Ballston Springs, August 22, 1802.
My Dearest Mother:
I feel at this moment as if I could fly! so far from home, received no
letters, yet at Albany I expect to find them, let me at least hope what
’twill delight me so much to realize. I sometimes almost fear to receive
a letter from home,—yet my indulgent Parents will pardon the liberty I
took in coming this journey, as I trust they are convinced by my past
life, that I would not for the universe act in opposition to what I knew
they approved. I am convinced when you know Mr. and Mrs. Derby you will
feel that I was both secure and honored in their protection. I cannot
tell you half I owe them, never in my life was I treated with more
affectionate attention. They appear as much interested in all I do as if
I were their daughter. You know my heart, my dearest Mother, you know it
never was insensible to the smallest favor, what then must be its
sensation when it is thus overpowered by affectionate kindness. I long
to convince them how much I feel, but words are inadequate. My Father
has seen Mr. D., I wish he would write to him, I think it would be no
more than just to thank him for the care he has taken of his daughter.
It seems as if he had a right to expect something of the kind. They are
the finest couple I know of, so different from what I expected to find
them. I thought Mr. Derby a gay gallant man like Mr. Davis, but he is a
plain, noble-hearted, sincere, generous man,—talks very little and one
of the pleasantest dispositions in the world. In Mrs. Derby I thought to
find a gay woman of fashion, but not a soul that ever knew her could
help loving her. I never saw a person so universally beloved. We have
been here at Ballston a fortnight to-morrow. It has been one continued
scene of idleness and dissipation—have a ball every other night, ride,
walk, stroll about the piazzas, dress,—indeed we do nothing that seems
like improvement. But still I think there is no place where one may
study the different characters and dispositions to greater advantage.
You meet here the most genteel people from every part of our
country,—ceremony is thrown off and you are acquainted very soon. You
may select those you please for intimates, and among so many you
certainly will find some agreeable, amiable companions. For a week we
sat down at the table every day with 60 or 70 persons, to-day we were
all speaking of the latter being very thin because we had only 40. There
are as many more at the other boarding house, continually going and
coming, and now there is scarcely 10 persons here that were here when we
came. We went last week to _Lake George_, about 40 miles from here,—made
up a party and went on Tuesday, breakfasted at _Saratoga_, where the
Springs formerly most celebrated were, and dined about 14 miles this
side the lake, at the most beautiful place I ever saw. Perhaps you have
heard of Glens-Falls; they are said to exceed in _beauty_ the Falls of
_Niagara_—tho’ in _sublimity_ must fall far short. I never imagined
anything so picturesque, sublime and beautiful as the scenery around
this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have exactly the
appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins, they are entirely of _slate_,
and seem piled in regular forms with shrubs and grass growing in
between. I looked around me for an hour and I every moment discovered
something new to admire,—nothing could exceed the beautiful variety of
the scenery. I left this elegant place with painful regret. About sunset
we came in view of the _Lake_, it is a most beautiful sheet of water,
Morse says 36 miles long and from one to 7 broad, full of beautiful
Islands, 365 in all and of every size and shape. It is surrounded by
very high hills and mountains rising one above the other in majestic
grandeur. In the morning we went out to fish, sailed about 4 miles on
the lake to a little Island where we went on shore,—nothing could exceed
the beautiful grandeur of the prospect; we anchored off,—I found it very
charming fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we could see
the fish swimming around the dock. Our first intention was to sail down
the lake to Lake Champlain and visit the ruins of the fortifications at
Ticonderoga, but some of our party dissuaded us from it. We saw the
ruins of Fort George and the bloody pond—where so many poor wretches
were thrown. We stopt on our return at the field where Burgoyne
surrendered his army; it is now covered with corn and nothing to
distinguish it from the surrounding fields; we returned by a different
route, for 10 miles we rode directly on the banks of the Hudson river,
nothing could be more delightful, our road wound with the river which
was beautifully overhung with trees; we returned here Thursday night,
found them dancing. I joined, and the next night we had a ball at the
other house; there again I danced till 12 o’clock and the next morning
got up quite sick,—to-day I am finely again and have made a resolution
not to dance again whilst I stay here. This all think I can’t keep, but
