I feel at this moment as if I could fly! so far from home, received no letters, yet at Albany I expect to find them, let me at least hope what ’twill delight me so much to realize. I sometimes almost fear to receive a letter from home,—yet my indulgent Parents will pardon the liberty I took in coming this journey, as I trust they are convinced by my past life, that I would not for the universe act in opposition to what I knew they approved. I am convinced when you know Mr. and Mrs. Derby you will feel that I was both secure and honored in their protection. I cannot tell you half I owe them, never in my life was I treated with more affectionate attention. They appear as much interested in all I do as if I were their daughter. You know my heart, my dearest Mother, you know it never was insensible to the smallest favor, what then must be its sensation when it is thus overpowered by affectionate kindness. I long to convince them how much I feel, but words are inadequate. My Father has seen Mr. D., I wish he would write to him, I think it would be no more than just to thank him for the care he has taken of his daughter. It seems as if he had a right to expect something of the kind. They are the finest couple I know of, so different from what I expected to find them. I thought Mr. Derby a gay gallant man like Mr. Davis, but he is a plain, noble-hearted, sincere, generous man,—talks very little and one of the pleasantest dispositions in the world. In Mrs. Derby I thought to find a gay woman of fashion, but not a soul that ever knew her could help loving her. I never saw a person so universally beloved. We have been here at Ballston a fortnight to-morrow. It has been one continued scene of idleness and dissipation—have a ball every other night, ride, walk, stroll about the piazzas, dress,—indeed we do nothing that seems like improvement. But still I think there is no place where one may study the different characters and dispositions to greater advantage. You meet here the most genteel people from every part of our country,—ceremony is thrown off and you are acquainted very soon. You may select those you please for intimates, and among so many you certainly will find some agreeable, amiable companions. For a week we sat down at the table every day with 60 or 70 persons, to-day we were all speaking of the latter being very thin because we had only 40. There are as many more at the other boarding house, continually going and coming, and now there is scarcely 10 persons here that were here when we came. We went last week to Lake George, about 40 miles from here,—made up a party and went on Tuesday, breakfasted at Saratoga, where the Springs formerly most celebrated were, and dined about 14 miles this side the lake, at the most beautiful place I ever saw. Perhaps you have heard of Glens-Falls; they are said to exceed in beauty the Falls of Niagara—tho’ in sublimity must fall far short. I never imagined anything so picturesque, sublime and beautiful as the scenery around this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have exactly the appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins, they are entirely of slate, and seem piled in regular forms with shrubs and grass growing in between. I looked around me for an hour and I every moment discovered something new to admire,—nothing could exceed the beautiful variety of the scenery. I left this elegant place with painful regret. About sunset we came in view of the Lake, it is a most beautiful sheet of water, Morse says 36 miles long and from one to 7 broad, full of beautiful Islands, 365 in all and of every size and shape. It is surrounded by very high hills and mountains rising one above the other in majestic grandeur. In the morning we went out to fish, sailed about 4 miles on the lake to a little Island where we went on shore,—nothing could exceed the beautiful grandeur of the prospect; we anchored off,—I found it very charming fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we could see the fish swimming around the dock. Our first intention was to sail down the lake to Lake Champlain and visit the ruins of the fortifications at Ticonderoga, but some of our party dissuaded us from it. We saw the ruins of Fort George and the bloody pond—where so many poor wretches were thrown. We stopt on our return at the field where Burgoyne surrendered his army; it is now covered with corn and nothing to distinguish it from the surrounding fields; we returned by a different route, for 10 miles we rode directly on the banks of the Hudson river, nothing could be more delightful, our road wound with the river which was beautifully overhung with trees; we returned here Thursday night, found them dancing. I joined, and the next night we had a ball at the other house; there again I danced till 12 o’clock and the next morning got up quite sick,—to-day I am finely again and have made a resolution not to dance again whilst I stay here. This all think I can’t keep, but they shall see I can. Col. Boyd came here last week but went away while we were gone to Lake George—to Canada I believe. He says you had not heard of my coming when he left Portland, so he could tell me nothing new. We shall probably leave here on Tuesday or Wednesday, stay at Albany a few days and go to Lebanon again, perhaps to Williamston Commencement. We are engaged to spend the day at Mr. Rensselaer’s, the former L Governor, and one at Mr. Rensselaer’s—his brother, who is Mayor of the City. I know not how long ’twill be before we return to Salem, but I really begin to think of home with a great deal of anxiety. Tell Octavia I never go into the Ball room to dance without wishing for her; how delighted should I be if Horatio and Octavia were here with me! How charming will it be when I get home again! Believe me, my Dear Mother, I shall love home more than ever. I long to sit me down by the instrument some evening after the business of the day is over, with you, my Father, and all round me, or to hear Octavia sing and play. This scene of dissipation may please for a while by its novelty, but it soon satiates—no regular employment, I have never been in the habit of spending my time in idleness; and they say here that the Southern ladies seem more at home here than the Northern ladies and do not appear to think industry necessary to happiness. I hope to find many letters at Albany. I have kept a regular journal which will assist my memory in relating my adventures, when I return home again. I wrote Horatio last week and told him to send the letter home for you to read. I look forward to returning with the greatest pleasure. I suppose you are fixed upon a house and will move by the time I return, let me know as I am anxious to hear about it. Give my best love to all my friends and tell Octavia I have more to say to her than I can gabble in a month. Oh I long to get home again. I find no time to write, if I lock myself in my chamber I have so many knocks at the door—Miss Southgate go and walk—go down to the spring—somebody wants you below,—so many interruptions, ’tis almost impossible. After I retire for the night I am so tired and sleepy and my chamber is so hot, I cannot write; ’tis Sunday to-day (tho’ all days are alike here) and I have determined I would write home. I wonder how it was possible for Martha to write so much,—I hear of her from all the Southern people, they all speak in raptures. Give my love to Mrs. Coffin and kiss all the children—Mamy particularly, what would I give to hear her open my door and run in this moment. Mrs. Derby says I get low-spirited when I write home, the only way is to think as little of it as possible whilst I am so far off. I shall write again from Albany, where I hope to find letters.

Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without any thing to mortify or disappoint us; I wrote you the night I arrived at Lebanon, the next morning the bell rang and we all assembled to breakfast; there were about thirty ladies, much dressed, looking very handsome, it seemed more like a ball room than a breakfasting room. We were the last that came in, and all eyes were fixed upon us. Lady Nesbert and the Allston family from Carolina were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is a little, smart-looking woman, very learned they say, understands the dead languages—not pedantic, rather reserved—Lady Nesbert,^[35] a most interesting woman, full black eyes with a wild melancholy expression and a voice so sweet and plaintive, you would think it melancholy music. I never heard her speak a dozen times since I have been here and rarely ever smile. Old Mrs. Allston, the mother, is a sour-looking woman, nothing affable or condescending. Miss Allston, they say, is a romp, though her mother restrains her so much you would not suspect it. Old Mr. Allston^[36] is affable and agreeable. We had likewise there a Mr. Constable^[37] of N. Y.; has lived in great style,—very much the gentleman.

Miss —— from N. Y. whom I mentioned in my last is a truly fashionable City Belle. She is a fortune, but I believe not of family. The Gentleman she calls her father and whose name she takes ’tis said was hired by a British officer, her real father, to marry the mother and adopt the daughter, and a very large sum was given him. He appears an abandoned old rake, pale and sallow. Oh! he is a horrid-looking object, in a deep consumption I imagine; she is very attentive. But, good heavens! Ellen, I had no idea of a fashionable girl before—one that devotes her whole attention to fashion. I have much to tell you when I return, about the Miss Ashleys’ french style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ransselear^[38] left Lebanon the day before we did with Mr. and Miss Westelo,^[39] Mr. Welsh,^[40] the Miss Stevensons, and Miss Livingston the Albany Belle,—all belong to Albany. Mr. and Miss Westelo, Miss Beakman, and Mr. Ransselear, who is Mayor of the City, called last evening and we all went to walk—went into Miss Westelo’s and spent a charming hour; all returned with us, and we engaged to go to meeting with Mr. and Miss Westelo and take tea at the Mayor’s this afternoon. Mr. Westelo is going to Balston in company with us and a Mr. Kane^[41] of N. Y. whom we met at the Coffee House—very genteel man. Another little lawyer from Litchfield, who came in from Lebanon with us, is likewise, on Monday; so we shall have a very pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet one of their genteelest N. Y. beaux at Balston, Mr. Bowne. I wonder if it is the same I have heard you mention. I shall find out. About eleven o’clock, or rather twelve, I was surprised by some delightful music, a number of instruments, and most elegantly playing “Rise! Cynthia! rise!” I jumped up and by the light of the moon saw five gentlemen under the window. To Mr. Westelo I suppose we are indebted. “Washington March,” “Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Taste Life’s glad moments,” “Boston March,” and many other charming tunes—played most delightfully. I have heard no music since I left Salem till this, and I was really charmed. The bell will ring soon and I must finish this after meeting.—Sunday afternoon. The dinner was brought on the table just as the bell rang for meeting, so that we were obliged to stay at home this afternoon, and tell Mr. Westelo and his sister, who called again for me, as Mrs. Derby did not go out, that I would go to Mrs. Ranselear’s after meeting. In the morning, Mr. Derby and myself went to the New Dutch Church with Mr. and Miss Westelo and sat with them next pew to the Patroon’s, whom you saw in Salem with his beautiful wife.

After meeting, Mr. Westelo came with the Patroon and his wife to see us. She is really beautiful, dressed very plain; cotton cambric morning gown, white sarsnet cloak, hair plain, and black veil thrown carelessly over her head. They urged our dining there to-morrow, but Mr. Derby is determined to set out in the morning for Balston—the waters, all tell him, will be of great service—when we return we shall go and see them. A great number of elegant gentlemen are here in this house, many from N. Y., some going to the springs. Your Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would look rusty long side them. Hush, not a word!—Mr. Kane of N. Y., whose sister married Robert Morris, is here, will set out for the springs in company with us, Mr. Westelo and some others. We shall go to Lake George and probably make a party from Balston. Mrs. Derby has insisted on my wearing the sarsnet dress to-day as we shall drink tea at the Mayor’s, where the Patroon and wife will probably be. I am every moment reminded of your affectionate kindness, which I hope never to be insensible to.

You wrote Mamma, I suppose. I have not received a line from anybody; shall depend on finding letters at Pittsfield or Lebanon; do write me everything. I have so much to tell you that I cannot write. Mrs. Derby, I cannot tell you how much I owe her. She treats me with so much affection, and she says she believes Mr. Derby feels as much interest in me as if I were his daughter—wishes everything I wear should be becoming, and indeed they both treat me with all the attention and affection my most sanguine expectation could desire. I do not wish to be treated with more affection; think then, dear Ellen! how sensibly I must feel it, how gratifying to my feelings. I can never forget the obligation I owe to you and them. My best love to your husband; tell him when I return I shall have a whole world of news for him. I long to hear from you, do write soon. At Balston I will write again. Many people will be talking about my going this journey; many will censure me perhaps; if you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill-natured remarks you could not do me a greater favor than to vindicate my conduct. I have never for one moment since I left Salem regretted I came. The affectionate attention of Mr. and Mrs. Derby delights my very heart, ’twas more than I had a right to expect. I have received much delight in this tour, seen much elegant company, variety of character and manners. I am sensible it will be a source of great improvement, as well as pleasure. I shall have seen that style and splendor, which has so many magic charms when viewed at a distance, divested of its false place, we find it mingled with as many pains as any other situation in life, nay, more poignant pain. I feel that I shall not be at all injured by this life; though I enjoy myself highly and mingle with these people with much delight, I shall return happy and content. Mr. Derby is quite unwell, has taken nothing but milk since we left Salem, his stomach refuses everything else. I have strong hopes that the Balston waters will have a good effect. Everyone tells him so. A gentleman just from Balston says there is a great deal of company at the Springs, dance every other night. If the waters agree with Mr. Derby we shall stay a week or ten days. I have written home a number of times, which together with my journal take up all my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hrs. devoted to sleep. I would give anything for one line from you this moment. How delighted I shall be when I return! Any news from Martha? If any letter arrives for me send it on to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if we were all together going to the Springs! I have not time to write anything about Albany fine society—I believe full of Dutch houses. Adieu, love to all friends.

