Love to Mamma, and tell her I am out of all patience.
Miss Octavia Southgate.
Boston, May 30, 1803.
Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter’s Boarding House, and
tho’ we have endeavored to keep ourselves as much out of the way as
possible, a great many people have called to pay their respects to Mr.
and Mrs. Bowne. The first person we met driving thro’ Salem was Mr.
_Lee_ just coming in town; he bowed very low and pass’d. We went to a
public house and had not been there 3 minutes before Mr. Lee came in
determined to be the first to call on us; he shook hands very
cordially, congratulated us, and went with us up to Ellen’s. We
promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Mrs. H. Derby; spent a
charming hour and returned to Ellen’s, dined, and all went to Lucy
Derby’s to tea, Mr. Lee and a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself
called on Mrs. Grey, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen’s
and stayed the night, and the next morning, which was Wednesday, came
into Boston,—’twas _election day_ and all the world was in motion. I
could not bear to come to Mrs. Carter’s, but Mr. Bowne thought he
ought to. Mr. Lee got to Boston as soon as we did and came immediately
to see us and offer his services; he has been here again this morning
and is going to ride into the country with us to show us some fine
seats. Doctor Boice, Mr. Davis, Mr. Cabot, Charles Bradbury, Tom
Coffin and a dozen other gentlemen, whose names I have forgot, and who
came with the Miss Lowells and Miss Russells. We have prevented all
invitations on, by constantly saying we were going out of town
immediately. Mr. Lee insisted, when I expressed a wish to see Miss
_Wyre_, on letting her know I was in town,—he went and she came
immediately back. I was very glad to see her and she appeared so
herself at seeing me. Some ladies and gentlemen came in; and after
they were gone, Alicia, Mr. B. and myself went a-shopping;—the
fashions for bonnets, Octavia, are very ugly; Alicia had a large,
white glazed cambric one made without pasteboard. But I have not told
you how Gen. Knox[43] found us out at Newburyport. We always kept by
ourselves, but in passing the entry Gen’l Knox, who had just come in
the stage, met Mr. B. and asked where he was from—(Mr. Bowne kept here
with Mrs. Carter when Gen’l Knox was here last winter); he told him
from the Eastward.—Alone?—no.—Who is with you?—_Mrs. Bowne._ So plump
a question he could not evade, so the General insisted on being
introduced to the bride. I was walking the room and reading, perfectly
unsuspicious, when the opening of the door and Mr. Bowne’s
voice—“Gen’l Knox, my love,” quite roused me; he came up, took my hand
very gracefully, pres’t it to his lips and begged leave to
congratulate me on the event that had lately taken place. After a few
minutes’ conversation—“And pray, sir,” said he, turning to Mr.
Bowne—“when did this happy event take place?” I felt my face glow, but
Mr. Bowne, always delicate and collected, said—“’Tis not a fortnight
since, Sir.” The stage drove to the door, and after hoping to see us
at Mrs. Carter’s he took his leave, and this morning—(he was out all
day yesterday)—I found him waiting in the breakfast room to see me. He
introduced me to General Pinckney[44] and his family from
Carolina,—Gen’l Pinckney, they say, is to be our next President. “_Mr.
Bowne_,” said Gen’l Knox to Gen. P., “has done us the honor to come to
the District of Maine for a bud to transplant in New York.” He was
very polite and said “he must find us out in New York.” Only think, I
never thought of the _wedding-cake_ when I was at Salem. You would
laugh to hear “_Mrs. Bowne_” and “Miss Southgate” all in a breath—“How
do you do, Miss Southgate?”—“I beg pardon, _Mrs. Bowne_,” and do it on
purpose I believe; when I hear an old acquaintance call me “Mrs.
Bowne” it really makes me stare at first, it sounds so very odd. Mr.
B. will be in, in a moment—and if I don’t seal my letter, he will
insist on seeing it, so love to all. I depend on finding letters at
New Haven. I have a thousand things to say,—(some ladies enquire for
Mrs. Bowne, so says the servant,—I’ll tell you who they are when I
come up,)—Mrs. Bartlett and Alicia; they insist on our taking tea and
spending the evening; we promised if we did not leave town after
dinner that we would. Adieu, adieu. Mr. Bowne sends a great deal of
love.
