nioincnls to write, as the stage passes the village at eleven. You alarm me 
 about Ellen; pray inquire particularly and tell tne 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 zorote to, but it seems she did not receive 
 my letter. Love to her, and all Portland frietids. J a»i expecting every day to hear 
 Martha has arrived. My best love to Sister Boyd and her 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. 
 
 3' 
 
New- York, 2j, rSoj. 
 
 I have waited till my patience is qtiite 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 /oretioon 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 seamstresses, waiters, chambermaids, and everything else calling to be 
 hired, — inquiring characters, such a fuss. I catmot possibly imagine why you are tiot 
 here. I should have written immediately after receiving your letter, but Mr. Bowne was 
 sure you would be here in less tha7i a week. If is possible ^'ou may be in Boston to receive 
 this ; if 7iot, you will be here or on the way. If you are troubled about a protector, Mr. 
 Bowne says there have been several married getitlemeti 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 muck delighted to see her in New- York this winter. And 
 my husband frequently says he should like to have Mr. Davis's family near tis in New- 
 York ; I am sure I should, with all my heart. Say everything to Mr. and Mrs. Davis 
 for mc that bespeaks esteem. Adieu. 
 
 Yours always, « 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
New- York, December 24, i8oj. 
 My Dear Mother: 
 
 Eliza received a letter yesterday from yon, where you say you have not received a 
 letter from either of us for a long time. I am really surprised at it, as I wrote you very 
 frequently frovi Boston, and am determined to let you have a letter now every fortnight, 
 to let you know what we are doing, and zvhether I am happy. I begin to feel quite at 
 home, and certainly never 7i<as happier in my life. It is true I sometimes sigh for 
 home, but it is generally when in a crowd that 1 am most there in imagination. But 
 when / 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 osten- 
 tatious. 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 aff^able, 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 gayety, they tell me, till after the holidays, — that is, Christmas and New 
 Year. We have been into no parties yet, but have made many sociable visits, tvhich 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 were at home. How I long to see you all ! How are Arexine and Maryf 
 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 Til be ivith you as soon as you say. 
 Depend on it, I shall never get so attached either to the inhabitants or the gaycties 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 zvould root me to 
 the spot, and there is a charm in that which nothing but home can equal. J have 
 promised Eliza a page for you, so I suppose I must close, (rive my best love to Father 
 
 and the children, and believe me 
 
 Your affectionate child, 
 
 OCIAV/A 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 yoti will ofteti write me now Octavia is 
 with me atid 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 about servants, which makes it much less troublesome. The house we have 
 taken docs 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. Botone wishes 
 to build, and is trying to fitid a lot that suits him ; if so, we shall build the next 
 season. Almost everybody in A'cw-York hires houses, but I think it much pleasanter 
 living in ottes own. I am more and more pleased with New- York ; there is more 
 ease atid sociability than I expected. I adinire Uncle and Aunt more and more every 
 day, and Mr. Bowne thinks there never was Uncles equal, — sttch 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 A tint King. You say Mr. Bowne viust write you, 
 and, as a subject, mentio7i the dividends from the instirance office. In the surumer 
 there was no dividend, no profits ; the next dividends 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 chil- 
 
 « 
 
 dren, 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 7ne, with my best 
 love, to my father and all the family. Adieu. IVritc me soon, and believe me 
 your affectionate 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
 MRS. ROBERT SOUTHGATE. 
 
N'cw- York, March /, 1804. 
 Dear Miranda : 
 
 I have been talking of writing to you so long, that I think it is quite tinic I 
 should talk no longer, but act: but you should not have waited/or me to write. 
 You knezo both Mr. Bowne and myself would have been very glad to have heard 
 from you, — all about your school your acquaitttance, amusements, or anything; and / 
 have a thousand things to take up my attention that you have not. Do you return 
 home this spring? IVc shall find you at home zohen we come. I have got one or 
 two trifles I want to send you. but cant 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, luhen she 
 is older, will think she acted very foolishly. Otie ought to know more of the world 
 before she decides on a thing of so much importance ; she is a me7'e baby, and has 
 seen nothifig of life. Do you often hear of Caroline, Miranda? I feel anxiotts lest 
 she should not conduct herself with as much discretion as she ought, as she never knew 
 the blessing of having a kind, indulgent tnother to watch over and guard her frotn 
 harm. 
 
 When I zuas in Bethlehem last summer, I got sotne little caps such as the girls 
 at school wear, and such as the sisters or members of the society wear. I icatit 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 cafi find, I will send 
 you ; it will give you a very correct idea of the place, society, and custotns. When I was 
 there, there were eighty-three girls, from four to sixteen, at the school, from almost every 
 part of the United States. They all wear these little caps, tied with a pink ribbon, zchich 
 look i<ery pretty where you see so many of them together; they learn music, embroidery^ 
 and all the useful branches of ediuatio7i ; likewise to tnake artificial fiowers, and many 
 other little things of that kind. Do you ever attempt painting? ' Tis a charming 
 accomplishment, and if you have any taste for it. I would 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 inquire, and believe me 
 
 ) 'our affectionate sister, 
 
 EL/Z.4 .S. BOIVXE. 
 .Vf/R.IXDA SOUTHG.ITE. 
 
 3' 
 
New- York, July 2j, 1804. 
 Octavia : 
 
 I have sent a few sugar toys to the children, which you must divide : the cradle for 
 
 Mary, the basket for Arexene, etc., etc.; pair shoes apiece; two little dogs I put up in the 
 
 music, — one looks like Sancho ; a little frock I seiid as a pattern for Miranda, Arexene, 
 
 and Mary, — long or short sleeves, as you please, whalebone in the back, laced. I have sent 
 
 another box of things to Isabellas children ; the paper box I mean for them ; tzuo little 
 
 fans for Arexene and Mary, with their names ofi them, you II find in the bottom of the 
 
 box ; the two songs /send you are all I could find that struck me, for the ''Death of Allen" 
 
 I never heard, and bought it because it was a composition of Floyd's; ''The Wounded 
 
 Hussar" I admired, and knetc you could not get it set for the piano. I dotit know but 
 
 'tis different from Miss Sandford's. I write in great haste. We arc going to dine at 
 
 Uncle Rufus's, out of tozvn, — 'tis past eleven. They have a delightful place oti the North 
 
 River; took tea there last week. Mr. Bowne joins me in love to Father atid Mother and 
 
 all. How comes on the house, Octavia ? We want to come very much next summer. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. S. B. 
 
 P. S. — / have some fine peaches and apricots on the table before me. Mr. Bowne 
 brings me a pocketful of fruit every time he comes ho^ne. I have eaten as many as I "want 
 to, and have been thinking how much I would give to get them to you ; but this early 
 fruit wont keep at all. I was at the theater night before last, at Mount Vertion Garden. 
 Hodghison is a fine fellow. We commence our SotUhern journey in about ten days. Oh, 
 Tm sorry f Mr. Bowne just came to tell me the vessel has sailed. Well, I must wait for 
 another. Love to Ma7y Porter, and give her the ring I enclose of my hair ; tell her I 
 long to sec her, and ask if she means to be Mary Porter zvhen I next come to the eastward. 
 
 Love to all friends. 
 
 KL1Z.4 S. BOWNE. 
 
New- York, July jo, 1804. 
 
 I received your letter, my dearest mother, three days since, and every moment of my 
 time and attention since has beeft taken tip with our dear Eliza. I am grieved that you 
 are so low-spirited about her, thotigh, as you predicted, her trouble has again ended. I 
 yet feel conjidcnt, if we can once get her home, that she will gain strength and do well. 
 Her physician has been in great hopes that she luould get through this time without any 
 difficulty. Indeed, the first week we were in the country she was so finely that we all felt 
 encotiraged about her. She had been as prudent as possible, and she cant 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. But this 
 accident has frustrated all his plans; but I assure you we are making fuore pleasant ones, 
 for now we shall set off for home as soon as she is strong etiough to travel. I am aston- 
 ished at her spirits, they are as good as mine ; and yet to-day she is so much better I 
 feel finely myself. I hope with us you xoill rejoice that, as it was to take place, it did 
 so early. 
 
 She has had no pain through the whole, but only suffers from weakness. We shall 
 go in three or four days to Flushing, which has a fine, bracing air. and stay there a few 
 days, till Eliza is smart enough to travel ten 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 p7'ospect of 
 home, tuill 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 glad we are here and in the neighborhood of Airs. 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 have been txvo 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 noio 1 exclaim out half a dozen times a day, "/ 
 wish I could see some one I knew." There are gentlemen cfiough, but no ladies. Uncle 
 and .hint, I suppose, have nearly set out jor Scarborough. I wish we were to be there 
 whilst they arc with you. ) on can have no idea how very anxious I am to return. Were 
 
/ nol 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 childreyt. Before I leave here, 
 I shall be in tieed of a little money. I won't seal my letter to-night, but will write you 
 how she is to-morrow. 
 
 July Jist. 
 
 I did not finish ??iy letter this morning, because Eliza did not feel as well as usual, 
 but this afternooti she has taken a good dose of physic, which has had a most excellent 
 effect. She is in char^ning 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 deter- 
 jnified 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 te7ider, 
 affectionate of women. My best love to my father. We are full of seeing you soon. I 
 shall not make it long before I write again. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 O. SOUTHGATE. 
 
Rockaway, A ugust 24, 1804. 
 
 Dear Girls : 
 
 I enclose yon a piece 0/ Mr. Blovell's poetry o>i I lie Afisscs Broome's country-seat at 
 Bloomingdale, as you both know hi)ii. I think it luill amuse you. I expect Eliza and 
 Jane Watts doxon 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 ; ansiuer it soon, and tell 
 me how far you mean to comply with my proposals. I spent several days at Fhishing 
 last week. They all inquired very affectionately for you ; but I dont know but Afiranda 
 is your rival ; she is a monst^-ous favorite among some of them. I believe Mary 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 rendc7-ed my visit doubly pleasant. ' Tzoas the season for peaches / we feasted 
 finely. I shall attend to your memorandums as soon as possible. Give my best love to 
 Horatio and Xabby, 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. 
 
 }'ours ez'cr, 
 
 E. S. B01VN£. 
 
 33 
 
To Octavia Soutligate. 
 
 Blooniingdale, November 2, 1804. 
 
 Mr. Bownc has just brought me a letter from you, in which you mention coming on 
 with Mr. Wood. I am fearful my answer will ari-ive too late, as your letter has been 
 rvritten nearly a fortnight. At any rate, cotne 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 
 titne, at housekeeping or not. Jle go in town next Monday, — everybody is moving in. 
 For the last three days there has been no death, and for five, no new cases. If, imfortu- 
 nately, Mr. IVood 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 house- 
 keepirig very soon. We have just returned from Uncle's, lohere we had been to meet Mr. 
 and Mrs. Paine (Mrs. Doble)from Bostoti. She is less beautiful than /expected, — 
 charming little daughter. I am more and more delighted with Aunt King, she is so 
 unaffected, easy, and ladylike. Margaret and Air. Duncan married. I expect to hear 
 still stranger things from Portland, now Ellen Foster is married. I suppose she is^ 
 though I have not heard. I am hourly and impatiently expecting to hear from Alartha. 
 How u7tfortunate, — luhat zuould I give to be nearer.' Adieu, 'tis late ; come as soon as 
 possible. Give my love to all friends. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 ELIZA S. BOVVNE. 
 
 Husband scolds at your waiting so. I heard oj Isabella in Boston. I wrote my 
 
 mother not long since how unfortunate I was in tnissing Martha. But I am fully 
 
 determined to see Boston a7id Portland next summer ; that in part consoles me. Ask 
 
 Mary Porter to write by you, and if she wishes anything purchased, and can think of 
 
 any way for it to be sent her, she may command my serz'ices at all times/ so to Sally 
 
 Hecks, and all my other friends. My love to Miranda. I ^oant to zi'rite her, but I 
 
 seem to have no time. Horatio is very lazy; he wont give me an opportunity to write 
 
 home. 
 
 Again adieu. 
 
 E. S. B. 
 
New- York, Novetnbcr g, 1804. 
 
 I have been in daily expectation of a letter from yoit ever since my return, and none 
 has yet come. I have not heard a word from Isabella, though 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 fatnily did, particularly Isabella- We are still at 
 our mothers, and shall probably remain a fortiiight longer; the house would be ready in 
 afezv days, but we think it is too damp at present. Everybody expected yoit 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 : "/ begin to feel the approach of old age." Mr. 
 Newbold called to inquii'e particularly after yotcr ladyship, and Mr. Rhinclandcr speyit 
 last evening with tis. I thifik he improves fast ; he told me a deal of news. Miss Far- 
 quar and Air. Jepson were married last night. Miss Blackwell and Mr. Forbes, and one 
 or two others. Rhinclander says half the girls in town are to be married before spring, — 
 Maria Deming for one ; and the world says Amelia and James Gillispie will certainly 
 make a match ; that I was surprised at. Miss Burmmer and John Ducr are married. 
 Sally Duer is soon to be, and Fanny is positively engaged to Mr. Smith — ivhom you faw 
 several times last winter — of Princetown. So you see all the girls are silly enough to 
 give up their fine daficing days a?id become old matrons like myself. Mrs. Kane is in 
 town; looks older, paler, and thinner. Oh, this having children, how it spoils every- 
 thing! She has got a channijig little girl, fat and good-natured as possible. Mrs. Ogden 
 stays out of town all winter. We arc engaged at Mrs. Bogert's this afternoon, but it 
 storms so violently I believe I shdnt go. She regrets very much your not coming, and 
 Lucia she luould be delighted to have. Our things arrived yesterday, but are not out of 
 the vessel yet. ^It present there is no gayety, quite dull ; there icill be a reviving soon, I 
 suppose. Mr. Poinsett has been to see me several mornings ; he goes on Monday to Caro- 
 
litia. Miss de Neufvillc spends the winter in New- York with her Aunt Stonton. 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 Alletis with a very large party, — Lady 
 Temple, Mrs. Winthrop and daughters, Mrs. Bowdoin, Mrs. G. Gree^i, Mrs. Stowton 
 and da7tghter, and many others (about thirty), — and zve were at Mrs. G. Blake's at a tea- 
 party. She inquired particularly after you. She is a very Jine woman, I think. Our 
 journey on was tolerably pleasant. We arrived before Uncle and A tint. 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 grozu fat. Everybody says I atn wonderfully improved. Write me soon. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
June J, 1 80s. 
 
