Part 12
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.
10 o’clock, evening.
Just returned from Uncle Rufus’. Mr. B. introduced me to Uncle; he took my hand, introduced us to his wife, and they both seemed much pleased to see us. Uncle is so easy and graceful and pleasing, I was delighted with him. Looks very like _Mr. Parker_ instead of _Mr. Davis_; enquired particularly after the family; was surprised at my being here,—said everything that was pleasant, hoped we should be very sociable, etc., etc.; and after a pleasant half-hour we returned home. I broke the seal of my letter to tell you; ’tis late, I can’t be particular.
E. S. B.
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.