Miss Southgate, Portland.
New York, July 4, 1803.
Dear Mother:
I have written generally to Octavia, but as I meant my letters for the
family, ’tis not much matter to whom they were directed. I wrote you
of Uncle Rufus’ arrival and our calling on them the evening after.
Sunday they called on us with Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, their friends, with
whom they are staying till their own house is ready. They both kissed
me very affectionately, said everything that pleased me, and were very
solicitous that we might get houses near each other in the winter,
that we might be sociable neighbors. Uncle Rufus says I remind him of
Martha very much; he inquired particularly after all the family, and
asked if I did not expect you would come on to see me, and both
appeared much pleased when I assured them I depended on seeing you
here. Aunt King told Mr. Bowne he must bring me to see them _very
often_, and look upon her as a _Mother_.
July 8.
My letter will be an old date before I finish it. You must have
perceived, my Dear Mother, from my letters, that I am much pleased
with New York. I was never in a place that I should prefer as a
situation for life, and nothing but the distance from my friends can
render it other than delightful. We have thus far spent the summer
delightfully: we have been no very long journeys, but been on a number
of little excursions of 20 or 40 miles to see whatever is pleasant in
the neighborhood. Mr. Bowne’s friends, tho’ all very plain, are very
amiable and affectionate, and I receive every attention from them I
wish. I have a great many people call on me, and shall have it in my
power to select just such a circle of acquaintance as suits my
taste,—few people whose prospects of happiness exceed mine, which I
often think of with grateful sensations. Mr. Bowne’s situation in life
is equal to my most sanguine expectations, and it is a peculiar
gratification to me to find him so much and so universally esteemed
and respected. This would be ridiculous from me to any but my Mother,
but I know it must be pleasing to you to know that I realize all the
happiness you can wish me. I have not a wish that is not gratified as
soon as ’tis known. We intend going to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and a
watering place, similar to the Springs, about 30 miles beyond
Philadelphia; shall probably set out the latter part of this month. At
present we have done nothing toward housekeeping, and Mr. Bowne won’t
let me do the least thing towards it, lest I get my mind engaged and
not enjoy the pleasure of our journeys.—’Tis very different here from
most any place, for there is no article but you can find ready made to
your taste, excepting table linen, bedding, etc., etc. One poor bed
quilt is all I have towards housekeeping, and been married two months
almost. I am sadly off, to be sure. We have not yet found a house that
suits us. Mr. Bowne don’t like any of his own, and wishes to hire one
for the present until he can _build_, which he intends doing next
season; which I am very glad of, as I never liked living in a hired
house and changing about so often. Uncle and Aunt King want we should
get near them; they have hired a ready furnished house about 2 miles
out of the city for the summer, and intend hiring a house in town in
the winter. I have been very busy with my mantua-maker, as I am having
a dress made to wear to Mrs. Delafield’s to dine on Sunday; they have
a most superb country seat on Long Island, opposite Hell-Gate;—he is
Uncle Rufus’ most intimate friend and a very intimate one of Mr.
Bowne’s. We shall probably meet them there; I have not seen them to
ask. My picture is done, but I am disappointed in it. Malbone says he
has not done me justice, so says Mr. Bowne; but I think, tho’ the
features are striking, he has not caught the expression, particularly
of the eyes, which are excessively _pensive_: would do for Sterne’s
Maria. The mouth laughs a little and they all say is good,—all the
lower part of the face; but the eyes not the thing. He wants me to sit
again, so does Mr. Bowne. Malbone thinks he could do much better in
another position. I get so tired, I am quite reluctant about sitting
again. However, we intend showing it to some of our friends before we
determine. How do all our friends at Saco and Topsham do? I often
think of them, and Mr. Bowne and myself are talking of coming to see
you next summer very seriously. How comes on the new house? We are to
come as soon as ever that is finished. If you choose to send so far, I
will purchase any kind of furniture you wish, perhaps cheaper and
better than you can get elsewhere. Adieu. Remember me to all the
children. Dear little Mary,—I can’t help crying sometimes, with all my
pleasures and amusements; ’tis impossible to be at once reconciled to
quitting all one’s friends. I thought a great deal of the children. I
never thought I loved them so much; I never pass a toy-shop or
confectionery without wishing them here. How does Horatio succeed in
business, as well as he expected? How comes on Father’s turnpike and
diking? Tell him I yesterday met a woman full broke out with the
small-pox; I was within a yard of her before I perceived it; the first
sensation was terror, and I ran several paces before I recollected
myself. As soon as I arrived in town Doctor Moore examined my arm,
enquired the particulars, and refused to inoculate me again; that he
would venture to insure me from the small-pox; that he had inoculated
hundreds and never had one take the small-pox after the kine-pox.
Adieu.
Your affectionate daughter
ELIZA S. BOWNE.
P. S. All the family desire to be remembered particularly. Mr. B. is
out to dine.
Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough, District of Maine.
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