 Dear Octavia : 
 
 Mamma arrived safe and well on Wednesday morniyig, to our great joy, after having 
 a pleasant passage from Nenport, staying tivo days in Boston, two in Newport, and one 
 in Providence. JFe are go i fig to Uncles to dine to-day, and I can' t persuade Miranda 
 to write a line to let you know Alamtna 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 07ct, and all your fi'iends (beaux, I mean) walk the other 
 side of the street wheti 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 loas. Adieu. Write me soo7i, and expect 
 a longer letter as soon as I can command a little more time. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 E. S. BOWNE. ' 
 
 P. S. — Remember, I dont call this a letter, so no lectures on that head. 
 
 34 
 
Jamaica, October 6, 1805. 
 
 I ai)i 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 efi'ects fro7n the new 
 system of living ; I am sure all will be well now. A wedding, I suppose, next ; for / 
 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 Jialfway being. However, let the man tease if he will, do not think of being mar- 
 ried until your health is perfectly cojifirmed, — / would not, for the world. ' Tis so late 
 in the season 'tis not possible I can come to see you this fall, even though there 
 should be two weddings in November. And so yoti 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 k7iow you never mean to visit 
 New- York as Afiss Southgate again. Somebody ivould put on a graver face than 
 he did last fall on a like occasion, and, as he had as much influence then as to 
 coutttcract my wishes, I won't subject myself to the mortification of another defeat now 
 I knozo his power to be much greater. However, I wont ask, though I shall be very 
 happy to have you with me. As for news, yoti 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. Uticle and A unt, Mr. and Mrs. Bogert, have gone about 
 thirty tniles down the island sporting for grouse, and return to Jamaica until we can 
 all go in toion. 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. Haytoard 
 are with them, but leave here for Charleston this week. I am in there half of my 
 lime. We tnake a snug little party at brag in the evening frequently, and luork 
 together mornings. Mr. Bownc goes to Greemoich, 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 Ma)iden Heard was married last week to a gentleman from 
 Demarara, whom nobody knew she was engaged to until he came a few zcecks since and 
 they were married. John Murray, /believe, is at last really in love, though 'tis not yet 
 
(ieiermittcd whether the lady smiles or not, — a Miss Rogers, from Baltimore, whom he 
 met at the Springs ; a siveet, interesting girl, 'tis said. Wolsey Rogers and Harriet 
 Clarke were talked of as a match at the Springs. Mrs. Kane staid at the Springs till 
 she was so near her confinement she could not venture to ride to Providence luith her 
 mother, and the fever kept her from N'ew- y^ork, so she was obliged to stop at Mrs. 
 Livingstons, Mr. Kane's sister, at Red Hook, jcntil able to resume her jotirney home, 
 which will probably be in November. Airs. Fish has a daiighter, — great joy on the 
 occasion. Give my love to Paulina, and tell her I congratulate heron the birth of her 
 son. What do Mary and Paulina call their boys, — Nathaniel and Enoch f I hope 
 not : never keep up such 7igly names. Mr. B. says you must spend the tuinter 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 on the new 
 house? I am sorry to say I fear not ; 'tis pity, — / had almost said 'tis wrong. lam 
 half mortified when I hear of my acquaintance visiting Portland, — 'tis true, I declare, 
 though husband would scold me for saying so. Papa 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 frotn me of 
 Aunt's sleeves. Are they finished? If they are, I hope she will send them by Mrs. McKer- 
 sen. I am working me a beautiful dress : it will be when 'tis done. By the bye, any pur- 
 chases for the coining occasion will be executed with pleasure. Give my best love to (sister, 
 I had almost said) N^abby, and tell her I shall feel myself fiattered by any commission she 
 will give, either in clothes or fui'niture. Do away with 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 I 
 am impatient to thank him for giving so pleasant a7i acquisition to our family, but I 
 could do it more heartily in person in New- York, if so I 7night be indulged. Sittce you 
 won't be honest and tell the tnith, I wont tell you what Fll say to you. Do ask Papa if 
 he could send us six or eight 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. 
 
 Yours, a housekeeper. 
 
 E. B. 
 What a romantic conclusion. 
 
New- York, November lo, i8o§. 
 
 Horatio is really married then, and we married, and I suppose the next account your 
 ladys/iip will be added to the list. How swimmingly you all go on ! What a tremen- 
 dous marrying-place Portland is! New-Yorkers dont marry, — sad set of them. I 
 am half angry to think you are marrying in such an out-ofthe-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 three or four months. I shall have so many 
 new relations, that 'twill be necessary to come often to keep an account. Robert Murray 
 came home quite delighted with his eastern visit, but disappointed at seeing so little 
 of Miranda. What has been the matter with her, — anything more than a heavy coldf 
 I tijish she were here with all my heart. I am qtiite alone, ajid require a companion 
 more than ever ; but I stippose Matnma could not hear of that. I wish Arexine and 
 Mary could have found a good opportunity to come this fall, atid we could take them 
 home in the summer ; but I suppose I must be content. We have been in town since 
 the J 1st 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 Captain Libby, and we were pre- 
 paring to send the sheetitig 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 yoti wished and of the prices, which 
 cannot be very incorrect, as I took them all from our ow7t furniture book, and we chl- 
 culated that the xchole of Mamma's plate, and another suit of curtains for Nabby 
 inchided, zuould come at about four hundred dollars. Mr. B. has three hundred and 
 forty i7i his hands of Papa's, about the sum that would buy all the things but Alamma's 
 plate and Nabby s curtains. Hoivever, that makes not the least difference to Mr. 
 Bowne, as he desires me to say he shall execute the co7nmissions with great pleasure, and 
 'twill be no inconvenience to him to pjirchase 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 theiefore 'tis quite as well as if I went for them. I dont mean you shall 
 understand because I doiit go shoppi7ig I am confined to the house ; on the contrary, I 
 am much better than could be expected, and hope with ca7-e to do very well. I shall go 
 out very little until the middle or the 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 dont 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. You never told me ivhat became of Zilpalis expectations. 
 Mrs. Kane has another daughter, — in eight days after she left the Springs. Only 
 think, she was a tremendous figure to sit down at table with an hundred people. She 
 got in town on Tuesday. I have not seen her, as I have been confined to the house with 
 a severe cold since Thursday. Friday and Satjirday 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 cipher on the plate : O. S., or B., or your crest, or William's 
 crest, — if you can find them out: I suppose zuc could here, — orzohat? Mamma's, I 
 suppose, will be S. ottly. I have 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 / leave you to guess; or. if you can t, perhaps William may help you to an explanation. 
 
 A die u. Yours ever, 
 
 E. S. BOVVNE. 
 .mss ocr.iviA southgate. 
 
 15 
 
November 14, 1805. 
 
 Capt. Libby sails to-morrow. Jf^c have got as many things as possible. There is 
 not a piece of embossed buff in New- York, nor of plain either. There is Jiot more than 
 two pairs alike ; therefore I have done nothing about the trimmings. I fancy Boston is a 
 better place for those things thati New- York. The tnost fashionable beds have draperies 
 the satne 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 bar- 
 rel urn in the city. Mr. B. ivas two days in pursuit of one ; he purchased this atid sent 
 it back, — 'twas brown, and no plate oti it except the nose. I can get you one like mine 
 for twenty -five dollars. Let me know immediately respecting these tilings. Yesterday 
 the silversmith came for instructions respecting the plate, and brought patterns for /ne to 
 look at. I ordered a set of tea-things for Mamma, the same as mine. I think them 
 handsomer than any I see. 7 he man is to send me some patterns to look at, which he 
 thinks are sitnilar to your description. On the tie xt page I zvill make a list of the goods 
 and prices copied from the bills. 
 
 I piece Irish sheeti/ig, .^S yards at ^1 . $jo.oo 
 
 I piece " •• 55 " •• 616 ^.f.6g 
 
 6 yards fine linen " 7/d ^.62 
 
 12 Damask napkins " 81 . 12.00 
 
 1 piece fine diaper, 2 j yards " 5'd. 18. §6 
 
 2 breakfast cloths " 14, . j.jo 
 
 / plated castor, best kind. . /2.00 
 
 1 plated cake-basket, silver ritns . . 18.00 
 
 2 pearl tea-pots, $2.2§: / trunk, $2.50. y.75 
 
 $i4g.i2 
 
 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 table-cloths 
 
arc cheap; the linen is I'igli, I ill ink. The cake-basket is very cheap, — two dollars; 
 cheaper than mine and rather handsomer, I think. I could get no crimson marking, but 
 send you a few skeitis of cotton which I procured with great difficulty. The napkins are 
 not the kind I wished, but there were notie of those excepting at ttoo places, and they were 
 eighteen to twenty-two shillings apiece. I thought these pretty, and zoould answer yotir 
 purpose. I eticlose the marking-cotton and the key of the trunk. 
 
 Adieu. Yours ever, 
 
 E. S. BOWNE. 
 P. S. — 7 he bills are in Mirandas book in the trunk. 
 
New- York, March jo, iSo6. 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 I am most impatiently looking for Miranda, and hoping, though I dare not place too 
 much dependence on seeing my father. I am better than zuhen I wrote you be/ore, though 
 still subject to these faint turns. I have become more used to them, and they dont alarm 
 me. I ridefrequoitly atid take the air every fine day in some way or other. I have been 
 free from a return of the tiemous headache for a fortnight till the night before last I had 
 a return of the numbness and pain, though not so severe as the last. The physician says 
 I have got on safe ground no7u, though I may frequently be very uncomfortable. I look 
 forward with impatience to have it all happily over. I have a very good appetite, and 
 look very fat aiid rosy, but really atn very weak and languid. I dont know why I look 
 so much better than I feel. Mary Mui'ray is to be married a week from next Wednes- 
 day ; she is very desiroiis that Miranda should get here. I really hope she may. Per- 
 haps I may get courage enough to go tny self if she come in time; otherwise, I don t believe 
 /shall venture. However, 'txuill depend upon my feelings at the time. I shall look out 
 the last of the week for Papa and Miranda very seriously. I hope they are on their way 
 now. Uncle's oldest son, Johfi Alsop, arrived here about a iveek since ; he seems a very 
 fne young man, rather taller than his father. He will be a second Uncle William, for 
 he does not appear to have got his height. Charles has gone to Holland. 
 
 E. S. B. 
 MRS. MARY SOUTHGATE. 
 
Ne2i>- 'i'oH-, April 2 J, 1806. 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 Before you receive //lis. my father will be iviih you. He says I need not fear anything, 
 that I am in a very fair way of doittg zoell. He will tell you all the particulars better 
 than / coulil 7orifc. He got quite home-sick ; 7i.>e 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 three days I have been finely for me. The fore 
 part of the day I am often very faint, — all the forenoon, but generally better toward 
 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 tnuch more clear and comfortable for 
 the last feiv days than for some time past. I am so glad to get along so far, that it 
 prevents mc from being impatient for the time. }'ou shall hear immediately when 
 there is any change, and some of us will write once a week at any rate. Tell Father 
 there luas a meeting called last evening of the Federalists in the city, to make some 
 further remonstrances on the defenseless state of the port of New- York, occasioned by an 
 accident that has set the xohole city in an uproar. There are three 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 etitering 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 ofie of the men dead upon the spot. He was brought up, and 
 the body exposed to vieio on one of the luharves, cohere several thousand people were 
 collected to see it. It put the city in great confusion, and this meetifig was called in conse- 
 quence, where Uncle made a very eloqjtent 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. 7 he British consul had sent several boats of provisions donni 
 to the frigates, which, as soon as 'twas known, the pilot-boats went after and brought 
 them all back. They were loaded upon carts, attd carried in procession tJirough 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 poioer over him. 
 ft has made a prodigious noise in the city, as you may imagitic. So much for Father. 
 1 shall expect to hear to-morrow when he got to Providence. Adieu, my dear mother. 
 
 Ever your affectionate 
 
 E. S. BOUNE. 
 
To Miss Miranda Sonthgate. 
 
 New- York, May /8. 1806. 
 
 By way of punishment, if it is any, I have detiied myself the pleasure of answering 
 your letter till I thought you would begin really to wish for a letter. However, I qicite 
 want to hear again, and as there is little hope of that tintil I anszoer yours, I'll e'en set 
 about it at once. William IVeeks told me he saw you in Portland the day before he left 
 there. I wonder he did not tell you he was coming to N'ew- York. Mr. Isaac McLellan 
 is here too from Portland. You did not write to me half particulars ; you said nothing 
 about A rexinc. 
 
 Sunday, May 2^. 
 
 After a week has elapsed I resume my pen to finish my letter. I was expecting Mr. 
 Isaac McLellan to call and let nic know when he should return, as I intended writing by 
 hi»i : but he has left tozvn tvithout my knozvitig it. Now for tiews, which I suppose you 
 are very anxious to hear. In the first place, Miss Laurelia Daslnvay is married to Mr. 
 Hatvkes. On Saturday morning, eight d clock. Trinity Church was opened on purpose for 
 the occasion : something singular, or it would not be like Miss Laurelia. But ichcft do 
 you think f Mr. Grellet has taken French leave of New- York ; sailed for France about 
 a fortnight ago, withotct anybody's knowing their intention until they were gone. There 
 are jnany 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 B uonapa rte and many other poor 
 madames that have founded their hopes on the fidelity of a Frenchman. Poor Mrs. Ogden 
 has another little petticoatcd little John Murray, — four daughters ! I am sorry it was 
 not a boy. IVhat 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 .<o. 
 