Once more I am safe in Salem and my first thoughts turn toward home. I arrived last night. The attention I have received from Mr. and Mrs. Derby has been of a kind that I shall look forward with delight to a time when I may be able to return it as I wish. I am in perfect health and spirits and have enjoyed the journey more than I can express to you. I don’t know that I have had an unpleasant hour since I have been gone, and what is still more pleasing, I look back on every scene without regret or pain. At Leicester I went to Uncle Southgate’s, and Cousin William helped me into the carriage when I left the tavern the next morning. We did not return thro’ North-Hampton, and I consequently missed seeing Aunt Dickenson. I regret it extremely, but Mr. Derby was in such haste to return, that he left us at Worcester and took the stage. I therefore could not say a word of Hadley. I found two letters from Octavia on my return here; felt really grieved at Eliza Wait’s death; she must feel it sensibly as they were such intimate friends, yet time blunts the sharp pangs of affection, and when I return she will feel that happiness has only fled for a while to make its return more delightful. I have received more attentions at the Springs than in my whole life before, I know not why it was, but I went under every advantage. Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, and they are such charming people and treated me with so much affection, it could not be otherwise! Among the many gentlemen I have become acquainted and who have been attentive, one I believe is serious. I know not, my dearest Mother, how to introduce this subject, yet as I fear you may hear it from others and feel anxious for my welfare, I consider it a duty to tell you all. At Albany, on our way to Ballston, we put up at the same house with a Mr. Bowne from New York; he went on to the Springs the same day we did, and from that time was particularly attentive to me; he was always of our parties to ride, went to Lake George in company with us, and came on to Lebanon when we did,—for 4 weeks I saw him every day and probably had a better opportunity of knowing him than if I had seen him as a common acquaintance in town for years. I felt cautious of encouraging his attentions, tho’ I did not wish to discourage it,—there were so many New Yorkers at the Springs who knew him perfectly that I easily learnt his character and reputation; he is a man of business, uniform in his conduct and very much respected; all this we knew from report. Mr. and Mrs. Derby were very much pleased with him, but conducted towards me with peculiar delicacy, left me entirely to myself, as on a subject of so much importance they scarcely dared give an opinion. I left myself in a situation truly embarrassing. At such a distance from all my friends,—my Father and Mother a perfect stranger to the person,—and prepossessed in his favor as much as so short an acquaintance would sanction,—his conduct was such as I shall ever reflect on with the greatest pleasure,—open, candid, generous, and delicate. He is a man in whom I could place the most unbounded confidence, nothing rash or impetuous in his disposition, but weighs maturely every circumstance; he knew I was not at liberty to encourage his addresses without the approbation of my Parents, and appeared as solicitous that I should act with strict propriety as one of my most disinterested friends. He advised me like a friend and would not have suffered me to do anything improper. He only required I would not discourage his addresses till he had an opportunity of making known to my Parents his character and wishes—this I promised and went so far as to tell him I approved him as far as I knew him, but the decision must rest with my Parents, their wishes were my law. He insisted upon coming on immediately: that I absolutely refused to consent to. But all my persuasion to wait till winter had no effect; the first of October he will come. I could not prevent it without a positive refusal; this I felt no disposition to give. And now, my dearest Mother, I submit myself wholly to the wishes of my Father and you, convinced that my happiness is your warmest wish, and to promote it has ever been your study. That I feel deeply interested in Mr. Bowne I candidly acknowledge, and from the knowledge I have of his heart and character I think him better calculated to promote my happiness than any person I have yet seen; he is a firm, steady, serious man, nothing light or trifling in his character, and I have every reason to think he has well weighed his sentiments towards me,—nothing rash or premature. I have referred him wholly to you, and you, my dearest Parents, must decide. Octavia mentioned nothing about moving, but I am extremely anxious to know how soon we go into Portland and what house we shall have. Write me immediately on the subject, and let me know if you approve my conduct. Mr. Bowne wishes me to remain here until he comes on and then let him carry me home: this I objected to, but will depend on your advice. I shall be obliged to stay a few weeks longer,—Harriet Howards expects me a week in Cambridge, Mrs. Sumner a week in Boston, and Mrs. Hasket Derby another week. I am now with Ellen and shall stay till Mrs. Coffin comes up, then according to promise go to Mrs. Lucy Derby’s. I feel extremely anxious to hear you have moved into town, and shall most probably be here until then; write me immediately. If you wish any furniture, Mrs. Sumner will assist me in purchasing whatever you wish. I mentioned in my letter, when I set out on this journey I borrowed 15 dollars of Ellen; I wish you to send it to me immediately after receiving this, if you have not already sent it. I shall likewise stand in need of a little, as I have unavoidably incurred many expenses in this journey which I should not otherwise have done. Mr. Derby has loaded me with obligations, all my expenses he defrayed as if I was his daughter, and in such a manner as endears him more than I can express. You cannot imagine how interested they both are in the subject I have been writing you upon,—my nearest friends cannot feel more, they have witnessed the whole progress, and if you knew them, would be convinced they would not have let me act improperly, they both approve my conduct. I wish my Father would write to Mr. Derby and know what he says of Mr. B.’s character. I don’t know but ’tis a subject too delicate to give his opinion, but I can conceive that my Father might request it without any impropriety; and do, my Dear Mother, beg him to say any thing in his power to convince him that we all feel sensibly their great attention to me. You know not how anxious I feel for my Father to write him something of that kind, not that they appear to expect it, but on the contrary insist that they have been more obliged than I have, and really seem to think so; but this rather strengthens than lessens the obligation, nothing should have induced me to receive such from people who felt they were conferring favors. I long to hear when we move into Portland, do write me. My best love to Horatio and Octavia, and tell them I shall write as soon as possible. I found a large packet of 5 sheets from Martha, dated Paris, June 28th; tells me every thing, speaks almost in raptures of Buonaparte, says Uncle Rufus has a little son^[42] about 12 years old at school there, one of the finest boys she ever saw. I find most of the Southern people whom we met at the Springs, think Uncle Rufus stands as good a chance of being President as any one spoken of. I have listened for hours to his praises when not one knew how much I was interested; it was known from Mrs. Derby I was his niece, and it really gave me great consequence. I thought of Mrs. Dewitt and laughed. Judge Sedgwick told me had letters from him as late as June, and that he was determined on returning in the Spring. I long to hear from home. My love to all my friends, and believe me, with every sentiment of duty and affection,

Martha sent me a most elegant Indispensable, white lutestring spangled with silver, and a beautiful bracelet for the arm made of her hair; she is too good—to love me as she says, more than ever.

Mr. Davis is going on to Boston and will have a letter for you. I am delighted to hear that Mamma is better. I send you some of Miss Homer’s wedding cake; married on Monday. You say Rufus Emerson has returned and tells them a great many stories; when you write next tell me what he says, and where he heard, and all about it, for everything interests me. Mr. Bowne has not arrived, I am out of all patience, cannot imagine what detains him,—4 weeks to-morrow since he took Mr. Codman’s letter. These Quakers are governed by such a slow spirit—I wish the deuce had them. I shall be really uneasy if he don’t come soon. I want some money, my last dollar I gave Horatio to buy Mamma’s oranges. I have written to Mrs. Derby to buy me a winter gown; in her last she says she has bought it but does not mention the price. I wish the money to send to her soon as I hear; a little likewise for occasional expenses, ’tis not pleasant to be without. I have been in but one party since Mamma’s sickness; shall certainly not go out more than I can possibly avoid. Mrs. Derby is quite out at Mr. B.’s not coming. I’ll not be so ungenerous as to condemn him without giving an opportunity of vindicating himself, some circumstances I know not of may detain him. All our friends are well. Send me the money as soon as possible; and don’t forget to tell particularly what Rufus says, whom he saw, what they told him, and when he heard all. In some cases trifles acquire importance—mole hills become mountains. Adieu.

Love to Mamma, and tell her I am out of all patience.

Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter’s Boarding House, and tho’ we have endeavored to keep ourselves as much out of the way as possible, a great many people have called to pay their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Bowne. The first person we met driving thro’ Salem was Mr. Lee just coming in town; he bowed very low and pass’d. We went to a public house and had not been there 3 minutes before Mr. Lee came in determined to be the first to call on us; he shook hands very cordially, congratulated us, and went with us up to Ellen’s. We promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Mrs. H. Derby; spent a charming hour and returned to Ellen’s, dined, and all went to Lucy Derby’s to tea, Mr. Lee and a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself called on Mrs. Grey, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen’s and stayed the night, and the next morning, which was Wednesday, came into Boston,—’twas election day and all the world was in motion. I could not bear to come to Mrs. Carter’s, but Mr. Bowne thought he ought to. Mr. Lee got to Boston as soon as we did and came immediately to see us and offer his services; he has been here again this morning and is going to ride into the country with us to show us some fine seats. Doctor Boice, Mr. Davis, Mr. Cabot, Charles Bradbury, Tom Coffin and a dozen other gentlemen, whose names I have forgot, and who came with the Miss Lowells and Miss Russells. We have prevented all invitations on, by constantly saying we were going out of town immediately. Mr. Lee insisted, when I expressed a wish to see Miss Wyre, on letting her know I was in town,—he went and she came immediately back. I was very glad to see her and she appeared so herself at seeing me. Some ladies and gentlemen came in; and after they were gone, Alicia, Mr. B. and myself went a-shopping;—the fashions for bonnets, Octavia, are very ugly; Alicia had a large, white glazed cambric one made without pasteboard. But I have not told you how Gen. Knox^[43] found us out at Newburyport. We always kept by ourselves, but in passing the entry Gen’l Knox, who had just come in the stage, met Mr. B. and asked where he was from—(Mr. Bowne kept here with Mrs. Carter when Gen’l Knox was here last winter); he told him from the Eastward.—Alone?—no.—Who is with you?—Mrs. Bowne. So plump a question he could not evade, so the General insisted on being introduced to the bride. I was walking the room and reading, perfectly unsuspicious, when the opening of the door and Mr. Bowne’s voice—“Gen’l Knox, my love,” quite roused me; he came up, took my hand very gracefully, pres’t it to his lips and begged leave to congratulate me on the event that had lately taken place. After a few minutes’ conversation—“And pray, sir,” said he, turning to Mr. Bowne—“when did this happy event take place?” I felt my face glow, but Mr. Bowne, always delicate and collected, said—“’Tis not a fortnight since, Sir.” The stage drove to the door, and after hoping to see us at Mrs. Carter’s he took his leave, and this morning—(he was out all day yesterday)—I found him waiting in the breakfast room to see me. He introduced me to General Pinckney^[44] and his family from Carolina,—Gen’l Pinckney, they say, is to be our next President. “Mr. Bowne,” said Gen’l Knox to Gen. P., “has done us the honor to come to the District of Maine for a bud to transplant in New York.” He was very polite and said “he must find us out in New York.” Only think, I never thought of the wedding-cake when I was at Salem. You would laugh to hear “Mrs. Bowne” and “Miss Southgate” all in a breath—“How do you do, Miss Southgate?”—“I beg pardon, Mrs. Bowne,” and do it on purpose I believe; when I hear an old acquaintance call me “Mrs. Bowne” it really makes me stare at first, it sounds so very odd. Mr. B. will be in, in a moment—and if I don’t seal my letter, he will insist on seeing it, so love to all. I depend on finding letters at New Haven. I have a thousand things to say,—(some ladies enquire for Mrs. Bowne, so says the servant,—I’ll tell you who they are when I come up,)—Mrs. Bartlett and Alicia; they insist on our taking tea and spending the evening; we promised if we did not leave town after dinner that we would. Adieu, adieu. Mr. Bowne sends a great deal of love.

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.

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.

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.