they shall see I can. Col. Boyd came here last week but went away while
we were gone to Lake George—to Canada I believe. He says you had not
heard of my coming when he left Portland, so he could tell me nothing
new. We shall probably leave here on Tuesday or Wednesday, stay at
Albany a few days and go to Lebanon again, perhaps to Williamston
Commencement. We are engaged to spend the day at Mr. Rensselaer’s, the
former L Governor, and one at Mr. Rensselaer’s—his brother, who is Mayor
of the City. I know not how long ’twill be before we return to Salem,
but I really begin to think of home with a great deal of anxiety. Tell
Octavia I never go into the Ball room to dance without wishing for her;
how delighted should I be if Horatio and Octavia were here with me! How
charming will it be when I get home again! Believe me, my Dear Mother, I
shall love home more than ever. I long to sit me down by the instrument
some evening after the business of the day is over, with you, my Father,
and all round me, or to hear Octavia sing and play. This scene of
dissipation may please for a while by its novelty, but it soon
satiates—no regular employment, I have never been in the habit of
spending my time in idleness; and they say here that the Southern ladies
seem more at home here than the Northern ladies and do not appear to
think industry necessary to happiness. I hope to find many letters at
Albany. I have kept a regular journal which will assist my memory in
relating my adventures, when I return home again. I wrote Horatio last
week and told him to send the letter home for you to read. I look
forward to returning with the greatest pleasure. I suppose you are fixed
upon a house and will move by the time I return, let me know as I am
anxious to hear about it. Give my best love to all my friends and tell
Octavia I have more to say to her than I can gabble in a month. Oh I
long to get home again. I find no time to write, if I lock myself in my
chamber I have so many knocks at the door—Miss Southgate go and walk—go
down to the spring—somebody wants you below,—so many interruptions, ’tis
almost impossible. After I retire for the night I am so tired and sleepy
and my chamber is so hot, I _cannot_ write; ’tis Sunday to-day (tho’ all
days are alike here) and I have determined I would write home. I wonder
how it was possible for Martha to write so much,—I hear of her from all
the Southern people, they all speak in raptures. Give my love to Mrs.
Coffin and kiss all the children—Mamy particularly, what would I give to
hear her open my door and run in this moment. Mrs. Derby says I get
low-spirited when I write home, the only way is to think as little of it
as possible whilst I am so far off. I shall write again from Albany,
where I hope to find letters.
Ever your affectionate ELIZA.
To the care of Robert Southgate,
Scarborough,
(District of Maine.)
[Illustration:
THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE
]
Albany, August 8, 1802.
Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without any thing to mortify
or disappoint us; I wrote you the night I arrived at Lebanon, the next
morning the bell rang and we all assembled to breakfast; there were
about thirty ladies, much dressed, looking very handsome, it seemed more
like a ball room than a breakfasting room. We were the last that came
in, and all eyes were fixed upon us. Lady Nesbert and the Allston family
from Carolina were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is a little,
smart-looking woman, very _learned_ they say, understands the dead
languages—not pedantic, rather reserved—Lady Nesbert,[35] a most
interesting woman, full black eyes with a wild melancholy expression and
a voice so sweet and plaintive, you would think it melancholy music. I
never heard her speak a dozen times since I have been here and rarely
ever smile. Old Mrs. Allston, the mother, is a _sour-looking_ woman,
nothing affable or condescending. Miss Allston, they say, is a romp,
though her mother restrains her so much you would not suspect it. Old
Mr. Allston[36] is affable and agreeable. We had likewise there a Mr.
Constable[37] of N. Y.; has lived in great style,—very much the
gentleman.
Miss —— from N. Y. whom I mentioned in my last is a truly _fashionable_
City Belle. She is a fortune, but I believe not of family. The Gentleman
she calls her father and whose name she takes ’tis said was hired by a
British officer, her real father, to marry the mother and adopt the
daughter, and a very large sum was given him. He appears an abandoned
old rake, pale and sallow. Oh! he is a horrid-looking object, in a deep
consumption I imagine; she is very attentive. But, good heavens! Ellen,
I had no idea of a fashionable girl before—one that devotes her whole
attention to fashion. I have much to tell you when I return, about the
Miss Ashleys’ french style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ransselear[38] left
Lebanon the day before we did with Mr. and Miss Westelo,[39] Mr.
Welsh,[40] the Miss Stevensons, and Miss Livingston the Albany
Belle,—all belong to Albany. Mr. and Miss Westelo, Miss Beakman, and Mr.