/ would mttch prefer /tint to come for me in the autumn. However, we have made no 
 arrangements yet. Walter grows such a playful little rogue, he is ahvays in mischief. 
 / am just leaving off his caps. I want his hair to grow befo7-e his grandmamma sees 
 him ; he won't look so pretty without his caps. He creeps so much, I find it itnpossible to 
 keep him so nice as I used to. Poor Harriet Brain, I think, is going rapidly in a decline; 
 she has been confined to her room five or six weeks. I have not seeii the llattses this some 
 time. They are gotie to Passaic Falls with a little party, — Maria Laight, Mr. Deloi't, 
 Robert Harney, etc. My love to all ; lurite me soon particularly. I hope soon to be with 
 you. How is Sister Boyd's infant f 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 E. S. BOWNE. 
 
Neti.1- York, Spring, 1806. 
 
 My Dear Mother: 
 
 I find it quite in vain to wait for a letter from Miranda, and she has left mc to 
 chance and uncertainty to knoiv whether she has evet arrived at Providence ; but luckily, 
 from constant inguiries, I have learnt she did ai'rive safe, and, from some other accidental 
 information, that she was to leave Boston last Thursday for home with Judge 7' hatcher. 
 I prcs2ime by this she is with yon. As the spring opens, I begin to look forward to my 
 eastern visit. I cant make up my mitid to xi'can my child; but they tell me 'twill never 
 do to wean him in warm weather. // I don't do it now, I m.ust nurse him till October ; 
 that is too long. I would not hesitate to nurse him through the sumtncr if I thought 1 
 was hearty enough. Octavias boy is as beautiful as a cherub, I hear, — Miranda, Satur- 
 day, 1 8th. Mrs. Derby has returned from Philadelphia, and intends leaving here for 
 Boston on Tuesday. She spent a long, sociable day with me yesterday, and /found it 
 quite a treat. I have seen so little of her but in mixed parties that it hardly seems like 
 a visit. She is almost toorn out luith dissipation, and I greatly fear her cotistitution has 
 suffered an injury from this kind of life it will never recover. She has absolutely refused 
 all invitations since her return, a7id means to rest for a few days lohile she remains here. 
 She takes one of our belles on to Boston loith her, — Miss Fairlie. Miranda knows htr. 
 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 nezos and account of all the 
 parties after she left mc, biit I was quite provoked at her not writing. Tell her, how- 
 ever, that there seems no end to the gayety this spring; it does not abate as yet at all. 
 The day after she left me, I paid the brides visit to yoking Afrs. Alui-ray ; there was a 
 prodigious crowd, a hundred and fifty at least, and many never sat down at all. Madame 
 Moreau wore a long black velvet dress 'with pearl ornaments, looking elegantly, llie next 
 dav / dined at Cncle's with company; on Tuesday follo'wing went to a ball at .^frs. 
 
Stevens's, next day a ball al Miss Murray s; very pleasant. They regretted her not being 
 here very much ; she was intended to be one 0/ the brides-maids, 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 be/ore at Miss Lyde's to a ball, 
 and Mrs. Turnbell's to a monstrous tea-party. Yesterday at Mrs. Morris's. On Mon- 
 day next Aunt King has a very large party. On Tuesday I go to Mrs. S tough ton's, 
 on Thursday to Mrs. Hopkins's, and on Friday dine at Mrs. Bogert's; and this evening 
 to Mrs. Henderson's to a ball. I think it will be otie of the most elegant we have had 
 this winter. I wish Miranda were here, — so tnuch 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 sutnmer spent amidst all my family. Give my 
 affectionate regards to all. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. S. BOWNE. 
 
 37 
 
New- York, November 8, 1806. 
 
 My Dear Octavia: 
 
 f a»i quite anxious to hear good neivs frovt you : keep up a good heart, 'tis soon over. 
 T wish I eould send you my darling boy to look at. I am sure he would make you think 
 no price was too much for such a little cherub, and I am so proud of making such a fine 
 nurse. He is a hardy little creature, and so lively and playful ; cries after his father, and 
 has so many wi fining ways that I am amused all day zoith him. He is as quiet as a lamb ; 
 sleeps in his crib all night, and never cries in the night. As for myself, I am so hearty, 
 feel so active and light, — indeed, I never was better in my life. Have milk enough for my 
 child, arid am happier than ever I was in my life : somuehforencouragement. Mira7ida has 
 beeti in Jamaica this fortnight. She has taken a frock and cap along zvith her to work 
 for you. I hope she will have it finished when she returns. Mary Perkins will be con- 
 fined in January ; she says you did not suspect her at all. Alary Parso7is is not going 
 to have any. I believe she has been married as long as you have. A sad disappointment, 
 for her husband is the only otie of the name ; it dies with him. Maria Deming is mar- 
 ried, and William has rettirtted to New Orleans ; left her with her friends for the win- 
 ter. Amelia was married to Mr. Gillespie in the spring, — lives at hojne yet. Miss 
 Pell was married last week to Robert MacComb ; they are making a prodigious dash. 
 I went to pay the bride s visit 07i Friday. They had an elegant ball and supper in the 
 evening, as it was the last day of seeing company. Seven brides-maids and seven bride- 
 men ; most superb dresses; the bride' s pearls cost fiftee^t hundred dollars. They spend 
 the zuinter in Charleston. Adieu. Love to all friends, and tell yojir husband to z^'rite 
 me imtnediately after this great event. I am lookitig forzvard to a happy summer sfeut 
 among you. Best love to Isabella and family, Horatio a7id family. Hozv is Robert 
 Southgate, Jr. / That is as it ought to be. Papa is pleased, I da7'e say. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 EJJZ.4 s. Boir.y/:. 
 
New- York, January 2^, i8oj. 
 My Dear Miranda : 
 
 Mr. Abbot is herefrom Brunstcick, and will take letters 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 knoxv him, as I knoxv nobody like him ; he always seems like a frightened 
 bird, — so hurried in his manner and conversation. How much he looked like some oj 
 Timothy Dexter s wooden 7nen at Commenceinent last year, — it came across my mmd 
 while he was sitting by mc yesterday ; 'twas well I was alone, or I should have certainly 
 laughed. Frederic, I suppose, is at homef though Mr. A. could not tell mc. John and 
 Charles King have some thought of going to Portland. I have told them they had better go 
 some other time, as they 7vill 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 Jf'atts. — 
 sees nobody ; she is entirely confined to Iter room. Doctor Burchea attends her now. 
 Her cough they think a little better, but she is 7iot 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 ivinter ; feiv balls, but a great many 
 tea-parties. I believe I told you Mi's. Gillespie has a daughter ; and still more 7tews. 
 Mary Parsons expects an heir in May. Sammy looks as smiling as a basket of chips. 
 ' Tis a prodigious fine thing; they are all mightily pleased with it. You never wrote me 
 anything about the muslin for Arexine to work her a frock ; 'tis so good an oppoi-tjinity 
 to send it, that I have a great mind to get it not withstanding. If you can, send the 
 things J left to Louisa Davis, in Boston ; John and Charles zuould bring them on to 
 mc. IValter will want the shirts as soon as the weather becomes ivarm. You say I have 
 said nothing of IValter in any of my letters. He is so hearty and well I hardly thought 
 of him ivhen I wrote ; he has not had a day's sickness since I returned. I send him out 
 iva I king frequently when 'tis so cold it quite tnakes the tears come; he trudges along with 
 leading very -well in the street ; he never takes cold, though he icalks in our damp streets 
 
without a diaper, for he has not worn one since I returned. He goes to bed at six d clock, 
 away iti the room in the third story you nsed to sleep in, without Jire or candle, a fid there 
 he sleeps till Phoebe goes to bed to him. You knoio I am a great enemy to letting chil- 
 dren sleep with afire in the room. ' Tis the universal practice here, and as lotig as I can 
 avoid it, I luver mean to practice it ; it subjects them to cotistant colds. They think I am 
 very severe to suffer such a child to be put in the third story to sleep without a fire. 
 Mary Parsons still nurses her boy ; he is a fat, hearty fellow, and I think improves. 
 Nabby is not yet confined. I prestmie Aunt King and family are all well; they are 
 going to have a fine loafflc party on Tuesday. I zvish you were here to go, for the boys 
 'want to have a fine frolic. Kitty Bayard is to be married in April to Duncan Camp- 
 hell. All engaged since Wolsy and Susan were married. Mary 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 trifiing, I come to what is tiea?'er my heart. You are not half 
 particular enough about Octavia. Does Isabella live in the same house she did when we 
 zvere there ? Has Octavia nobody with her to take care of her child? I am, very glad 
 to hear they arc so cheerful. Papa, you say, has been sick, but is quite recovered. How 
 is Majuma this rvinter. — quite recovered her health ? 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 E. S. B. 
 
To Miss Miranda Southgate. 
 
 New- York, December i, i8oy. 
 
 You wont zvritc a line, / find, without a punctiial answer, letter for letter. Could 
 you not make any allowattce for domestic engagetnents, 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 zvished to hear again frotn little 
 William, for notwithstanding yotir 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 titne, 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 will tell you 
 all the news of the fashionable world. I have been in no parties yet. The theater is 
 quite the rage. I have been several times. You have no idea hozv much it is improved ; 
 entirely altered, — looks light and gay, — a perfect contrast to its former appearance. 
 Cooper draii's croicded houses every night. I have been much delighted. Mr. Wolsey 
 Rogers's 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 were not for using a 7nost 
 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 Nas- 
 sau street, just liihat I call cotnfortable. (You have not seen this new play about com- 
 fortable.) 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 zvord ?) that Mr. Mun-ay 
 prefers his own comfort to dashing in high style, and, in his own language, wonders 
 that a man that has seen so much of the luorld should so soon get into a humdrum family 
 way. By the bye, you must know this is not the case in more thaji one sense ; quite a trouble, 
 f .<uppose. Mrs. Bogert begins to feel all the palpitations and trepidations of a doting, 
 
 anxious mother in introducing her favorite daughter to the world. The ne.vt winter is 
 3S 
 
the all-important ci'a for the exhibition. Miss Aj'tna, in my opinion, will 7nake a little 
 coquette ; the bud seems expandiiis; even now, — tliat extreme simplicity, which her 
 jnothcr encouraged by always talkijig of it before her, as if she were too young to under- 
 stand, 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 uncotttatniyiated from 
 the guileless purity of the mind. All affectation of this sei'ves but as a tattered veil 
 through which you constantly penetrate to the origitial deformity. Where have I ram- 
 bled? Poor Mrs. Greene is dangerously ill ; her friends have little hope of her 7'ecovery. 
 Oft 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 tnost valuable womati. On business : Mamma 
 told me something about getting muslin for A rexine, — a frock to tvork, — but I have 
 forgotten whether she afterward told me to get it or not. I can get very pretty for two 
 dollars or tivo and a half. Let fne know. Tell Octavia I received the little hat which Mr. 
 Brown bought for me in Boston, and shall send the little tub and the rest of the tnoncy as 
 soon as I know she is in Boston. Fashiotis : Ladies wear fawn-colored cloth coats and 
 bo7tnets of the same, trim7ned with velvet trimmi7ig, sa77ie color, with lappcls, cape, a7td 
 i7incr waistcoat. If I cotild fi7id a7i oppo7-tu7iity, I should se7td you a bo7i7iet a7id Ma77t7na 
 a cap. Adieu. Tell A7'exine to write to 77te. James w7-ites to Charles he liked A7'exine 
 best of all the cotisi7ts. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
New- York, December ij, i8oj. 
 
 I liavc been waitiHg sonic time to hear you were in Boston, hut as I have not heard 
 from any of the family for some iveeks, 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. //oz<.' happy you must feel f 
 None but those zoho have suffered the anxiety can conceive the happiness of such a 
 change. I doiit hear half often enough from you ; Miranda writes but seldom. Charles 
 told me last evening, in his last letter from her she says she is going to spend part 
 of the xvintcr in Boston tenth you. From that I conclude you intend going to house- 
 keeping before spring. I have been making a plan for you to make me a visit fiext 
 spring. I think there cati be no objection to it ; your husband can make arratigements to 
 leave Boston for a month or a fczu 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 IVilliam i^'ith you, which I 
 should wish you to, or leave him. if you prefer it. Indeed, I can see no objection to the 
 plan. To be sure, married ladies are liable to so many interruptions to their 
 plans that one can hardly calculate fve or six months forward / but no particular 
 circumstance to prevent, I shall certainly look for you. Your friends in New- York 
 have made particular inquiries 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 five 
 months old. Harriet Beam, tvhom I believe you knew, died last week; melancholy, so 
 young. Mrs. Derby 'writes me her father is still far from strong and firm, though 
 much better ; very probably his constitutioti xuill never entirely recover this shock. I 
 was quite surprised to find Mrs. Codinan expects an addition to her family ;* her 
 youngest child must be seven years old. I am much obliged to Mr. Brown for pur- 
 chasing the little hat for Walter. It zuas not the kind I meant, however ; those here are 
 worn only by girls, — square cnncns altogether for boys, irive my best love to Horatio 
 and Nabby, Isabella and husband, Arexine. I zvant 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 Jl'illiam. 
 
 A. S. BOIVNE. 
 
 TO .l/A-.v. O. .V. liROU'X. 
 
New- York, January /j, iSo8. 
 
