Sally Weeks remember me to—and all other friends; Betsey Tappan—tell
her Mr. Bowne often speaks of that sweet little Miss Tappan. How comes
on Father’s house, Octavia? We both depend on its being finished next
season. We think very seriously of coming next summer. Mr. Bowne wants
to go almost as much as myself.
Love to Sister, hope she is well again. Uncle Rufus told me Mr. Boyd
had been very sick, but I did not mention it, lest it might alarm
sister. Adieu. Love to Zilpah and Lucia. Tell Zilpah Mrs. Bogert came
to see me last week and is in hopes she will come on with her father.
Remember me affectionately to all Mrs. Davis’ family. I sometimes
treat myself with telling my Husband all about our charming frolics.
Does not Mr. Davis talk anything of coming to New York? Louise is
quite a belle I suppose.
Miss Southgate.
New York, July 23, 1803.
I have sent a few sugar toys to the children, which you must
divide,—the cradle for Mary, the basket for Arixene, etc., etc.,—pair
shoes apiece, two little dogs I put up in the music—one looks like
Sancho; a little frock I send as a pattern for Miranda, Arixene, and
Mary, long or short sleeves as you please, whalebone in the back,
laced. I have sent another box of things to Isabella’s children: the
paper box I mean for them; two little fans for Arixene and Mary, with
their names on them, you’ll find in the bottom of the box. The two
songs I sent you are all I could find that struck me; for the “Death
of Allen,” I never heard it, and bought it because it was a
composition of Floyd’s; “The Wounded Hussar” I admired and knew you
could not get it set for the Piano,—I don’t know but ’tis different
from Miss Sandford’s. I write in great haste—we are going to dine at
Uncle Rufus’ out of town; ’tis past eleven. They have a delightful
place on the North River; took tea there last week. Mr. Bowne joins me
in love to Father and Mother and all. How comes on the house,
Octavia?—we want to come very much next Summer. Adieu.
Yours, E. S. B.
P. S. I have some fine peaches and apricots on the table before me;
Mr. Bowne brings me a pocketful of fruit every time he comes home. I
have ate as many as I want to, and have been thinking how much I would
give to get them to you, but this early fruit won’t keep at all. I was
at the theatre night before last—at Mount Vernon Garden; Hodgkinson is
a fine fellow. We commence our Southern journey in about 10 days. Oh,
I am sorry—Mr. Bowne just came to tell me the vessel has sailed—well,
I must wait for another. Love to Mary Porter, and give her the ring I
enclose of my hair; tell her I long to see her, and ask if she means
to be _Mary Porter_ when I next come to the Eastward. Love to all
friends.