Your affectionate sister,
ELIZA BOWNE.
[Illustration:
THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM
]
New Haven, June 1, 1803.
Your letter, my dear Octavia, was the first thing to welcome me on my
arrival at this City. I cannot describe to you my sensations when it
came. I can rarely think of home without more pain than pleasure, and
yet if there is a being on earth perfectly _blest_ ’tis your sister
Eliza. How infinitely more happy than when I left you. You cannot
imagine how delightful has been our journey. We have stop’t at every
pleasant place, enjoyed all the beauties of the Spring in the richest
and most luxuriant country I ever saw. I wrote you last from
Boston.—The afternoon following Mr. Lee called to accompany us a few
miles out of town; he had requested Mr. Lyman’s permission to go out
to his seat in Waltham that Mr. Bowne and myself might have an
opportunity to see it, as it is the most beautiful place round Boston.
We set out about 4 o’clock—had a most charming ride. Mr. Lee was
remarkably sociable, attentive and polite, both to Mr. Bowne and
myself. He talks just as sociably, and called me “Miss Southgate” and
“Mrs. B.” all in a breath as fast as he could talk. I have no time to
tell you of this elegant place of Mr. Lyman’s, great taste in laying
out the grounds. It surpasses everything of the kind I ever saw;
beautiful serpentine river or brook thickly planted with trees, and
elegant swans swimming about—you can’t imagine—’twas almost like
enchantment. After Mr. Lee had gathered me a bouquet large enough to
supply a ballroom—of the most elegant and rare flowers,—full blown
roses—buds—everything beautiful, we jumped into the carriage, he shook
us cordially by the hand, wished us every happiness, and hoped to see
us in New York ere long. Sunday morning we got to Springfield, stayed
the day, it recalled so many pleasing sensations. When we parted
there—how different were our feelings—our happiness was augmented by
the contrast. From Springfield to Hartford was charming; much pleased
with Hartford, stayed a day and night there. From Hartford to New
Haven is the most elegant ride you can possibly imagine,—a fine
turnpike about 30 miles, and such a picturesque, rich, luxuriant
country, such variety and beauty—oh ’twas charming! Mr. Bowne is
waiting for me this full hour to walk in the Mall,—What shall I do, he
hurries so? Well, I never saw a place so charming as New Haven; we
have been all over it,—visited the College, everything, and I give it
the preference to any place I know of—a particular description I
defer. I have no time to say a word of your letter; write me
immediately on receiving this to New York, where we shall be on
Saturday. Mr. Bowne’s best love with mine to all the family. Adieu—I
have ten thousand things more to say but can’t. Write me immediately.
Ever your affectionate
ELIZA BOWNE.
New York, June 6, 1803.
I sit down to catch a moment to tell you all I have to before another
interruption. I have so much to say, where shall I begin—my head is
most turned, and yet I am very happy; I am enraptured with New York.
You cannot imagine anything half so beautiful as _Broadway_, and I am
sure you would say I was more romantic than ever if I should attempt
to describe the Battery,—the elegant water prospect,—you can have no
idea how refreshing in a warm evening. The gardens we have not yet
visited; indeed we have so many delightful things ’twill take me
forever; and my husband declares he takes as much pleasure in showing
them to me as I do in seeing them; you would believe it if you saw
him. Did I tell you anything of Brother John? handsome young man,
great literary taste; he is one of the family; nothing of the
appearance of a Quaker. Mrs. King, another sister, they all say looks
like me. Mrs. Murray, who is very sick now, has a daughter, a
charming, lively girl, about 19, and the little witch introduced me in
a laughing way last night to some of her friends as _Aunt Eliza_. I
protest against that; her brother Robert 17 years old too; I
positively must declare off from being Aunt to them. Caroline and I
went a-shopping yesterday, and ’tis a fact that the little white satin
quaker bonnets, cap-crowns, are the most fashionable that are
worn—lined with pink or blue or white; but I’ll not have one, for if
any of my old acquaintance should meet me in the street they would
laugh, I would if I were them. I mean to send sister Boyd a quaker
cap, the first tasty one I see; Caroline’s are too plain, but she has
promised to get me a more fashionable pattern. ’Tis the fashion. I see
nothing new or pretty,—large sheer muslin shawls put on as Sally Weeks
wears hers are much worn, they show the form thro’ and look pretty;
silk nabobs, plaided, colored and white, are much worn, very short
waists, hair very plain. Maria Denning has been to see me, I was very
happy,—several spring acquaintance. Expect Eliza Watts and Jane every
moment, they did not know where I was to be found. Last night we were
at the play—“The way to get married.” Mr. Hodgkinson[45] in _Tangent_
is inimitable. Mrs. Johnson a sweet, interesting actress in Julia, and
Jefferson,[46] a great comic player, were all that were particularly
pleasing; house was very thin so late in the season. Mr. and Mrs.