 I have been in daily expectatio7i of hearing further 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 iti 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 mi}id. She has had severe trials, — the danger of her child, 
 and now this stroke. I tremble when I think with how much less firjnness I should 
 probably have acted in the same trials. I am extremely anxious to hear all the 
 fiarticulars of their failure; how Mr. Brown bears it; where they will spend their 
 winter. I loish with all my heart Octavia and her child would C07ne and stay with me 
 until Mr. Brown could arrange his affairs a little, but I siippose 'twould be in vain to 
 urge her to leave her husbatid at this time. Vou mention that you were in hopes Papa 
 -would secure Octavia s furniture for her. I wish you would write 7ne particularly ij he 
 did. Octavia writes me he attached all the pcj'sotial property he knew of at the time; Papa, 
 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. Bowtie has always thought he played rather a hazardous 
 game in letting out money in that zcay. I hope he is not materially injured ; he zuiLl, at 
 any rate, have the consolation to kiiow that the edtication of his children is principally accom- 
 plished. He will always have enough to live with comfort and ease, and as to leaving a 
 great deal, I think 'tis immaterial. I am glad to find his stock here has produced a 
 very good dividend this month. I hope this wont 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 al'ways 
 have all the comforts of life, — indeed, I think 'tzcill have a good effect. He has 
 al"ways been determined on leaving such a sum untouched, and because of that darling 
 object has deprived himself of the comfort of a comfortable house for many years 
 piiit. .Accident has interfered with the fulfillment of his plan ; he will noxtj enjoy 
 
tokat he has left without thinking of leaving just so much. His children are, or 
 soon will be, groTon up, atid he ought to have tio other care, but to enjoy now, iti 
 his old age, what he has dearly earned. I (i»i sure all his children most heartily 
 zvish 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 Franklifis too, and a great many others I do not recollect. Adieu. 
 Write me immediately, and tell me every particular. My love to Arexine. Is she 
 at Miss Martin s, for I have never heard :' 
 
 E. S. BOWNE. 
 MISS MI RAND. 4 SOUTHGATE. 
 
 JQ 
 
February i§, 1808. 
 
 Octavia : 
 
 I must hear all the important events of the family from anybody who castcally 
 may have it in their power to communicate them. Horatio has a fine son, I hear, of 
 tvhich 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 since 
 they have beeti in Boston. If you zvould send the little bundle for them to bring 07i. I 
 should be very glad, and I wish you to get me three pairs of Mr. Smith's little white 
 worsted socks, S7cch as I bought for Walter, only two or three sizes larger, big enough for 
 him next winter. Dont neglect it, for I zvish for them very much. Let them be full 
 large for a child three years old. Hoio arc all the family ? Octavia, I don't hear from 
 anybody ; you ought to write once a fortnight certainly. Poor Jane Watts is very loio, 
 confined to her bed. I fear she will never go out again. Love to all. This is my 
 second letter since I heard from you. I write more particularly that yon may send those 
 things by the boys. 
 
 m 
 Vours ever, 
 
 F.. S. P. 
 
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 lurites 
 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 rctiirn and go on with Eliza and Octavia as soon as I can. As I have 
 nothing of conseqtience to prevent me, I shall leave here in a day or two for New- York, 
 and shall be fully satisfied if I can render them the least service by my attentio7is. IVith 
 sentiments of the brightest esteem and regard, 
 
 I am, your obedient servant, 
 
 W. BROWN. 
 TO MR. AND MRS. ROBERT SOUTH GATE. 
 
New- York, December 27, 1808. 
 
 You are anxious, my dear viother, 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, though quite irregular, and sometimes a week without any. I have a new 
 physician to attend me; he is a Frenchman of great celebrity, partictilarly 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 laudafium he entirely disapproves of; he gives 710 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 lotiofi, he calls it, made pri^icipally of white altnoftds, gum 
 arable, gum tragacanth (or something like it), the syrup of nmskmelon 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. Brown got here last night, and we shall probably sail by Sjinday at 
 farthest. Octavia tuill write partictilarly. 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 has a wet nurse: she is a fine, lively 
 child and thrives fast. Adieu, my dear mother. I did not think I cotild have written 
 half as much. Love to all my friends. 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
Charleston (South Carolina), Jantiary /, i8o(^. 
 
 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 cotitinuc to trouble her 
 every other day and night, as was the case before. She can zoalk about her room with 
 ease, and she rides when the weather is fine, zvhich she is tnuch pleased with, and no 
 doubt it is of great service to her. The streets are entirely of sand, as smooth as possible, 
 no pavements, tiot a stone to be seen, zvhich renders it very easy riding for her. It is as 
 warm as our first of May (if not the middle), and when the iveather is fair, the air is 
 clear, very mild, and refreshing. The change is so great between here and New- York, 
 that f cannot help thinking it must have a great and good effect on Eliza. I find, as to 
 myself, that my cough is done away with 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 fi7id in gixat peifection hei-e ; 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. Pincknev 
 and his brother. Major Thomas Pinckney. Both of them being out of town, at their plan- 
 tation, their sister, Mrs. Hovey, received the letters, and has been veiy attentive and 
 kind to us all. She is a widozi', about fifty-five, I judge, of the first respectability, and 
 appears a very pleasant, amiable, and cheerful old lady. She sends some nice thing to 
 Eliza almost every day. Her daughters, Mrs. Rutledge, two Misses Pinckney (daughters 
 of the general), Mrs. Gilchrist and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Manigaults, Mrs. Middle- 
 ton, Mr. and Airs. Izard, Mr. and Mrs. Dessasuc, and .Mr. //eyzcard make an exten- 
 sive acquaintance for us. 7 hey 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. //''.-<)'. 
 40 
 
Mrs. Rutledge, and the two Misses Pinckncy yet, but she thinks in a few days to be able 
 to receive short visits from afeio of her friends, and even thinks it may be of consequence 
 to enliven her. She rides xvhenever the weather is fine, and is very much pleased with 
 the appearance of everything growing in the gardens here so like our June. Wc 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 zchich was recotmnended at New- York, and which is said here to have had a 
 great effect in removing complaints of the cough. Mrs. Manigaults 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 the?i I expect to return tozoard Scai-borough 
 immediately. We hope to hear from you in a few days; not a word have wc yet f-otn 
 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 eleven hundred miles. 
 Our best zuishes attend you ahvays. 
 
 Affectiotiately, 
 
 IV. BROWN. 
 ROBERT SOUTHGATE, ESQ. 
 
Charleston, January 22, i8og. 
 
 Monday Night. 
 
 Eliza has had a poor day ; she thinks it is owing to some little cold. She had a 
 ha7-d chill in the morning, succeeded by considerable fever, headache, ajid sick stomach : 
 poor appetite. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Last night Doctor Irvine gave her a powder to take on going to bed, which, 
 apparently, had a good effect ; she coughed less on going to bed, and instead of 
 having a violent burning in her feet and hands as usual, it put her into a gentle 
 perspiration, which was not, as usual, succeeded by a more profuse one. She ate her 
 breakfast with a better relish than common. She raised tnore than usual in the course 
 of the forenoon, a thick yellow matter, but very easy. She had a slight chill, but very 
 little fever ; ate her dinner zcith more appetite, but was extremely sick at her stomach 
 all the afternoon and evening. She has had a bad spell of coughing since she has been 
 in bed this evening. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 ^Inother poor night ; coughed a great deal, but I think less fever and sweating than 
 usual. She has, almost regularly, a chill about eleven d clock, which lasts two hours ; 
 nails as purple as possible. At this time her stomach is much distressed, and she 
 complains of the headache. As the chill goes off she is sick at her stomach, and very 
 faint; and yet her stomach, she thinks, is not foul. Her circulation is extremely 
 languid. I rub her Jeel and legs once or twice in the course of a day. They are very 
 cold, seem a little swelled on the instep. ' Vis not a good day for her, — raw and chilly. 
 
Mrs. Rit Hedge has been here, and says if to-morrow is pleasant, she will come for us to 
 ride. Mr. Broivn is sick to-day. He is afraid 'tis the fever and ague, but hope 'tis 
 only a common cold. I have been first in one room then the other all day. Frederic 
 7i'as never more fretful, poor fellow. I am afraid he, too, will get sick. My spirits 
 almost gave out to-day, — all sick among strangers ; but I am wrong. Never was there 
 such a friendly set of beings as these Charleston people. Every day they are sending 
 some nice thing for Eliza. Our dear, good friend Airs. Hovey has gone to the country. 
 Much indeed do ive miss her ; but she has left behind her her excellent daughter, Mrs. 
 Rutledgc. We find her, though not as sensible and dignified as her another, quite as 
 amiable and kind. 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Eliza had a better 7iight last night; coughed a good deal, but slept more, afid had 
 less fever and sweating. She had her fever, however, at eleven dclock, but has had but 
 little fever. She was extremely faint and sick about one. The afternoon and evening 
 she has passed pretty comfortably. Moved into a more pleasant room ; exchanged a north 
 for a south room. She is much pleased with it. She has taken another powder to- 
 night. I hope it will have as good an effect as the other had. 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Eliza had a tolerable night ; her cough easier, her fever and night-sweats less than 
 they were last iceek, but her stotnach out of order, sick and sour; chill and fever as 
 usual. I am convinced 'tis this fever and ague which keeps her down so; it is regular 
 every day. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 Her cough is easier, she raises rather more, cough don't distress her, less burning in 
 her hands, but more on her face. Dr. Irvine sent her some quassia to take in the 
 morning before her chill comes on. She took it to-day without effect, but he says she 
 ought to have taken three wine-glasses instead of one. This evening she has taken an 
 emetic ipecac, divided itt four parts, taken every ten minutes. She was not sick at all 
 till she took the last one, zuhich she threw directly up. It operated three times, brought 
 up a good deal of bile. After it had done so, it distressed beyond everything I 
 ever saw. lie had to get her to bed, and I really was frightened, she looked so distressed. 
 I gave some Hoffman's drops, which in the course of an hour composed her to sleep. I 
 
wish her doctor had seen the operation of this emetic ; it certainly operated very hard 
 upon her, and relieved her but little. She has noza a little gruel, and sleeps quietly. I 
 hope it will give her a good night. 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 ' Tis a cold, rainy, comfortless day, and Eliza never feels smart such weather. Dr. 
 Inline has not been here. One thing they say is favorable, — her chill comes on three or 
 four hours earlier than usual : 'tis said it grows irregular as it goes off. Dr. Irvijie 
 says she certainly is better of her other complaints, and if he cati knock this intermitteiit 
 on the head (to use his own phrase), she will do very well. The next month they invari- 
 ably have fine weather: 'tis the most pleasant ino7ith in the year ; the blossoms and 
 floivc7-s all come out. The sweet-scented shrub is delightful ; it grows wild, and a 
 small bunch of it perfumes a room. Vou would be delighted with the appearance of 
 vegetation you see here. Ride out, and you will sec the gardens full of vegetables, orange- 
 trees frequently full of f-uit, — hardly could you believe it was the depth of winter. We 
 have every day fine cabbage, caulifiower, carrots, and salad, greens, spinach, etc., all 
 fresh from otir landlady's garden. It is not a good place for our Northern fruit. They 
 have no winter apples that grow here, peaches but few, no plums or pears, but all 
 i7npo7'ted fruits they get i7i great perfectio7i, — i7tdced, I tell thc77i they seem to have 7ioth- 
 i7ig but what they getfroi7i the Northward. They have 7io 77ta7tufactories, 7io mecha7tics : 
 the shop-keepers i77tport ahnost all their goods fro77i Boston, New- York, a7id Phila- 
 delphia. Vou i7iay C07iclude, of coui'sc, that everythi7tg is extravaga7itly dear. We pay 
 ten dollars a week for boa7'd. 07ir landlady pays half a dollar a pou7id for biitter, 
 quarter of a dollar for 77iutt07i, two dolla7's for a tiwkey, and i7i E7tglish goods the7'e is 
 getierally 07ie-third diffe7'C7ice i7i the price betwee7i the77i a7id New- York, so you 7nay con- 
 clude I make but few purchases /« Charlest07i ; indeed, I have 7iot been into a shop, and 
 can tell you but little about the city. It certai7tly does 7iot strike a st7'angcr ag7'eeably< 
 pa7-ticularly 07ic fro7n N'cw- York, luhich is, pe7'haps, one of the clea7iest, freshest-looking 
 cities /« the world. Owi/ig to their pai7iti7ig a7id 2uhite-washi7ig, they 7nake their old 
 ho7nes look like 7iew. This seems 7iez'er done /;/ Charlesto7i; they put a great deal of sand 
 into their bricks a7id burn them a g7'cat deal, — they are a ki/id of chocolate color ; this 
 gives the tow7i a vc7y gloomy appearance. Many of the buildi7igs arc plasteird outside, 
 a/id owi7ig to the salt7tess a7id hu7nidity of the ai7; they tu7-n very black. They a/r 
 iuostly ancient-looking buildi/igs, 7iothing of that light/iess in their style of building 
 which of late has been so fashio7iable ; a g7-eat deal of zvood-unvk a7id heavy ca7-ved 
 ".L'ood in the finishing. Mr. Russell (an old gcntlema7i of Rhode Isla7id) has a most 
 41 
 
superb modern /loiisc. / zoas introdjiced to him at Mrs. Hovey's, — a good, plain New 
 England man. I felt as though he were an old friend, he luas so cordial and kind. He 
 called to see me next day tvith his wife and two charming daughters. Mrs. Russell is 
 an extremely plain zcomati, but seems vety motherly and kind ; she said Eliza was 
 away from her mother and she should be glad to supply her place as far as lay in her 
 power. I could tell of many others who are equally kind had I room. Judge and Mrs. 
 Dessasuc are extremely attoitive to us, and Mrs. Alanigaults is the most charming 
 woman I ever sazo : she is a relation of Eliza Watts. And noto what a little place have 
 I got to say what my heart is full of. Why do zoc have no letters? Miranda, you 
 ought to have directed heir sooner : I am so impatient to hear, I know 7iot what to do. 
 Do let me hear from you once in a fortnight at least. 
 
 Januaty 2g. 
 
