My Dear Mother:
Eliza received a letter yesterday from you, where you say you have not
received a letter from either of us a long time. I am really surprised
at it, as I wrote you very frequently from Boston, and am determined
to let you have a letter now every fortnight to let you know what we
are doing and whether I am happy. I begin to feel quite at home and
certainly never was happier in my life. It is true I sometimes sigh
for home, but it is generally when I am in a crowd that I am most
there in imagination. But when I am _here_ and none but our own
family, I have not a single wish ungratified. I am much more pleased
with New York on every account than with Boston. As a City it is much
superior, the situation is every way as delightful as possible. The
inhabitants to me are _much more_ pleasing, more ease, more
sociability and elegance, yet not so ostentatious,—they dress with
remarkable simplicity; and I think I could spend the winter here and
not expend half the money that I must unavoidably do in Boston. There
every one dresses, and a person would look singular not to conform;
but here there is such a variety, and the most genteel people dress so
plain that one never appears singular. To-morrow is Christmas and we
dine at Uncle’s; he is a charming man, looks amazingly like you, so
much so that I admire to look at him. She is a very affable, pleasing
woman, and they both appear to be fond of Eliza. We were at a concert
last evening; the most delightful music I ever heard. We wished for
Horatio all the evening. There is not much gaiety, they tell me, till
after the holydays, that is Christmas and New Year. We have been into
no parties yet, but have made many sociable visits, which I very much
admire. I am very much pleased with all the _friends_ we have visited.
Old Mrs. Bowne is a fine, motherly old lady; she treats Eliza with as
much affection as an own mother,—they all appear to be very glad to
see me, and I really feel sometimes as though I was at home; how I
long to see you all! How is Arixene and Mary? How I want to see them!
How is Papa this winter? Ah! if you were all here! But next spring we
shall all be with you. I am afraid you are solitary—if you are, do, my
Dear Mother, tell me, find any opportunity, and I’ll be with you as
soon as you say,—depend on it, I shall never get so attached either to
the inhabitants or the gaieties of New York, as to feel reluctant to
return home; even in my happiest hours I think of the time with
extreme pleasure. This family is the only thing that would root me to
the spot, and there is a charm in that which nothing but home can
equal. I have promised Eliza a page for you, so I suppose I must
close. Give my best love to Father and the children, and believe me
your affectionate child,