Codman[47] came to see me. I should have known her in a moment from
her resemblance to Ellen and the family,—appeared very happy to see
me,—Mr. Codman was happy, Mrs. Codman would now have somebody to call
her friend, etc., etc. Maria Denning told me Uncle Rufus [King] was
expected every day; we have such contradictory accounts, we hardly
know what to believe. As to housekeeping, we don’t begin to talk
anything of it yet. Mr. Bowne says not till October, however you shall
hear all our plans. I anticipate so much happiness; I am sure if any
body ought to I may. My heart is _full_ sometimes when I think how
much more blest I am than most of the world. At this moment there is
not a single circumstance presents itself to my mind that I feel
unpleasant to reflect on: the sweet tranquillity of my feelings—so
different from any thing I ever before felt—such a confidence—my every
feeling reciprocated and every wish anticipated.—I write to you what
would appear singular to any other.—You can easily imagine my
feelings.—I see Mr. B. now where he is universally known and
respected, and every hour see some new proof how much he is honored
and esteemed here; the most gratifying to the heart you can imagine,
cannot but make an impression on mine. We talk of you when we get to
housekeeping, how delightful ’twill be—what a sweet domestic circle!—I
must leave you; Caty says—“Mrs. Walter (for so the servants call me to
distinguish), a gentleman below wishes to see you.” Adieu. Who can
this said gentleman be?
Mr. Rodman was below, whom I saw at the Springs, and for these two
hours there has been so many calling I thought I should never get up
to finish my letter. Mrs. Henderson,[48] whom I mentioned to you as
one of the most elegant women in New York, and Maria Denning, her
sister, came in soon after. Engaged to Mrs. Henderson’s for Friday.
Thursday Morning:—I have been to two of the Gardens, Columbia,[49]
near the Battery, a most romantic beautiful place; ’tis enclosed in a
circular form and little rooms and boxes all around, with tables and
chairs, these full of company; the trees all interspersed with lamps
twinkling thro’ the branches; in the centre a pretty little building
with a fountain playing continually, the rays of the lamps on the
drops of water gave it a cool sparkling appearance that was
delightful. This little building, which has a kind of canopy and
pillars all round the garden, had festoons of colored lamps that at a
distance looked like large brilliant stars seen thro’ the branches,
and placed all round are marble busts, beautiful little figures of
Diana, Cupid, Venus, by the glimmering of the lamps, which are partly
concealed by the foliage, give you an idea of enchantment. Here we
strolled among the trees and every moment meet some walking from the
thick shade unexpectedly, and come upon us before we heard a sound,
’twas delightful! We passed a box that Miss Watts was in; she called
us, and we went in and had a charming, refreshing glass of ice cream,
which has chilled me ever since. They have a fine orchestra and have
concerts here sometimes. I can conceive of nothing more charming than
this must be.
We went on to the Battery: this is a large promenade by the shore of
the North River; very extensive rows and clusters of trees in every
part, and a large walk along the shore, almost over the water, gives
you such a fresh, delightful air, that every evening in summer it is
crowded with company. Here too they have music playing on the water in
boats of a moonlight night. Last night we went to a garden[50] a
little out of town, Mount Vernon garden,—this too is surrounded by
boxes of the same kind, with a walk on top of them. You can see the
gardens all below; but ’tis a _summer playhouse_—pit and boxes, stage
and all, but open on top; from this there are doors opening into the
garden, which is similar to Columbia Garden, lamps among the trees,
large mineral fountain, delightful swings, two at a time,—I was in
raptures as you may imagine, and if I had not grown sober before I
came to this wonderful place ’twould have turned my head. But I have
filled my letter and not told you half—of the Park—the public
buildings,—I have so much to tell you, and of those that have called
on me—I have no room to say half. Yesterday Mrs. Henderson came again
to see me and brought two of my Aunt King’s most intimate friends to
introduce—Mrs. Delafield[51] and Miss Lucy Bull. Mr. and Mrs.