 How is my precious William f Dear little fellow, how vutch I think of him. 
 Poor Frederic has been quite unwell the last week ; he cries almost all night constantly ; 
 he seems to have somethitig of a dysentery ; he took two grains of calomel yesterday, and 
 has since been taking salts, and will you believe, with all the fatigue and anxiety I 
 undergo, I grow fat. Vou will all rejoice with me to knoio that I arn fat, rosy, and 
 in finer health than I have been in tnany years. lUiat a favor ! I hope I am grateful for 
 it. I xvon't close my letter till I can tell you what kind of a night Eliza has. She lies 
 doii'n but once in the day; her hands and face burn this evening, her feet cold. She 
 wishes me to be very particular that Father may judge of her situation, but much do I 
 fear I shall make you very anxious ; but comfort yourselves, my dear parents, with the 
 assurance that I luill do everything in 7ny power, and whatever may be the evettt, you 
 will not charge me with keep if ig you ignorant. 
 
 OCTA 1 1.4. 
 TO .MRS. KING. 
 
 /'. S. — / am rejoiced to have sotne thing good to close my letter with. Eliza had a 
 poor day yesterday, but, contrary to my expectations, she was up before me this morning ; 
 the time for her chill has gone over and she seems comfortable. 
 
Charleston, January 28, i8og. 
 
 Dear Caroline : 
 
 I send by Capt. Crouch 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 hus- 
 band. I can tell yoii 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. Hoiv are my dear little ones? I hope not too troublesome. Octavia is in 
 fine health and grows fat for her. Freddie has been un7isually troublesome. My dear 
 little Walter. / hardly trust myself to think of them. Precious children / How they 
 bind me to . Adieu. I have a bad headache afid low-spirited to-day. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 TO CAROLI.XE BOWNE, 
 
 No. 388 PEARL STREET, NEW-YORK. 
 ( IVith two small parcels.) 
 
 (BLAZING STAR.) 
 
 [ This appears to be the last letter she wrote. '\ 
 
Charleston, February 2, i8og. 
 
 I have been waiting day after day, my dear au7it, in the hope of having something 
 pleasant to comnuinicatc to yon ; but I do very vuich fear I shall now have nothing, if 
 ever, to say abont our dear Eliza but i>.<ill give you pain. I sat doivn to write you with- 
 out knowing zvhat 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 kftow not how I am affected, my dear aunt. I 
 fear I am doing wrorig in deceiving them, for it is my finn opinion she never will be 
 well. Do advise me, tell me zvhat I ought to do. I think to you I may say the truth, — 
 / think she has been growing sicker evciy hour since she left New- York. Her voyage 
 had a singular effect upon her ; she suffered but little from sea-sickness, but every bad 
 symptom she had before seemed increased; she coughed a great deal and very hard, her 
 fever attd night-sweats were excessive. You ?nay imagine she was tnttch weakened, but 
 I hoped this was a temporary thing, and a fczu days of quiet and of rest would restore 
 her; but instead of that, directly after our arrival a sort of ititcrmittetit fever took place ; 
 she had a regular chill and fever every day, she lost her strength very miich, no appetite 
 at all. This last four or five days her disorder wears another appearance, 'lis now 
 Thursday. On Saturday last she took an emetic ; it distixssed her exceeditigly and yet 
 did not operate ivell. On Sunday Dr. Irvine ordered her to take quassia, in order to 
 prevent a chill; she took it according to his direction. It bnmght on her fever at Ofte d clock 
 in the morning and it never left her till twelve d 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 cantiot walk alone. ' Tis now 
 eleven d 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 physicians opinion concerning her; 
 'tis unnecessary ; I feel I know zvhat it must be. Yet is it not strange she keeps up her 
 spirits/ She is looking forward with the greatest anxiety to zvarm weather. God 
 grant it may not be too late. Dr. Irz'ine zvas the physician Mrs. Hovcy recommended ; 
 he is indisposed, and has left his patients in the care of Dr. Darrozv. The exchange has 
 
pleased us very much, for Dr. Barrow is considered quite as skillful, aud is extremely 
 kind and fatherly in his manners ; indeed, he reminds us so strongly of our dear father 
 that wc already love him very much. 
 
 February j. 
 
 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 iterves are in a dreadfiil state. I itiquired of Dr. Barrow what he 
 thought of her situation. He says he can say nothing encouraging. He said the dis- 
 order had taken great hold upon her, and had shattei-ed her nerves in a terrible manner, — 
 he very much fears a nervous fever ; that her ptclse was veiy bad : as nearly as he could 
 count, up to /JO. Is it not very evident from his being so candid, my dear atint, that he 
 has but little or no hope of her recovery f And yet so strongly do I sytttpathize 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 afternoott 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 knoiv 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 zve 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 t^'as better, my dear aunt, than she has been for a week past. 
 Her voice has returned, and she appears stro7iger in every respect. Yesterday and last 
 night she had a little fex'er ; this morning is deh^htful and she is going to ride. Vou 
 shall hear again from us before long. I know Mrs. Bogert zoill need no apology, 1 am 
 sure, for my not writing. The repetition of such symptoms are distressing to me beyond 
 expression. 
 
 Your aff^cctionatc niece, 
 
 O. S. RROW.W. 
 TO 1/A'\. UC/rs A/At/', 
 
 N/CIV-yORAT. 
 
 13 
 
New- York, February ^, i8og. 
 
 Your letter, my love, of the ijtli and 14th has comforted me. You must keep up 
 your spirits ; you will do well. Dr. Dergcrc says attacks similar to yours are not of 
 the dangerous kind that some think. He appj'oves of your taking the lichen again. I 
 have sent a bundle from Mr. King by Capt. Slocum, who sails to-morrow. I am dis- 
 tressed I cannot go with him. but so it is : it is next to impossible I should leave here till 
 about the 2^th of this month. Mr. Jenkiiis, 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 zvliich arc not finished ; 
 but I am determined to leave all in this month. I hope you have a cotnfortable place 
 no7i>. What abominable lodgings the first xvere. Don' t mind the expense ; get every- 
 thing and do everything you like. Wc can aff'ord it. I wish fny presettce in this place 
 could as well be dispensed with, but so it is. J think it right yon should have a physiciaii. 
 I will bring the things you mention. Our children are well. 
 
 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. 
 
 IF. BOirx/:. 
 
 JVith a bundle of lichen for E. S. D. 
 
New- York, Second Month, §i/i, iSocj. 
 
 It is a fortnight since I sent my last and third letter to my dear aunt, without 
 having received a single line from either herself or Octavia, which, / must acktiowledge, 
 has been no small disappointment. Hozvever, I feel disposed to put the most favorable 
 construction on their silence, and still hope there is one on its journey. All the infor- 
 mation we can learn of thee is through Uncle Walter, who says thou thought thyself 
 rather better, but we want something more particular. We feel interested, and are 
 anxious to know Just hoiv thou art situated in every respect. Do gratify my curiosity. 
 What sort of a family do you board zuith f Is it a pleasant situation, and have you 
 beett regaled zoith green peas yet f Our deep snows a7id cold, whistling winds, which 
 almost occasion chill from the very sound, even when a rotising fire is before us, seem to 
 put all prospect of returning vegetation at a great distance, arid bid defiance to the very 
 idea. Walter and Mary were pretty well last evening. It stoi'ms so violently to-day, 
 I have not heard from them. They look finely, and Mary grows very fast. Their 
 father treated them with a sleigh-ride a few days since. We have had as delightful a 
 season for this amusement as I recollect, and our citizens have really take?i advantage 
 of it. The streets are qtcite alive with the swift passing steed, and our ears are 
 assailed on almost every side by the noise of the bells which attend them. But the 
 walking is and has been so extremely bad, I have scarcely ve/itzired from the thres/ipld 
 of our door for this long while. Grandmother and Aunt Caroline arc both utiwell, 
 with colds of zohich very many are cotnplaining, arid my father has had a severe turn 
 of pain in his breast and side, occasioned, we suppose, by cold ; so that he zcas not out of 
 his bed yesterday, but seems nozc very much relicvrd. Dr. Seaman attends him, and 
 inquired particularly after thee. 
 
 Sth (fourth day). 
 
 Not having heard of an opportunity before to-day to forzuard this, I deferred the con- 
 clusion, that my aunt might have the latest information from her dear children, who are 
 perfectly in health this morning, and in good spirits. I wish I knew as much of their 
 
beloved mother, but Uncle Walter does keep his letters so close, that we cannot hear 
 anything particular ; so I do entreat thee, write to some of the rest of us, or beg dear 
 Octavia. Grandmother and Aunt Caroline have nearly recovered from their colds, and 
 my father is rather better. 
 
 Hoz>.< is Octavia, her husband, and dear little Frederic, and above all, how is my 
 aunt's health? I have not time to add tnore, than as much love as this paper can 
 possibly carry, from my dear parents, grandmother, Aujits Townsetid, King, and 
 Caroline, and be sure a large portion from thy Douglas and Mary, to all your party. 
 
 FROM MAR Y MURRA Y PERKINS. 
 
 ( Wife of B. Douglas Perkins, who was nearly 
 the same age as her Uncle Walter's wife.) 
 
 TO ADAM GILCHRIST, 
 
 FOK ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
Second Month, jth, iSog. 
 
 / have Just received 7ny dear Eliza's tetter, and the infoi'viation thou gives of thy 
 health was affecting. We shall anxiously wish to hear again in hopes of a more favor- 
 able account. I have received Marys shoes, and they fit her very well. The other arti- 
 cles zve have not received yet, but hope to have them from the vessel to-morrow. The little 
 children are pretty well ; have slight colds, but are lively, quite amusing to us, this 
 stormy weather. We have had it very cold, S7iowing or rainittg most continually since 
 thou left us. Sister King desires her love, and would write if her time was not so much 
 engrossed xvith her children having the whooping-cough, though not very unfavorably. 
 Thy Aunt King sends frequently to inquire after dear little Mary and Walter, and 
 intends visiting them soon. N^eighbor Bogert was here a few days since and desired her 
 love to thee. As Mary Perkins zurites frequently to my sister, I hope she ivill get every 
 information she wishes. Mother unites with me in much love to thyself and Octavia. 
 
 • 
 CAROLINE BOWNE. 
 (Her husband's sisUr.) 
 
 43 
 
Charleston, February 12, i8o<). 
 
 The day has come for me to give an account 0/ our dear Eliza for the last iveek, and 
 yet nothing has occurred that can give them the least satisfaction. How painful is the 
 task. But my duty commands it, and I will be faithful to it. I will riot flatter with 
 hopes which never visit my heart. Yoti have your own feelings to bear, my dear parents ; 
 you shall not be distressed with mitie. I will compose myself to give as distinct an 
 account as possible. Her chief affliction the last week has been sore mouth, — // has, 
 indeed, been dreadful and still continues nearly as bad ; she has constant fevers, hardly 
 ever off her; she generally has a chill every tnornitig. She takes nothing but Jellies and 
 a little chocolate for breakfast, but no meat or bread. Her sti-ength goes very fast ; ' tis 
 tuith great difficulty she can walk from the bed to the easy-chair with two to assist her ; 
 her counte?iance and voice have altered very much, — indeed, she seldom speaks loud. 
 
 She rode a little on Thursday, but it was too much for her strength. We have given 
 it up for the present. Different from most persons in her condition, she seems well con- 
 vinced she will never get well. She says I'ery little about it ; never f-ets at bei?ig away 
 from her children or friends, — never mentions it. She asked me yesterday if she 
 would be able to get back to New- York. I told her ' twas impossible to say what chan^^es 
 might take place ; that I wished to see her mind in such a state that she would be per- 
 fectly resigned whichever zvay it turn. And Just so she seems. Thank God, I am 
 spared the pain of seeing her sink away insensible of her danger. / told her to-day was 
 the day for me to write home. She said I could say nothing cncojiraging, that her lungs 
 had only one more state to go through, but that she was resigned to the will of God. 
 This, my dear parents, is a comfort to me beyond description, and I am sure it will be 
 so to you. 'The doctor has been fearing that the sore mouth zoould produce a diarrhea ; 
 she had a touch of it Friday night, but it has disappeared again. Poor Mr. Bowne! I 
 don't kno'w what u'c shall do xvhen he comes. He has no Jortitude, and is not prepared 
 to fnd her so greatly changed. He will be here in the course 0/ another fortnight, I hope. 
 
She has had a comfortless day to-day : that distress which I have mentioned before has 
 troubled her very much. She is hardly ever free from it ati hour. I will not close this 
 comfortless letter until morning. 
 
 Monday, February /j. 
 
 Eliza is much the same this morning, — as usual, very feeble ; her mouth and throat 
 excessively sore. This morning she had a most profuse perspiration, particularly about 
 her head and face. She wakes quite wandering; asks strange questions, owing to extreme 
 weakjtess, I suppose. The diarrhea still threatening; of course, her strength diminishes 
 daily. J dare not think what another month may produce ; she certainly, it appears to 
 nie, cannot survive another like the last. Slu has no pain, and Dr. Barrow says she 
 raises matter from the lungs. Mr. Brown and myself are in very good health ; our 
 darling little Freddie has one tooth. I very much fear he is going to liave a sore mouth. 
 I think a great deal of my darling William, but my anxieties are so centered lure that 
 I feel none on his account. Xo letters yet from Scarborough ; I am quite sick to hear. 
 Do, my dear Miranda, write every week, and be the means of affording me the only com- 
 fort I am capable of receiving. Tell me that my dear father and mother are well, and 
 not too much distressed, my dear boy in health. Yourself, Arexine, dear Isabella ; how 
 much I think of you all, and how much dearer you all seem to me than ever. 
 
 Your child, 
 
 OCT.417.4 S. BROiy.V. 
 
Charleston, February 21 , iSog. 
 
 I u'ill permit no one but myself to transmit to you the dreadful intelligence this letter 
 will convey to you, my dear parents. A good and mej'ciful God will not forsake you in 
 this awful momejit. 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 last days of her illness. She spoke of her approach- 
 ing change with great composure ; said she had thought much of it; that she trusted in 
 God for further happiness with great satisfaction and confidence ; wished her time 
 might come speedily, that she might be relieved of the pain of seeitig 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 two d clock yesterday afternoon zcas the 
 most abiding 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 mo»icnt. It was a day of trial with us most severe. 
 
