Miss Octavia Southgate.
Bethlehem, August 9, 1803.
I intended writing before I left New York, but was so much engaged in
preparing for our journey, I had no time. My great wish to see this
famous Bethlehem[60] is at length gratified. You can scarcely imagine
any thing more novel and delightful than every thing about here, so
entirely different from any place in New England. Indeed, in
travelling thro’ the State of Pennsylvania, the cultivation,
buildings, and every thing are entirely different from ours,—highly
cultivated country, looks like excellent farmers. Barns twice as large
as the houses, all built of _stone_; no white painted houses, as in
New England. We crossed the famous Delaware at Easton. It separates
New Jersey and Pennsylvania. We saw some beautiful little towns in New
Jersey likewise, but in Pennsylvania the villages look so many
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 most
all Dutch, and such _jargon_ as you hear in every entry or corner
makes you fancy yourself in a foreign country. These Bethlehemites are
all Germans, and retain many of the peculiarities of their
country—such as their great fondness for music. It is delightful:
there is scarcely a house in the place without a Piano-forte; the Post
Master has an elegant grand Piano. The Barber plays on almost every
kind of music. Sunday afternoon we went to the Young Men’s house to
hear some sacred music. We went into a hall, which was hung round with
Musical Instruments, and about 20 musicians of the Brethren were
playing in concert,—an organ, 2 bass viols, 4 violins, two flutes, two
French horns, two clarionets, bassoon, and an Instrument 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, all kinds of mechanics, and so perfect 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 breakfast 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 down-stairs.
Yesterday, Daddy Thomas (who is a head one, and who comes to the
tavern every few hours to see if there are any strangers who wish to
visit the buildings) conducted us all round. We went to the
Schools,—first was merely a _sewing school_, little children, and a
pretty single sister about 30, with her white skirt, white, short,
tight waistcoat, 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, very unbecoming but very singular,
tied under the chin with a pink ribbon,—blue for the married, white
for the widows. Here was a Piano-forte, and another sister teaching a
little girl music. We went thro’ all the different schoolrooms—some
misses of 16,—their teachers were very agreeable and easy, and in
every room was a Piano. I never saw any embroidery so beautiful;
Muslin they don’t work. Make artificial flowers very handsome, paper
baskets, etc. At the single Sisters’ house we were conducted round by
a fine lady-like woman, who answered our questions with great
intelligence and affability. I think there were 130 in this house;
their apartments were perfectly neat,—the Dormitory or sleeping-room
is a large room in the upper part of the building, with “Dormont”
opposite the whole length. A lamp suspended in the middle of the
ceiling, which is kept lighted all night; and there were 40 beds, in
rows, only one person in each,—they were of a singular shape, high and
covered, and struck me like people laid out—dreadful! the lamp and
altogether seemed more like a nunnery than any thing I had seen. One
sister walks these sleeping-rooms once an hour thro’ the night. We
went to a room where they keep their work for sale,—pocket-books, pin
balls, Toilette cushions, baskets, artificial flowers, etc., etc. We
bought a box full of things, and left them much pleased with the
neatness and order which appeared thro’out. The situation of the place
is delightful. The walks on the banks of the Lehigh and the mountains
surrounding—’tis really beautiful. The widows’ house and young men’s
is similar to the one described; there were many children at the
school, from Georgia, Montreal, and many other places as far. There
are some genteel people from Georgia at the tavern where we are, and
Philadelphia. We intended leaving here for Philadelphia to-day, but it
rains. We shall spend a few days there and go to Long Branch. If the
alarm of the fever[61] continues in New York we shall not return there
again, but go in the neighborhood. Send in for a trunk, which I packed
up for the purpose, in case I feared going in the City—and set off for
the Springs or somewhere else. ’Tis very uncertain when we go to
housekeeping; the alarm of the Fever hurried us out of town without
any arrangement towards it, and may, if it continues, keep us out till
middle of Autumn. But at any rate you must 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 roving, I don’t know but
he’ll spoil me. We both enjoy travelling 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 are,
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 can 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[62] _arrived_? I want much to hear. Love to
Sister[63] and the children. Adieu.
Affectionately,
ELIZA S. BOWNE.
Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough.
Ballston Springs, Sept. 4, 1803.
Once more do I write you from the _Springs_, where I enjoyed so many
delightful moments last year. We recall so many charming things to our
recollection by this visit to the Springs that ’tis of all places the
most pleasant for us to visit. A description of the place, amusements,
etc. I gave you last year; they are the same now. We arrived yesterday
morning, found the place much crowded, and were fearful of not getting
good accommodations, but in that respect were agreeably disappointed.
They dance much as usual; a fine ball to-morrow evening. I wish you
were here to help us dance,—a great many New Yorkers have taken refuge
here from the fever. I was quite sorry when I found Mr. Derby had been
here and gone again. Tell Louise the _Bussey_ family from Boston are
here, and Miss Putnam appears as much delighted with the _picturesque
steeps_ of Ballston as she was with those of _Freeport_, and with
about as much reason. We have an abundance of queer, smart people
here. Last night at tea I found myself seated alongside _Beau
Dawson_,[64] “_Nancy Dawson_,”—our envoy to France—you remember! Gen.
Smith of Baltimore and family, who it was said would succeed Uncle
Rufus; Mr. Harper and wife—the fine speaker in Congress; _Herssa
Madame_ Somebody—French lady; and a nobleman from nobody knows where,
and a parcel of strange people, making a variety that I like once in a
while. But, let me see, I have hurried you along to the Springs from
Long Branch in a much easier manner than I got here myself. Oh the
tremendous Highlands![65] I thought to my soul I should never hold out
to get over them—such roads! But I lived over it, tho’ it made me sick
fairly, with fatigue. I went to see Maria Denning, whose father’s
country seat, Beverly, is in the midst of the Highlands—on the North
River, directly opposite _West Point_. It does not look much like
Louisa’s picture; ’twould make one of the most sublime and beautiful
pictures imaginable if the objects were selected with judgment. It
rises with sublime and picturesque grandeur directly from the North
River. Who would have thought of taking a view of it without
water?—that is the greatest beauty when united with the others. We got
to Mr. Denning’s Saturday night,—left the neighborhood of New York,
Thursday,—where we staid only one night, dined at Uncle’s, drank tea
at Sister Murray’s, and set off that evening for the Springs. The
romantic and beautiful scenery on the North River as we rode up was
most charming to me. I admire the wild diversity of nature—here we had
it in perfection. I am sure the _Hudson_ wants nothing but a Poet to
celebrate it. The Thames and the Tiber have been sung by Homers and
Popes, but I don’t believe there can be a greater variety, more
sublimity 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 would come here with us, but
Uncle said he must go _East_ if anywhere, but he wanted to be at rest
a few months, now he was settled. Mrs. 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 20 miles from New York. The falls—the rocks—the whole
scenery partakes more of the sublime—almost terrific—than Glens Falls,
but not so beautiful. I am much delighted to hear of Mr. Boyd’s
arrival; Sister must be very happy. Martha is coming 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 me 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 came and we
all left the city; so here I am—perfectly unprepared 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. Bowne. Oh, I have not told you!—saw the
tree Major Andre was taken under, and the house where _Arnold_ fled
from, left his wife 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,—don’t laugh at travellers’ stories,—but we really rode over
the peaches in the road; we always kept our case full, William brought
us some off the finest trees that hung over the road. Peaches and
cream!—they laugh and say Boston people cry out, “’tis _so_ good!”
Well, what have I not wrote about? A little of everything 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 had no time to think since I was
married. I don’t expect to, this 2 or 3 months, so good-bye.