Part 13
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.
[Illustration:
SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE
Hell Gate, Long Island ]
New York, July 14.
Friend Greene from Portland is here and will dine with us to-day; a fine opportunity for me to write to my friends. I have quite a packet of newspapers which I shall send by him to amuse you; they contain all the public amusements and shows in celebration of 4th July. The Procession passed our house and was very elegant. In the evening we were at Davis Hall Gardens; the entertainment there you will see by the papers; ’twas supposed there were 4,000 people there; tickets half a dollar; and ’tis said he made very little money, so you may think what the entertainment was. Indeed there is every day something new and amusing to me. Whenever we have nothing particular in view, in the cool of the evening we walk down to the Battery, go into the garden, sit half an hour, eat ice-cream, drink lemonade, hear fine music, see a variety of people, and return home happy and refreshed. Sunday we dined at Mr. Delafield’s near Hell Gate, Long Island; the most superb, magnificent place I ever saw, situated directly on the East river, the finest view you can imagine. I was delighted with our visit, so much ease, elegance and hospitality. I am very glad you liked your gown. Long sleeves are very much worn, made like mitts; crosswise, only one seam and that in the back of the arm, and a half drawn sleeve over and a close, very short one up high, drawn up with a cord. I have just been having one made so. All Mrs. Delafield’s daughters, even to little Caroline, no older than our Mary, had their frocks made exactly like the gown I sent you, only cut open in the back, a piece of bone each side and eyelet holes laced,—long sleeves as I mentioned above; short sleeves and open behind. I should admire to be in Portland, now all the Coffin family are there. Give my best love to Mrs. Coffin and Ellen Foster; the others will have returned. I am astonished at what you say about my calling on Mrs. Sumner, and what Mrs. Coffin said. When I got to Boston I determined to call nowhere but at Mrs. Sumner’s, as my intimacy in the family was such and I was fearful she might not hear of my being in town and should not see her; accordingly the day I got in town we went out purposely to call there, and to prevent any one calling on us (for I did not wish to see much company) we said we expected to go out of town immediately. However, there were a great many called to see me notwithstanding. In Cap hill we met Mr. Sumner. I introduced Mr. Bowne, said we were just going to call on Mrs. Sumner, enquired how she did, etc., and Mr. Sumner said they were just going out to ride, but if I would go immediately with him I could see her. I was fearful of detaining them, and thought I should certainly see her, now she knew I was in town and had set out to call on her; and Mr. Sumner particularly asked where we were to be found,—we told him Mrs. Carter’s, and parted. From that time, every time I heard the bell, I supposed ’twas Mrs. Sumner. We staid 2 days, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sumner called. I felt amazingly hurt, as so many ladies I was very little acquainted with called on me immediately. Late in the evening before we left town, Tom Coffin called in, appeared rather formal, never mentioned Mrs. Sumner or any reason why they did not call, nor any apology. As I could no way account for such mysterious conduct, it greatly mortified me. This is the true statement, which you may mention to Mrs. Coffin, and then ask her who has a right to feel offended. The great dinner given in honor of Uncle Rufus I have not yet mentioned; ’twas very superb, and 200 of the most respectable citizens of New York attended. Mr. Bowne says, tho’ he has been at many entertainments given in honor of particular persons, yet he never saw one that was so complimentary, and never a person conduct himself on such an occasion with such ease, elegance, and dignity in his life. He returned quite in raptures,—such insinuating manners—such ease in receiving those presented and introduced,—he is a most amazing favorite here. Democrats and Federalists and all parties attended. French Consul on his right—English Consul on his left. When Mr. Bowne went up, he held out his hand with all the ease of an old friend, without even bowing, and said, “How! is it Bowne? How’s your wife?”—so familiar. I went to see the tables: very novel and elegant—there was one the whole length of the Hall and 4 branches from it; there was an enclosure about 2 feet wide, filled with earth, and railed in with a little white fence, and little gates every yard or two ran thro’ the centre of all the tables, and on each side were the plates and dishes. In this enclosure there were lakes, and swans swimming, little mounds covered with goats among little trees,—some places flocks of sheep, some cows laying down, beautiful little arches and arbors covered with green,—figures of Apollo, Ceres, Flora, little white pyramids with earth and sprigs of myrtle, orange, lemon, flowers in imitation of hothouse plants,—nothing could have a more beautiful effect in the hot weather; those opposite to you were divided, their plates quite hidden. Adieu; some ladies have just called. We are going about 20 miles to enjoy the sea, Rockaway, a place of fashionable resort; ’tis intensely hot, exceeded only by Ballston Springs. We don’t go to Bethlehem till the last of the month. Mr. Bowne’s business detains him in the City only one or two days in a week perhaps, yet prevents a long journey just now. We ride out every day or two, go into the baths whenever we please, they have very fine public ones. Adieu. The ladies will think I am Yankee. Love to all.
ELIZA S. BOWNE.
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.
ELIZA S. BOWNE.
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.