 With much affectioji and regard to all. • 
 
 IV. BROWN. 
 Poor Mr. Bowne has not arrived. 
 
M7-S. Rii t ledge: 
 
 Nondescript rose. 
 Sweet-scented s/iri(6. 
 Yellow jessamine, 
 English honeysuckle. 
 
 In two boxes. 
 
 Daily rose. > In one box. 
 
 Mrs. Russell : 
 
 Yellow jessamine, f 
 
 Nondescript rose. C 
 
 //i one box. 
 
 Mr. Jose IVinthrop, 
 J no. Simon, Bre., 
 Wm. Dawson, 
 Lewis Morris, Esq., 
 James Gregorie, 
 Lieut. R. Izard. 
 
 ) Invited as pall-bearers. 
 
 Adam Gilchrist, Esq., Mr. afid Mrs. Majiiganlt, Mr. and Miss Middlcton, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Cogdcll, Mr. and Mrs. Gregorie, Mrs. Hovcy, Mrs. Rutledge, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 and the ttco Misses Pinckney, Mr. A. Middleton and Lieut. Izard, Mr. Crocker, Mr. J. 
 Stoney, Mr. and Mrs. Dcssasau, Doctor and Mrs. Innne and Miss Bee, Mr. and Mrs. J. 
 Manigault, Mr. and Mrs. Russell and Miss Russell, Mr. and Mrs. Haskct and Miss 
 Hasket, Mr. Crafts, Mr. Bee, Mr. and Mrs. Loundcs, Mr. W'inthrop, Mr. McKinzey 
 and McNicl, Mr. If'///. Heyward. Jr., Mrs. Heyward atid Miss Hamilton and Miss 
 Heyward, Mrs. Morris and Mr. Morris, Dr. Barrow and t7co daughters, Mr. John 
 Rutledge, Mrs. Broivn, Major Thomas Pinckney and son. Rev. Mr. Hollenshcad. two 
 Misses Jl'infhrop, Miss Craft, Mr. and Mrs. Kerr. .Major and Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. 
 and .Miss Roxana The us. 
 
 44 
 
Died at Charleston, S. C, on the igth iilt., Mrs. Vi^altcr Bownc, consort of Walter 
 Bowne, Esq., of Neiv- York, and daughter of the Hon. Robert Southgate, of Scarborough, 
 Maine, aged tzoenty-fivc years. The bereaved husband and infant children, the afflicted 
 parents, brethren, and sisters, and the 7iu»iero2is respectable friends and acqtiaintances 
 by whom she was so justly respected and beloved for her talents and virtices, will deeply 
 mourn this early signal trimtiph of the Kiiig of Terrors. But they will not ''sorrow 
 as those without hope." Her i7nmortal spirit, liberated from the body, is, we trust, already 
 admitted to a clear and perfect, an itntnediate and positive, a soul-transformitig atid eternal 
 vision of God and the Redeemer. Why the most endearing ties of nature should be dis- 
 solved almost as soon as formed, ichy the dreadfil law of mortality should be executed on 
 the most loorthy and dearest objects of conjugal, parental, and social love, in the moment 
 of sanguine expectation of reciprocal enjoyment, is amotig the dark and mysterious qjies- 
 tions in the book of Providence. The ways of God are inscrutable to mati, ''clouds and 
 darkness arc 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 i-eason 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 frie7ids over our earthly 
 ettjoytnents .' Hoiv tenderly are wc hereby admonished not to expect satisfaction in this 
 empty, fluctuating and transitory state ! How strongly urged to place our afltctions on 
 things above to secia-e an immediate ifiterest in those sublime and durable pleasu7-es 
 which flow from the service and favor of God. and the pt'ospect of complete and endless 
 
 felicity in his presence. 
 
SACRED 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE, 
 
 WIFE OF WALTER BOWNE, OF NEW- YORK, 
 
 DAUGHTER OF ROBERT SOUTHGATE, ESQ., OF SCARBOROUGH, 
 
 DISTRICT OF MAINE, 
 
 WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE 
 ON THE IQTH DAY OF FEBRUARY, l8oCf, 
 
 AGED 2^ YEARS. 
 
 .■irthdale Churchyard. 
 
 In .Archdale Strtet. 
 
The folloiving epitaph, being reckoned one of the most beautiful in the English 
 latiguage, is from the pen of the affectionate husband of its lamented subject : 
 
 Take, holy earth, all thai my soul holds dear ; 
 
 Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave. 
 To Bristol s 7nount I bore with trembling care, 
 
 Her faded foiiti she bowed to taste the wave 
 And died ! Does youth, does beauty read the line? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? 
 Speak ! dead Eliza, breathe a strain divine ; 
 
 E'en from the grave thou shall have power to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be iiinocent like thee, 
 
 Bid them in beauty s sphere as meekly move ; 
 And, if so fair, from vaiiity as free. 
 
 As firm in friendship and as fond in love, 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 
 
 (' Twas e'en so to thee), yet the dread path once trod. 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high 
 
 And bids the pure in heaven behold their God. 
 
Charleston, Mai-cli 12, i8og. 
 
 I hope, viy dear Miranda, this ivill be the last letter you ivill receive from me at 
 Charleston. Poor Mr. Rowne arrived here on Thursday. N^ot a word had he heard, 
 and owing to his havinQ- left Neiu-York, he had not received a single very alarming 
 letter. He was etitirely tinprepaixd for that which awaited hint. Never did I pity any 
 one so. He is ittdeed borne down with the weight of his grief but the violence I dixaded 
 I see nothing of. 7 here 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 fnore 
 composed to-day, and zee are making arrangements to get aivay. He is imich gratified 
 that we ivaited here for him, zchich we had some doubt about, on accoutit of the great 
 expense of 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. 
 MTiat 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. 
 
 Yoiir sister, 
 
 
 
 O. BROWN. 
 
 45 
 
New- York, Sunday, April 2j, /So(^. 
 
 Your afflicted brother, i)iy dear sister, again finds himself in the place ivhich so 
 lately contained everything his heart could wish ; but oh, the sad reverse ! all is changed. 
 Accustomed to approach the city with so much pleasure, now it seems to have lost all its 
 delights. All is gloom. Business, which after a short relaxation I used to resume with 
 so much satisfaction, has lost its charm, and more than all, how shall I describe my 
 feelings on again beholding my dear children ' Can it be possible, my bleeding heart 
 seems to say, they have no mother: how shall I suppoi't myself? The loss of your 
 society, dear sister, I feel very much. Your presence gave support. What would I not 
 give were yours and Father's families near to mc. Perhaps I do wrong to assail others 
 with my distress. I have not at any time since our return from Charleston felt 
 resolution to enter that residence that so lately contained my beloved. I dread it ; my 
 lieart is ready to burst at the thought. Do, tny dearest sister, write me and console me. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 W. B. 
 
New- York, April 2g, i8o<). 
 
 I am much gratified, my dear sis/er, in receiving your letter. J n'as anxious to hear 
 from little Frederic. I hope you will write me often and particularly ; you must not 
 think any incident too trifiing to relate ; everything you can say will interest me. 
 Father s family are very near and dear to me. I feel great solicitude for our sister 
 Isabella ; frequent riding might be of service to her. 
 
 I had a most glootny jojtrney home, my dear Miranda. I felt the loss of Brother and 
 Sister Brotvns company very much. I remained in Boston only a part of a day, and 
 did not see Mis. Derby (I called, but she had company ) nor Louisa ; she was out. I 
 sat an liour with Mr. and Mrs. Gray. William ivas part of the time loith us ; he is a 
 young man that stands higher in my estimation than any other I know. 
 
 After leaving Boston, and riding two days and nearly two nights, a most distressing 
 accident happened to one of the passengers : the stage upset and broke his leg in a most 
 shockifig tnanner. Four of us escaped unhurt, or very little. We carried him about a 
 quarter of a mile on a board; he suffered dreadfully. We left him in good quarters, 
 and procured a doctor. I have not heard from him, bjit expect to ; how thankful ought 
 we that escaped to feel. J/r dear little children are quite well. O my sister, were 
 Father s family only near me / JVith much love to our frie7ids. 
 
 Your very affectionate brother, 
 
 W. BOWNE. 
 
 My love to Arexine. / zcisli she, too. loould zvritc to me. I wrote to Octavia a few 
 lines the day I arrived. 
 
 .U/SS M//i.lXn.l SOUTHGATi:. 
 
New- York, May /j, i8og. 
 
 I have, my dear sister, been, at that mansion, — but enough ! I am unhappy. Two 
 trunks are sent by the brig Scarborough. I have kept a member of things /or Mary. I 
 thought of selecting a fezo things for Sister Isabella, but could not. I leave it to Mother 
 and yourself, if you think well of it. 7 he keys are sent by Mr. Wood, and two letters 
 for you that came enclosed to me by Mr. Gilchrist. My dear little Mary is quite well. 
 
 Walter has a cold. Mary has taken possessioii of her afflicted father s heart. She will 
 come to me from any one, and seems so pleased when with me that I fregttently don't know 
 how to leave her. I have not had a line from you, tny dear sister, and I tvant to hear 
 
 from yoti very often. Your good husband's letter I received. One box of roots Carolitie 
 has sent ; the other roots are not alive. Let me know if the trunks arrive in good order; 
 and if you have the new velvet coat, it is yours. Present my love to Father and Mother. 
 
 Your ajjectionate brother. 
 
 MHS. VC7AVIA BROWS, 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 { District of Maine.) 
 
 ir. BOIVA'E. 
 
New- York, June 2j, i8og. 
 
 I have your ki)id letters, my dear sister, and if you could know the comfort they afford 
 me, and how anxious I am to hear very of ten from you, I think you will, when a leisure 
 moment does occur, gratify me. My solicitude for your husband and yourself is 
 unchangeable. He is young. Hozc different loould be the prospect if he 7oere advanced in 
 years, with a large family, — and we see many in this sittcation. I very much doubt the 
 expediency of Mr. Brown seeking a clerkship. To spend his best days with so little pros- 
 pect of permanent independence does not appear to me to be rigid, — his knoivledge and 
 extensive capacity for business will certainly enable him to do better. I see no insur- 
 mountable difficulty to his commencing the dry-goods or other business in Portland or 
 some other place, except that he is not clear of the old concerns. If tmavoidable, he loses 
 tivo or three years to effect this ; it is certainly a misfortune, but he has youth on his 
 side. I talked icuth Mr. Gray ; he appears justly to appreciate Mr. Brown's mercantile 
 knowledge, and I think is very ready to aid him in commencing business, or, if his old 
 affairs prevent that at presetit, to employ him. 
 
 My dear little children arc very hearty. IValters head, I hope, is nearly well. 
 
 Our good friend Mary Murray has copied the miniature, and only waits a private 
 opportunity to forxvard it to dear mother. O my dear sister, hozo many things occur to 
 rend my heart, and how few to soothe the sufferer s tortured mind. 
 
 I have let my house, sold the greatest part of the furniture. Mother and Caroline, 
 ivilh my dear little ones and nurse, are going to Flushing for the suinmer, and I shctll 
 stay at Afrs. Loring's. 
 
 Your ticket, I fear, has only drawn a prize of ten dollars. I am not certain of the 
 number: send it in your next. I have purchased another ticket in the same lottery, Xo. 
 f, 481, for you ; it will finish draxving in about three weeks. Miranda and A rexine 
 must write to me. 
 
 11: lioirx/:. 
 
 .URS. OCTAVfA BROIVN, 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 (DiUrict 0/ .)fuini:) 
 
Neiv-York, August 2, i8og. 
 Mrs. Ociaviir Brown: 
 
 Your good husband, my dear sister, passed a week with me on his way to Baltimore, 
 and a great comfort it icas. / hope lie will stay longer on his return. The reflection 
 icliich is constantly zoith me, that I am so distant from my ever dear friends of Scar- 
 borough, is painful in the extreme, — could I conveniently leave insurance office and make 
 you a 7<isit this autumn, hozv fondly should I anticipate it. ffccl I must defer the 
 agreeable prospect to another season. My dear little ones are quite well ; I pass every 
 Sunday with them. Ma\ can walk very loell, — hold of the hands, — but she has not cut 
 any teeth; it is not quite time. Mr. Brown and myself dined at Jamaica with Mr. 
 King, and in the aftertioon zcent to see my darlittgs; the night following, at Cousin Anii 
 Bowne's. }'otir husband has probably informed yoti of our visit. Mr. and Mrs. Davis 
 are nozu in this city ; I see them frequently. They lodge near Mrs. Loritigs ; they 
 met their son here from Baltimore. Mary Afurray has fljiished the miniature ; I 
 haz>e it, with a letter for you. I intend to forward than by Mrs. Davis. 
 
 I feel great comfort that my children are in the coufitry ; the city is not a p7'oper 
 place, — great mortality prevails among very young children. We have some alarm of 
 fever, though it does not appear to gain ground at Brooklyn. The fever prevails, and 
 our Boat'd of Health have interdicted the intercourse. At Philadelphia they have also 
 had some cases. Believe me, my dear sister. 
 
 Ever your affectionate brotlier, 
 
 IV. BOWJVE. 
 Thursday Morning : Mr. Brown arrived last evenitig. 
 
New- Yoi'k, December g, iSog. 
 
 lo convince you, my dear s/s/er, lioio much I value your letters, — to leave no excuse, 
 if possible, for such lotig silence on your part, I -will not delay making you my debtor. 
 I acknowledge this is seljish. To hear from my dear friends at Scarborough is so great 
 a comfort to me, when I receive a letter my wish is that I may soon receive another ; and 
 the 7norc to entitle vie to the favor, I will not delay to ivrite, though I confess to you, 
 I am liable to feel reluctance at commencing a letter. I think you, my sister, have 
 e.vpressed feelings of the same kind ; ive must not give way to them. 
 