Delafield are Uncle and Aunt’s very intimate friends, she is called
the most elegant woman in New York. I was delighted with her and very
much gratified at Mrs. Henderson’s attention in coming again on
purpose to introduce them, they were so attentive, so polite, and Mrs.
Delafield said so many things of Aunt King, how delighted they would
be to find me settled near them, how much I should love them and
everything of the kind, that was very gratifying to me. Miss Denning
has been to see me 3 or 4 times; several invitations to tea, but we
declined as our family friends were visiting us this week. This
morning we go to make calls. I have got a list of names that most
frightens me. All our brothers and sisters say—“Why, Eliza does not
seem at all like a stranger to us,”—indeed I feel as easy and happy
among them as possible, which astonishes me, as I have been so
unaccustomed to Quakers, but their manners are so affectionate and
soft, you cannot help it. Mrs. King (sister) is a beauty—She would be
very handsome in a different dress; she looks so much like Alicia
Wyer, you would love her,—just such full sweet blue eyes, charming
complexion and sweet expression, and her little quaker cap gives her
such an innocent, simple appearance, I imagine Alicia with a quaker
dress—and you will see her exactly. Adieu. I am expecting to hear from
you every day. Mr. Bowne is out, would send a great deal of love if he
were here. Kiss dear little Mary and all the children. I never go by a
toy shop, or confectionery, without longing to have them here. Love to
all. Our best love to my Father and Mother, Horatio, Isabella and all.
I mean to write as soon as I am settled a little. Adieu.
Miss Southgate.
New York, June 18, 1803.
I am just going to set off for Long Island and therefore promise but a
short letter. I have a mantua maker here making you a gown which I
hope to have finished to send by Mrs. Rodman. The fashions are
_remarkably plain_, sleeves much longer than ours, and half
handkerchiefs are universally worn. At Mrs. Henderson’s party there
was but one lady except myself without a handkerchief,—dressed as
plain as possible, the most fashionable women the plainest. I have got
you a pretty India spotted muslin,—’tis fashionable here. _My husband_
sends a great deal of love, says we shall be travelling about all
Summer, settle down soberly in October, and depend on seeing you as
soon as we are at housekeeping. Sister Caroline has made Sister Boyd a
tasty quaker cap, which I shall send with the gown. How could you
mistake what I said of Caroline so much? Far from being “_stiff and
rigid_,” she is most affectionate, attentive and obliging,—nothing was
more foreign to my thoughts, and you must have taken your idea from
what I said of her dress, which, you may depend upon it, with quakers
is no criterion to judge by. I never was more disappointed in my
life—to find such a stiff, forbidding external covered so much
affability and sweetness.
You must give my love to Miranda. I wish I had time to write to her,
Horatio, my Mother and all, but I expect the carriage every moment.
Tell Horatio he must write to me. At present my letters to you must
answer for all, till I am more settled. Mrs. Codman has promised to
call at our house and tell you all about me. Malbone[52] has just
finished my picture; I have done sitting; he was not willing I should
see it, as ’tis unfinished. When you return ’twill be done, then I’ll
tell you whether ’tis like. I have told you in a former letter we
shall go to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and perhaps to the Springs. My
trunk arrived safe. I shall send a little ring to Cousin Mary Porter;
’tis not the kind I wanted, but I had not time to have one made to
send by Mrs. C. Is mine with sister Mary’s hair done? Send it to her
by the first opportunity. Adieu. Best love to all friends, and all the
children. Tell mamma I mean to write her as soon as I have leisure,
that I am very, _very_ happy, that Uncle Rufus has _not_ arrived, tho’
every day expected, and that I look to the time when we shall see her
and my Father in New York. Mr. Bowne and myself both will be
delighted. Give my best love to Lucia,[53] Zilpah and John, and ask
the latter if he has discovered on whom my _mantle rested_. Tell
Zilpah we pass her friend Mrs. Bogert’s house every day, and never
without thinking of her. The City air has not stolen my _country
bloom_ yet, for every one says—“I need not ask you how you do, Mrs.