Ransselear, who is Mayor of the City, called last evening and we all
went to walk—went into Miss Westelo’s and spent a charming hour; all
returned with us, and we engaged to go to meeting with Mr. and Miss
Westelo and take tea at the Mayor’s this afternoon. Mr. Westelo is going
to Balston in company with us and a Mr. Kane[41] of N. Y. whom we met at
the Coffee House—very genteel man. Another little lawyer from
Litchfield, who came in from Lebanon with us, is likewise, on Monday; so
we shall have a very pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet one of
their genteelest N. Y. beaux at Balston, Mr. Bowne. I wonder if it is
the same I have heard you mention. I shall find out. About eleven
o’clock, or rather twelve, I was surprised by some delightful music, a
number of instruments, and most elegantly playing “Rise! Cynthia! rise!”
I jumped up and by the light of the moon saw five gentlemen under the
window. To Mr. Westelo I suppose we are indebted. “Washington March,”
“Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Taste Life’s glad moments,” “Boston March,”
and many other charming tunes—played most delightfully. I have heard no
music since I left Salem till this, and I was really charmed. The bell
will ring soon and I must finish this after meeting.—Sunday afternoon.
The dinner was brought on the table just as the bell rang for meeting,
so that we were obliged to stay at home this afternoon, and tell Mr.
Westelo and his sister, who called again for me, as Mrs. Derby did not
go out, that I would go to Mrs. Ranselear’s after meeting. In the
morning, Mr. Derby and myself went to the New Dutch Church with Mr. and
Miss Westelo and sat with them next pew to the Patroon’s, whom you saw
in Salem with his beautiful wife.
After meeting, Mr. Westelo came with the Patroon and his wife to see us.
She is really beautiful, dressed very plain; cotton cambric morning
gown, white sarsnet cloak, hair plain, and black veil thrown carelessly
over her head. They urged our dining there to-morrow, but Mr. Derby is
determined to set out in the morning for Balston—the waters, all tell
him, will be of great service—when we return we shall go and see them. A
great number of elegant gentlemen are here in this house, many from N.
Y., some going to the springs. Your Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would
look rusty long side them. Hush, not a word!—Mr. Kane of N. Y., whose
sister married Robert Morris, is here, will set out for the springs in
company with us, Mr. Westelo and some others. We shall go to Lake George
and probably make a party from Balston. Mrs. Derby has insisted on my
wearing the sarsnet dress to-day as we shall drink tea at the Mayor’s,
where the Patroon and wife will probably be. I am every moment reminded
of your affectionate kindness, which I hope never to be insensible to.
You wrote Mamma, I suppose. I have not received a line from anybody;
shall depend on finding letters at Pittsfield or Lebanon; do write me
everything. I have so much to tell you that I cannot write. Mrs. Derby,
I cannot tell you how much I owe her. She treats me with so much
affection, and she says she believes Mr. Derby feels as much interest in
me as if I were his daughter—wishes everything I wear should be
becoming, and indeed they both treat me with all the attention and
affection my most sanguine expectation could desire. I do not wish to be
treated with more affection; think then, dear Ellen! how sensibly I must
feel it, how gratifying to my feelings. I can never forget the
obligation I owe to you and them. My best love to your husband; tell him
when I return I shall have a whole world of news for him. I long to hear
from you, do write soon. At Balston I will write again. Many people will
be talking about my going this journey; many will censure me perhaps; if
you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill-natured remarks you could
not do me a greater favor than to vindicate my conduct. I have never for
one moment since I left Salem regretted I came. The affectionate
attention of Mr. and Mrs. Derby delights my very heart, ’twas more than
I had a right to expect. I have received much delight in this tour, seen
much elegant company, variety of character and manners. I am sensible it
will be a source of great improvement, as well as pleasure. I shall have
seen that style and splendor, which has so many magic charms when viewed
at a distance, divested of its false place, we find it mingled with as
many pains as any other situation in life, nay, more poignant pain. I
feel that I shall not be at all injured by this life; though I enjoy
myself highly and mingle with these people with much delight, I shall
return happy and content. Mr. Derby is quite unwell, has taken nothing
but milk since we left Salem, his stomach refuses everything else. I
have strong hopes that the Balston waters will have a good effect.
Everyone tells him so. A gentleman just from Balston says there is a
great deal of company at the Springs, dance every other night. If the
waters agree with Mr. Derby we shall stay a week or ten days. I have
written home a number of times, which together with my journal take up
all my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hrs. devoted to sleep.
I would give anything for one line from you this moment. How delighted I
shall be when I return! Any news from Martha? If any letter arrives for
me send it on to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if we were all
together going to the Springs! I have not time to write anything about
Albany fine society—I believe full of Dutch houses. Adieu, love to all
friends.