 Mr. Brown and myself dined at Air. King's on Sunday; the family are well. 
 John intends to make a visit to Ballston Springs. .Ifr. Brown can tell you how finely 
 my little darlings look. Little Mary is so sprightly and so good, you would all be 
 charmed zvith her. O my dear sister, if I could frequently make you a visit with my 
 little ones, what relief it ivould be to me. I think you and Arexine might have come on 
 with Mr. Brown ; it xvould have been a great comfort to mc. I shall fondly anticipate 
 the pleasure another S'-ason. My mother, sisters, and all luould be highly pleased. I 
 toill return ivith you at any time. Our friends, I believe, are generally well. Mary 
 Parsons has a fine son. Mrs. Bogert is happy in imitating Aunt King. Mary and 
 Hannah ^Murray, their mother and grandmother, icith John, zvith Mrs. Af., seem 
 gloomy at their summer house. Mrs. J. R. is much altered in her appearance for the 
 zoorse. The Alisses Watts, lovely, unhappy girls! their father has taken them up the 
 North River. Jt was with great difficulty he prevailed on them to leave Broadway ; 
 they will not visit their country house. 
 
 Afy love to Father and Mother. I do think Father does very wrong to xvork so hard. 
 I wish he would pay more attention to his health ; he ought to, certainly. Accept my 
 best wishes for your happiness, mv dear sister. 
 
 Your afif^ectionate brother, 
 
 \V. BOWNE. 
 P. S. — J//-. Brown left here yesterday. 
 
New- York, September 15, iSog. 
 
 Von have grand times, I suppose, with Governor Gore, and Commencement too. Write 
 to me all about these grand doings. Did the governor stop to sec you / Has James 
 King made you a visit f Frederic is at home. Vou are, no doubt, all very busy mov- 
 ing or preparing to move to the new house. Let me know everything. I am distressed 
 about Sister Isabella ; perhaps a journey to this place might be of great service to her. 
 My mother and sisters would make her as comfortable as possible. My dear children 
 are quite well, and continue in the country. Afary has five teeth, and runs alone, tuith- 
 outfear. It is proposed to wean her. Ask Mother and Octavia what they think of it. 
 I am anxious for her. Mother and Caroline intend returning to the city in about two 
 7c'ecks with the children. 
 
 Mr. King's family are 'well. John has been at the Springs some time. Charles, I 
 believe, is content xvithout going further than Hell Gate, the seat of Mr. Grade. 
 
 What a cool summer we have had ; scarcely any hot weather. It is now like late 
 fall tveather, and excessively dry. The farmers near this are alartned, fearing they will 
 not have any pasture. 
 
 Present my love to Father, Mother, and sisters, and remember me affectionately to other 
 friends. How are oicr relatives at Topsham, Bath, Saco, etc. / Sister Octavia is 
 indebted to me a letter, but I 'u'ill excuse her, and write to her shortly ; dear woman, she 
 has much to do. 
 
 Your lonely brother. 
 
 IV. BOIF.V£. 
 
 MJS^ MIRA.XDA SOUTHOATE, 
 
 Care ROBERT SOUTHGATE, 
 
 SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 (Dislrict of Maiiit.) 
 
To Oclavia. 
 
 New- York, November 2§, i8og. 
 
 It is noio my /nrti to apologize, my dear sister, for the delay in writing. I am ashamed 
 of myself, for really it is more owing to laziness or a want of attachment to writing, which 
 I have a thousand times wished to overcojne, than anything else. This, yon will say, is 
 a pretty apology. I admit you have a right to say, N^o more apologies unless better can 
 be made. I plead guilty. I must correct one idea in vty sister's letter. Vou think you 
 cannot say much to interest me. Very different i7ideed is the reality, — eveiy thing, the 
 most trifling, no tnattcr what, if it interests 07ic of your family, doubly interests me. 
 I am in need of comfort. My dear little Mary is nowfnely, but, poor thing, she has been 
 far otherwise. She has had a most dreadful sore mouth, which nearly deprived her of 
 taking all refreshment ; during the time weaned herself entirely ; slept with nurse the 
 whole time, about two weeks, and would not be nursed once. If the nurse offered to nurse 
 her, she would push her away and be quite displeased. She is now quite well, and a 
 most interesting little thing: mild, sprightly, atid eve 7y thing I could wish ; playful, — 
 says. " Pa." / wish you could see her. I must not venture my all on the little darling. 
 Caroline is devoted to her. The nurse has another place. I am very sorry to hear your 
 dear little Fred is still an invalid. I hope, before this, he is restored to health. 
 Miranda is a bad girl ; she did not write a line to me from Boston. Do scold her veiy 
 hard for me. I wish she had extefided her journey to this place; we should all have been 
 very glad to have seen her. We are all frightened here on account of the early setting in 
 of luinter; the cold is very severe, and there is now a great deal of snow on the groutid, — 
 not less thati twelve inches. I have been much concei'ned for Sister Boyd; I am consoled 
 at your intelligence that she is much better. 
 
 I sytnpathize, my dear sister, with you in your very many trials. The family who 
 are likely to meet with the greatest of losses, I suppose, is Major McLe Han's. ' Tis hard 
 indeed. I am very glad your friend Miss Davis is to be connected so agreeably; all your 
 friends have a conspicuous place in my consideration. Pi-esent my love to your husband, 
 and all my other dear friends. I want very much to see you all. 
 
 Ever your affectionate brother, 
 
 //". BOWNE. 
 47 
 
To Miranda. 
 
 New- York, January i8, iSio. 
 
 I was very glad, my sister, to receive your letter. It was so long since I had heard 
 from my dear frictids, and such a long letter too, you will please accept my thanks, and 
 forgiveness of neglect to write to me frotn Boston, provided, 7ievertheless, you zurite more 
 frequently. My dear children are very well, and have grown a great deal. Walter is 
 quite tall, and Mary has fine red cheeks, and could not be in finer health. You do not 
 mention how dear little Frederic was ; I hope lie has recovered. In your letters you 
 must mention everybody by name. Aunt King is troubled again with a bad cold. The 
 rest of the family are well. James is here ; John was married last flight, aiid report 
 says Charles and Miss Grade are to be before a great zuhile. Miss Chainplin was 
 married, Tuesday, to a son of Mr. Richard Harriso7i. Our city, I am told, is very gay. 
 Mr. Jackso7i, British minister, is here, and report says great attentiofi is paid to him 
 and Mrs. J., — every day invited to dine out, and every evening at a party. You know wc 
 are very Anglo. The Misses Watts are well. You doiit know how much I feel obliged 
 to Eliza and Susan for calli^ig to see my little darlings. Octavia must thank them very 
 particularly when she zurites. Anna Bartlett has made her appearattce at the assem- 
 blies, is much pleased; says you don't write to her. If you want to hear all about 
 fashions, and a great deal about the young folks marriages, and such thitigs, you had 
 better write to her. Your Aufit King, too, complaiiis that you had not written to cuiy 
 of her boys. Isaac Bell is to be married soon to Miss Ellis, a very handsotne young 
 lady about eighteen. I am told he capers about at a great rate. Write to me soofi ; give 
 my kindest love to Father, Mother, and Octavia. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 \\\ BOWNE. 
 
June 8, 1 8/0. 
 
 My Dear Sister : 
 
 Again at house keep i fig. I mii rejoiced. Oh. hoio I rvaiit to see you all. You must 
 lorite to me soon all about voursclf. I like your husband's plans. Be supported, my 
 dear sister, by the hope that things xvill be better for you. The enclosed is yours ; it tnay 
 be convenient at this ?noment. )'ou knoxo your brother. 
 
 Most affectionately, 
 
 W. BOIVNE. 
 
To Miranda. 
 
 New- York, May 7, iSii. 
 
 To begin a letter by apologizing is ivhat I dislike, but it is due to my sister. I am 
 in fault. Soon after receipt of your favor I luent to Philadelphia, and since my return 
 I have been very busy. Mr. Tiltons information of your intended visit is, my dear sis- 
 ter, very pleasittg to all your friends, and to myself tnost grateful. I shall be much 
 grieved if yoti do not fulfill this promised gratification. On your arrival you must 
 repair immediately to my mother's. There any arrangement can take place you like. 
 I am indeed happy to hear you all have such good health. I suspect you should have 
 excepted yourself The visit this way, I trust, zvill establish that also. Truly, my dear 
 sister, docs everything interest me that is iiitercsting to your family, and yoji should much 
 oftener let me hear very minutely from you. I have no intelligence whatever of Uncle 
 Richard since he left this city. How dreadful to his family. What can be his views f I yes- 
 terday sent on board the schooner Relief Captain Obed Baxter, for Boston and Portland, a 
 box, directed to Brother Boyd, containing a silver tea-pot, sugar-dish, and cream-pitcher. 
 I have lo7ig wished to present something to Sister Isabella, and this tea-set must be it. 
 Mother will permit me to have this gratification. Present my love to all our friends, 
 and do not defer yotir journey, but set out the first opportunity. My dear children are 
 quite well. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, * 
 
 IF. BOWNL. 
 
 4 
 
New- York, October 12, 181 1 . 
 
 I hope, my dear Arexifie and Mary, this is the last time I shall write to yon from 
 N^ew-York ; for I a7n now in a state of preparation for a removal of my quarters. 
 There is a Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop from Bostoji, who intend shortly to return to that 
 place, and if they will take charge of me, I intend to go loith them. I look forward 
 with a great deal of pleasure to the time of my arrival at home, where I shall again be 
 returned to the bosom of 7ny dear family. I have received every attention and kindness 
 from my dear friends in New- York, and hope ever to retain a grateful sense of 7in- 
 merited favors : but viy heart lingers about its home. I hope Father and Motlier are 
 well, and I shall find them in as good health as I trust they will find me ; for the last 
 time I was weighed, lohich was a few weeks ago, I weighed one hundred and twenty-five 
 pounds. Tell Mother I have, ivith the kind assistance of Carolitie, made her a fine pot of 
 peach, tvhich, together ivith some other things, I shall leave to be sent by Walter. And 
 tell Mr. Smith, I must answer his repeated favors of pen and ink, paper and ideas, by 
 word of mouth ; he ivill not think I do not love him because I do not write to him. 
 Remember me affectionately to him, and to Father and Mother. Do not expect me with 
 any anxiety, for rvhenever T am safely on my joiirney, / will, if nothing prevents, let you 
 hear from me. Little Mary and Walter are very well, and Mary desires her loi'C to lur 
 grandma Southgate, and her grandpa also, and her auftts and uncles. Give my loi<e, 
 she says, to Dranma Southgate, — she talks very crooked. 
 
 FROM MIRAND.4. 
 TO MISS AREXINE SOUTHGATE. 
 
 4S 
 
New -York, November ^o, r8ii. 
 
 My sister reached honte, but not a line from her to her brother. I did not expect to 
 be so long deprived of that pleasure. My dear little Mary frequently talks of Aunt 
 Miranda, — says she must not stay at Mirandas house only a little while, for she can't 
 leave Gratidmother and Aunt Caroline, and of ten asks why Aunt Miranda don't come 
 to see her. This little darling of mine has certainly m^ore discriminating powers than 
 children usually have, — don't laugh, for T think my sister discovered an unusual smart- 
 ness in her niece. Walter, too, is a fine boy. They are quite zvell. My mother has 
 been very ill. / hope she ivill be restored to health in a few days. You must write me 
 a long letter, — give me an account of everybody. I like very much to receive long letters, 
 though I zurite short ojies myself. Nancy Watts is much indisposed, though / do not 
 know that the family are micch alarmed, nor do I know that she is datigerously ill, but 
 / fear, for she has been confined to her bed or room ever since you left us. The rest of 
 our friends, I believe, are zcell. Now I zcill tell you a piece of news, but you must not 
 talk about it or zvrite about it : Robert Murray is engaged to the young lady at Colden- 
 hani. It is not known when they will be married, and they wish it kept a secret. Give 
 my love to my dear friends. Father s family. I have not heard from Octavia for a long 
 time. I have sent the things you left per schoojier Dolly, Captain Grecly, to sail for 
 Portland : has probably gone two or three days since. It zuill be well to inquire about 
 thc/n on receipt of this letter. 
 
 Affectionately, your brother, 
 
 ir. BOWNE. 
 
 One Jar of Peaches, 
 
 Small Thread- Trunk, 
 
 One liandhox, Tuv Brushes, 
 
 One Kolling-Pin and Waler-Pail. 
 
 (SENT BY SCHOONER DOLLY.) 
 
« 
 
Nezu- York, January i8. 1812. 
 
 I cannoi but tlimk my dear sislcr might turite to 7ne oftener, -uhen I asstire her it 
 would gratify me much to hear very frequently from my valued friends. Dear Octavia 
 has entirely neglected to give me the pleasure of a line. Always mentio7t her particularly 
 in your letters, Sister Isabella and all. How does Cousin Alary Coffin do, and Uncle 
 Porter s family ? Sister Arexine and my cousins have my best wishes for their happi- 
 ness in their proposed change of situation. Robert Mtirray is not married, but xcill 
 pi'obably be soon, and I have no doubt his family will be very much pleased with his wife. 
 She is a charming girl, I am told. My mother has recovered from a very ill turtt and 
 is in good spirits. My dear children are well. Walter goes to school, Mary prattles all 
 day and plays with Sally and Sonny, two miserable dolls. Mother and Caroline desire 
 their love to you all. Nancy ll^atts is very ill. I have the greatest apprehension for 
 her ; indeed, I believe her friends have scarcely any hope left. Betsey, dear girl, looks 
 luorried out. Vou can, my dear sister, in sotne tneasure realise her situation. Oh, how 
 much sympathy is due her; her lot would seem to be hard; I trust she will be supported. 
 IVhat would become of that family without her/ I seldom see John or Charles King; 
 indeed, I do not go anywhere, — my children and the office take my time. Present my 
 affectionate love to Father and Mother. My regards to Mr. Tilton. Accept my best 
 wishes. 
 