Bowne, you look in such fine health.” Dr. Moore[54] would not
inoculate me for the Small Pox, after examining my arm, as he was sure
from what I told him I had had the Kine Pox well, and he would insure
me against the Small Pox. But Mr. Bowne seems to wish I should be
inoculated, tho’ I care nothing about it now. Adieu. My best love to
Aunt Porter and Nancy, Mary Porter and all the other friends. We are
going to _Flushing_ to see our cousins before we return; you know how
Mary laughed about the name. Yesterday we were at Belvidere, the most
beautiful place, the finest view in the world, the greatest variety. I
never shall have done. Kiss dear little Mary; I think of her every
time I see a sweet little sight.
Your affectionate sister ELIZA S. BOWNE.
P. S. Remember and put an S in my name to distinguish; there are 2 or
3 Eliza Bownes in the family.
[Illustration:
LUCIA WADSWORTH
]
[Illustration:
ZILPAH WADSWORTH
]
New York, June 30, 1803.
Uncle Rufus[55] has just landed. The Hussas have ceased, the populace
retired, and I hasten to give you the earliest information. Several
thousand people were on the wharf when he landed, my Husband among the
number. As he stept from the vessel they gave 3 cheers and escorted
him up into Broadway to a Mr. Nicholas Lowe’s[56] (his friend); then
three more cheers as he entered the door. He stood at the door, bowed,
and they dispersed—all but a dozen particular friends, who accompanied
him into the house, and Mr. Bowne with them. Was introduced by Mr.
Watson,[57] and immediately after Mr. Henderson[58] said, “A niece of
yours, Mr. King, was lately married in New York to Mr. Bowne.” My
Uncle immediately came up to him, shook hands a second time, and said,
“_Miss Southgate_, I presume.”—He staid but a few moments; the
acclamations of the people had rather embarrassed him (uncle). Aunt
King had not landed. This evening we are going to see them. Imagine me
entering, presented by Mrs. Henderson, Miss Bull, or Mrs.
Delafield,—all her intimate friends; think what a mixture of
sensations! I’ll tell you all about it. I returned from Long Island
this morning: delightful sail, beautiful country, and pleasant visit.
Malbone has finished my picture, but is unwilling we should have it as
the likeness is not striking,—he says not handsome enough—so says Mr.
B. But I think ’tis in some things much flattered. It looks too
serious, pensive, soft,—that’s not _my_ style at all. But perhaps
’twill look different; ’twas not quite finished when I saw it;
however, he insists on taking it again as soon as he returns from the
Southward, and told Mr. Bowne, if he _must_ have one he might keep
this till he returned and he would try again. Uncle Rufus brings news
that _war_ has actually taken place, hostilities commenced. The
King[59] on the 14th sent a message to Parliament that he was
determined to use every effort to repress the overbearing power of
France, and hoped for their united assistance and exertions.—So much
for _Father_.—The whole City seems alive, nothing else talked of but
the arrival of Mr. King and the news of War. Adieu. I’ll write again
soon. Best love to all the family.
We are in expectation of great entertainment on fourth of
July—_Independent_ day! as they laugh at us Yankees for calling
it,—the gardens, the Battery, and every thing to be illuminated,
fire-works, music, etc., etc. Col. Boyd called to see me; and Mr.
Grelett, whom I was introduced to in Boston, brought the handsome Miss
Pemberton, whom you have heard Col. B. speak of—to call on me; she’s
from Philadelphia. I was out. I hope none of my acquaintance will come
to New York, pass thro’, or any thing, without finding me out. I just
begin to make memorandums of tables and chairs, spoons and beds, and
everything else; most turns my brain, so many things to think of; but
I am well and happy, and ’tis a pleasant task. Adieu.
Yours affectionately, ELIZA S. BOWNE.