Part 13

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.

ELIZA S. BOWNE.

Miss Octavia Southgate.

Lebanon Springs, Sept. 24, 1803.

Your letter, my dear Octavia, has set my head to planning at a great rate. By all means come on with Mr. Cutts; I am impatient to see you, and I cannot give up the pleasure of having you with me this winter. We shall be at Housekeeping as soon as _possible_ after the fever subsides. My husband thinks the plan a very good one. I will write immediately to Aunt King, say that it is uncertain when you arrive, but I have taken the liberty to request Mr. Cutts to leave you with _her_ until I demand you. This settled, I proceed. Tell my good Mother not to be afraid. I am as anxious as herself to be settled at home. I am most tired of roving; it begins to grow cold, and I long for a comfortable fireside of my own. What a sweet circle! Octavia, my dear Husband, and myself; when we are alone we’ll read, and work like old times. I have spent a most delightful 3 weeks at Ballston and Lebanon. We had a charming company at Ballston, danced a few nights after I wrote you, and I was complimented as Bride again.—Manager bro’t me No. 1,—quite time I was out of date.

Lebanon is delightful as ever; we have a small party, ride to see the Shakers, walk, and play at Billiards, work, read, or anything. Tell Mamma, Eunice Loring that was, is here,—she talks a great deal of my Mother and Aunt Porter, wants to see them very much, etc., etc. She is married to a _Mr. Neufville_ of Carolina. She is much out of health, talks of going to England in the Spring. She wants to see you, as she says my Mother talk’d of naming you for _her_; she wishes she had, as she has no children. The box I mentioned was full of sugar things, toys for the children; two little fans—a little frock for a pattern, and another for Isabella’s children, The Children of the Abbey, and Caroline of Lichfield for Mamma,—all in a package together; a letter for Mrs. Coffin and several others. When we left New York Mr. Bowne sent it to a Commission Merchant who does business for several Portland people, and requested him to send it by the first vessel. As you haven’t received it, I suppose the fever which broke out immediately after induced him to shut up his store, or perhaps prevented any Portland vessel from coming near the City, and that it now lies in his store. Write me when you set out, and when ’tis probable you will be in New York; direct to New York, probably I shall be near New York in a fortnight. I have but a few moments to write as the stage passes the village at 11. You alarm me about Ellen; pray enquire particularly and tell me all; go to see yourself, and tell her I can imagine no reason why I have never received a line from her since I have been in New York,—nor Lucy Derby, neither Mrs. Coffin. I wrote to, but it seems she did not receive my letter; love to her and all Portland friends. I am expecting every day to hear Martha has arrived. My best love to Sister Boyd and husband. I wrote a line of congratulation to her, but that too is in the package. Adieu. I shall soon see you, and then we will talk what I have not time to write. My husband’s best love.

Yours, ELIZA S. BOWNE.

New York, October 23, 1803.

I have waited till my patience is quite exhausted. What can have kept you so long in Boston? Mr. Bowne has been at the Stage Office a dozen times, and I have staid at home every forenoon this week to receive your ladyship. I expect to get to housekeeping next week; and am so busy. Mercy on me, what work this housekeeping makes! I am half crazed with sempstresses, waiters, chambermaids, and every thing else—calling to be hired, enquiring characters, such a fuss. I cannot possibly imagine why you are not here. I should have wrote immediately after receiving your letter, but Mr. Bowne was sure you would be here in less than a week. It is possible you may be in Boston to receive this; if not, you will be here or on the way. If you are troubled about a Protector, Mr. Bowne says there has been several _married_ gentlemen come on lately, which if you had known of, would have been proper. Perhaps Mr. Davis may hear of some one. At any rate come as soon as possible, for I am very impatient to see you. My best love to Louisa; tell her I should be much delighted to see her in New York this winter, and my Husband frequently says he should like to have Mr. Davis’ family near us in New York. I am sure I should with all my heart. Say everything to Mr. and Mrs. Davis for me that bespeaks esteem.

Adieu. Yours always, ELIZA S. BOWNE.

Miss Octavia Southgate.

Bloomingdale, Nov. 2, 1803.[66]

Mr. Bowne has just bro’t me a letter from you in which you mention coming on with Mr. Wood. I am fearful my answer will arrive too late, as your letter has been written nearly a fortnight. At any rate, come on with Mr. Wood if he has not set out. You should not wait for an answer from me—I shall be ready to receive you at any time, at housekeeping or not. We go in town next Monday, every body is moving in; for the last 3 days there has been no death, and for 5 no new cases. If, unfortunately, Mr. Wood should have gone and you not accepted of his protection, come the very next opportunity without consulting me or waiting a moment. I hope to get to housekeeping very soon. We have just returned from Uncle’s, where we had been to meet Mr. and Mrs. Paine (Mrs. Doble) from Boston; she is less beautiful than I expected,—charming little daughter. I am more and more delighted with Aunt King, she is so unaffected, easy and ladylike. Margaret and Mr. Duncan married? I expect to hear still stranger things from Portland—now Ellen Foster is married. I _suppose_ she is, tho’ I have not heard. I am hourly and impatiently expecting to hear from Martha. How unfortunate! What would I give to be nearer! Adieu: ’tis late; come as soon as possible. Give my love to all friends.

Yours affectionately, ELIZA S. BOWNE.

New York, Dec. 24, 1803.[67]

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,

OCTAVIA SOUTHGATE.

Octavia has reserved me a page in her letter which I hasten to improve. I thank you, my Dear Mother, for yours, and beg you will often write me, now Octavia is with me and cannot tell me about home. I am at length settled at housekeeping very pleasantly, and do not find it such a tremendous undertaking. I have been fortunate in servants, which makes it much less troublesome; the house we have taken does not altogether please us, but at any time but May ’tis extremely difficult to get a house. In the Spring we shall be able to suit ourselves. Mr. Bowne wishes to build and is trying to find a lot that suits him,—if so, we shall build the next season. Almost everybody in New York hire houses, but I think it much pleasanter living in one’s own. I am more and more pleased with New York, there is more ease and sociability than I expected. I admire Uncle and Aunt more and more every day, and Mr. Bowne thinks there never was Uncle’s equal,—such a character as he had often imagined, though not supposed existed. I believe I shan’t go to the next Assembly; Octavia will go with Aunt King. You say Mr. Bowne must write you, and as a subject mention the dividends from the Insurance Office. In the Summer there was no dividend, no profits; the next dividend will be soon. Mr. Codman thinks there will be a tolerable one,—you shall hear as soon as it takes place; we have received nothing as yet. Uncle and Aunt always inquire particularly about you, and desire to be mentioned. Make my best love to all friends, kiss the children and tell them not to forget sister Eliza. I live in the hope of seeing you next Autumn—Heaven grant I may not be disappointed! Remember me with my best love to my Father and all the family. Adieu; write me soon, and believe me

Your affectionate ELIZA S. BOWNE.

Mrs. Robert Southgate.

New York, March.

Dear Miranda: