P. S. Remember and put an S in my name to distinguish; there are 2 or 3 Eliza Bownes in the family.

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.

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.

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.

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.

P. S. All the family desire to be remembered particularly. Mr. B. is out to dine.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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