 W. BOWNE. 
 
 TO .MISS MIRANDA SOUTHOATE. 
 
Account enclosed in letter of January iS, iSi 2. 
 
 I Si I — Account unlit 11 '. />'..■ 
 
 June, Paid B. Willis for Miranda $14.00 
 
 July I2y Paid to herself 20.00 
 
 August 16, Paid to herself jo.oo 
 
 October g. Paid to herself 10.00 
 
 October 12, Paid to herself ^0.00 
 
 Xoventbcr /j;. Paid for fourteen chairs for Sai'ah 
 
 Lcland 29-75 
 
 S^53-75 
 Due Robert Southgate y<^--?5 
 
 $250.00 
 
 1S12 — 
 
 January / J. Received from H'm. Codman, Tzuo hundred and fifty dollars 
 dividend, on iVeio- }'ork Insurance Go's Stoch. 
 
 I can send father a check on one oj the banks in Jioston for the money. 
 
To Miranda. 
 
 New -York, March 20, 181 2. 
 
 I am dctcrmmcd not to remain in debt. My sister shall 7iot have that excuse for 
 depriving ?ne 0/ the pleasure of receiving letters fro7n her. I have received a letter from 
 dear Octavia. Give my love to her. She is very often the subject of my thoughts. Now 
 does Mr. Brown make out:' The eye-zoater for Sister Boyd shall be procured ajid scjit 
 on the first good opportunity. My dear children are well. Mother and Caroline are 
 also well. You may imagine the solicitude and aff^ectio7i my inothcr has for the children. 
 IVhen she was zvry sick lately, it gaz'e her great trouble their beifig removed into another 
 roo7tt to sleep, and the second night she would have them back. She said she felt inorc 
 easy and contented zvhcn they were near her. Then atid not otherwise could she be certain 
 they were safe. Brother Murray is laid up with a straiti from a fall on the ice at 
 Albany. His wife ajid Liiidlcy have gone there to refnain loith him till the ice breaks 
 up and the steamboats ruji. Robert has returned with his xoife ; they are at his fathei-' s ; 
 she xoill be quite a favorite zuith them all. Robert has dotie zvell. Yon have, no doubt, 
 heard of JVillia7n Grade 's duel zuith Hamilto7i, fro7n Sotith Ca7vli7ia. The sto7y is 
 this : Hai7iilto7i was i7i love with a Miss Hayward, of Charleston. She remai7ted i7i this 
 city to pass the wi7iter. Ha7/iilto7i heard Grade was very freque7it z« his visits, and 
 ca77ie 071 from Charleston to i7iquire into the business ; i77i7ned lately 07i his arrival, W7-ote 
 to Mr. Grade a7id i7ifor77ied him of his attachment for Miss Hayward, a7id what he had 
 heard (all this zoithout C07isulti7ig the lady, as is said). Mr. G7acie se7tt hi7n a verbal 
 a7iswcr that he had 710 i7ite7itio7i of i7iterfe7-ing zvith hitn. Hamilto7i was, at the time, 
 satisfied. Ill the eveni7ig he called on Miss H.. a7id Grade was there. The 7ie.vt day 
 .^fiss II. and her mother were engaged to di/ie at Mr. G7-acic's fathe7''s, a7id did di/ic 
 there. The 7no7'ning followi7ig H. w7'ote G. a very harsh lettc7-, a7id in such tc7->ns that 
 (iracie thought proper to challe7ige ///;«. They zcent out, a7id Grade is 7tozi< laid up zuith 
 a wound, thoJigh no way da7igei'ous, — the ball passed th7vugh his thigh. What shock- 
 ing, horrid /7iode this is of obtaining satisfactio7i. Present 7ny affectio7iate love to our 
 friends, not forgetti7ig the valued Mr. Tilton. 
 
 With g7rat truth, your affectionate bivther and si7tccre well-wisher, 
 
 IV. BOWNE. 
 
 40 
 
New - Y'ork, June rS, 1812. 
 
 I have for ten days Itad the pleasure of Mr. Brown s coinpany. lie can inform my 
 valued friends all thai toi-iling to my dear sister would cotivey ; nevertheless, I cannot let 
 him depart without a line. My dear children are qjiite well. Little Mary has com- 
 menced school, and is highly delighted ivith this nczc employmetit of her time. Our 
 friends are all pretty ivell, except Brother Mur}'ay, who is in a very unpleasant situa- 
 tion, from a fall at Albany. He is almost helpless, can sca^'cely walk with the aid of 
 crutches. Mother and Caroline, with the children, intend shortly to make their annual 
 visit to Flushing. Our frie7id Eliza Watts is well, and proposes, if not prevented by 
 ivar, to visit Niagara Falls in cotnpany with Mr. and Mrs. Kearnet. And I do 
 almost promise myself the pleasure of seeing you all this season. If, however, war 
 should be declared, it will disarrange all plans of this kind. This most dreadful 
 calamity, I do fear, will be our lot. 
 
 Present my love to Father and Mother, and do not omit to retnember me affectionately 
 to .Sister Boyd. Mr. Illton has my regards at all times. I e?tclose a check on the 
 Boston bank for ninety-six dollars and twenty-five cents, the balance due Father of the 
 money received from Mr. Codman. Truly, my dear sister, 
 
 )'our affectionate brother, 
 
 II. BOWNE. 
 .MISS MIR A. \ DA SOUTHGATE. 
 
To Miss Miranda Southgatc. 
 
 SpritiQ, iSij. 
 My Dear Sisicr: 
 
 I have been on a visit to Washington City, which prevented my receiving yonr kind 
 letter until »iy return last week. Say to Arexijie and Brother Smith, they have tny 
 most ardent wishes for their happiness. I should be glad of the opportunity of rendering 
 a visit here pleasant to them. My children are well, except Mary a cold. They have 
 had the measles, but so favorably that they were very sick bid a single day. They 
 grozc very fast ; you tL'ould be surprised to see them so tall. My dear mother does 
 not seem quite so well this spring as usual. Caroline is well. They desire much 
 love to you all. Brother John is married ; my new sister, I believe, is a most 
 amiable woman. John has surprised most of his acquaintance in this affair, yourself 
 / think, of that nutnber. Make my love to Father and Mother, and dear Frederic. If 
 he would make a jaunt this ivay his health might be improved. I t^'ill take good care 
 of him. )'oii say nothing of your owtt health ; I hope it is good. Present my regards 
 to Mr. and J/?s. Til ton. 
 
 Your affectionate bj-other, 
 
 W. BOIVNE, 
 
Nczu- York, October I (), 1814. 
 My ever dear Sister : 
 
 I have received your kind letter. I aui indeed among the nnmber of your friends 
 made happy by your recovery so far, and pray a complete restoration of health may take 
 place. Do, tny dear sister, take every possible care of yourself ; your dear childi-en, hus- 
 band, friends, all have so high an interest. 
 
 7 he constant alarm for the safety of our sea-ports is very distj-essing. Many of our 
 citizcTis at this time are very apprehensive. Lord Hill intends to make New- York his 
 head-quarters this -winter if he can. My visit to my dear friends is necessarily deferred 
 for the present : / want to see you all very much. My dear children arc quite well ; they 
 have just returned to the city, and their school. As usual, they have passed the summer 
 at Flushing. Father has, I believe, a pretty good idea of my property and manner of 
 conducting my affairs. I have not been in trade for a long time. The war has caused my 
 property to be comparatively unproductive. Failures have been very numerous and very 
 distressing : Robert Boivne and one of his sons, Minturn & Champlin, Post & Min- 
 ium, — these are all closely connected, and have large families, accustomed to live in 
 affluence, and two of them, M. & C. (of late) in great luxury. It 'would gratify me to 
 hear often from those I so much value. m 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 ir BOWNE. 
 
Scarborough, Septetnber 2j, /8i§. 
 
 I hope my dear brother does not attribute »iy long silence to a decreased affection /or 
 /liiii or his precious children, but to causes which have been of a nature to unfit me for 
 this or any other exertion. Since our Octavia's death 7ny health has been very poor. I 
 do not think my complaints are consumption, although I am quite subject to a cough, but 
 I believe it arises from debility. I am nozu, however, recruiting quite fast, and expect 
 soon to enjoy my former state of health. Father atid Mother are in very good health, as 
 is Mary, zvho is now at home. She is quite fleshy and very blooming. Arexine is 
 pretty %vell, and Mr. Smith is in fine health. Sister B. has not been well this summer, 
 but is now getting better. She. / suppose you have heard, is the mother of twelve children, 
 the youngest of whom is not very healthy. Horatio is in fine health ; they have four 
 children; his wife is in very poor health. She has bled at the lungs a number of times, 
 but latterly in much larger quanties, — Arexine says a half of a pint at a titne. Her con- 
 stitution is much shattered, and we have but little hope of her recovery from those repeated 
 shocks. Uncle Porter 's family are in pretty good health, but iti poor circumstances. 
 Isabella Porter is very well married, and King likezoise. Harriet and Lucy are still 
 single. Mrs. Coffin lives at Wiscassett ; her husband has the office of clerk in one of our 
 Eastern courts. He owns a small farm, and lives very comj'ortably. Mrs. Coffin has 
 lately become the mother of twins, a little boy and girl. They have lost their two youni;- 
 est children before these, — a little Sarah and John, for whom they are named. A^: 
 Brown is very well, and is very much supported. His heavenly Father ixgards the sor- 
 row's and petitions of his heart, and comforts him by the rich influence of his Spirit. //■: 
 is still at housekeeping with his little Frederic, who is of the same age as your Mary. 
 William is at an academy at Saco, and is doing very well Little Octavia is with 
 Arexine ; she is a nice little girl, but she is unhappily affirted by a scrofula in her neck 
 which injures her looks more than her health. Little Harriet and Elizabeth are with 
 us : they are fine, healthy children. 
 
 / give you a particular account of the J'amily, my dear Mr. Bowne, because I Jeel 
 assured that everything which belongs to the source from whence Providence once per- 
 mitted you to derive the richest treasure you ever possessed is, and will ever be, interest- 
 50 
 
ing to yon; and, altliough the stream w/iie/i diffused joy atid tranqiiil/ity through your 
 heart is note shut up, yet is not the fountain precious / Von are bound to tis by ties 
 zohich nothing but death can dissolve, and I feel as if in your heart there is almost 
 something which reciprocates this feeling. Hoio are your precious children :' You can- 
 not fully realize our desire to see you and them ,■ consider how long a time it is since you 
 have been to see us. My mother is sometimes hurt, and always grieved, when she thinks 
 or speaks of your long absence from us. Do, tny dear brothej', come and bring our dear 
 
 If alter and A/a?y ,• if you will bring them here next year, tmless something in Provi- 
 dence occurs to prevent, I will return with you to New- York. Let 7iot tenderness or 
 sympathy in our afflictions prevent you. I ktiow you dread to meet us. but do not let 
 this prevent you from coming. JVe have been and are deeply afflicted, but, my dear 
 brother, we are not unhappy; you taill not find us so. We heard you were going to the 
 Springs, — did you go / / wish I coiild have been in New- York aiid accompanied you. 
 Does Mary remember her Aunt Miranda^ ff so, remember me most tenderly to her 
 and Walter, and tell them that Aunt Miranda arid Aunt Mary, and Grandmamma 
 Southgate wish to see them very much. Hoiv is your mother and Caroline ? Do give 
 my love to them ; it would afford me a great deal of pleasure to see my dear New- York 
 friends again. Remember me affectionately to your brother Murray s family, Mrs. 
 
 Townsend, and Mrs. King, if she is in New - York. Mr. Tilton is very well, and if he 
 knew I was loriting, would send pai'ticular remembrance. Father and Mother desire an 
 affectionate remembrance to you, and join mc cordially in toishing you to come to S. 
 
 Ji^ritc soon, my dear bivther, and believe me, 
 
 J 'ours very affectionately, 
 
 MIR A .VDA SO UTHGA TE. 
 TO WALTER BOIVNE, 
 
 NEW-YORK. 
 
Albany, March /./, 1820. 
 
 My Dear Mary: 
 
 The packet toilh Aunt Marys anct brother's letters came safe to hand, and since I 
 have had the pleasure to receive my dear daughter's letter. Walter has lorittcii to vie 
 lately, and before this, mine in reply has most likely reached him. Brother seems to 
 express a willingness to leave Burlington for rather a longer time than vacation. I want 
 to see hint very much, and all of you ; it is too bad to be so long from those ive love. 
 
 I do not feel as if I should object to thy going to drawing-school ; draiving is in my 
 mind a pretty and seasonable accomplishment, and why may not delineating objects upon 
 paper be useful? I shall want thee to make maps for me ; I do not recollect from whence 
 those lines were taken, — most likely frotn some tvork on education. In thy next thou can 
 give me a kind of diary, suppose suited to the previous day, something like this : " Dear 
 father, I got up at six o'clock sunrise, loashed, studied my lessons one hojir — sewed half 
 hour — breakfasted — went to school — up head in rhetoric and French, next to head in 
 philosophy, grammar, and spelling, down foot in ciphering — came home at three dclock, 
 dined, looked over my lessons, tvrote ten lines to father, knit half hour, sewed half hour, 
 Jumped rope and played one hour — drank tea, talked, put questiotis to Cousin Mary in 
 geography and grammar — Cousin Mary put questiotis to me in geometry, trigonometry, 
 and mathematics — studied lessofis one hour, knit and sewed half ho7tr. Jumped rope and 
 played half hour — warmed, loent to bed at half past eight dclock." The weather is most 
 unpleasant, walking wretched, sleighing pretty good. The Hudson remains frozen; 
 horses and sleighs cross on the ice. The hour has nearly arrived for tne to go to the 
 house to my daily avocation, as thine is to school. 
 
 Entirely affectionate, etc. 
 
 W. BOVVNE. 
 ro M.4RY KING BOWNE, 
 
 .\o. 288 PEARL STREET, 
 
 XEiV-YORK. 
 

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