I have been talking of writing to you so long that I think it is quite time I should talk no longer, but act; but you should not have waited for me to write. You knew both Mr. Bowne and myself would have been very glad to have heard from you,—all about your school, your acquaintance, amusements or anything, and I have a thousand things to take up my attention that you have not. Do you return home this Spring? We shall find you at home when we come. I have got one or two trifles I want to send you, but can’t find an opportunity; there are so few people from our way come to New York, that ’tis very difficult to send anything. I hear a strange story about Isabella Porter: she is a silly little girl, and when she is older, will think she acted very foolishly,—one ought to know more of the world before she decides on a thing of so much importance; she is a mere baby and has seen nothing of life. Do you often hear of Caroline, Miranda? I feel anxious lest she should not conduct with as much discretion as she ought, as she never knew the blessing of having a kind, indulgent mother to watch over her and guard her from harm.

When I was in Bethlehem last summer, I got some little caps such as the girls at school wear, and such as the sisters of members of the Society wear. I want to find an opportunity to send them to you. Did you ever read a description of Bethlehem? If you never did, you may find one in some of the Boston Magazines. We had a little book called a “Tour to Bethlehem,” which if I can find I will send you. It will give you a very correct idea of the place, society and customs. When I was there, there were 83 girls, from 4 to 16, at the school, from almost every part of the United States. They all wear these little caps tied with a pink ribbon, which looks very pretty where you see so many of them together,—they learn music, embroidery, and all the useful branches of education,—likewise to make artificial flowers and many little things of that kind. Do you ever attempt painting?—’tis a charming accomplishment, and if you have any taste for it, should certainly cultivate it. Write me soon, and tell me when you are going home and of anything else that interests you. Mr. Bowne often talks of you and now desires to be particularly remembered.

Adieu; remember me to any of my friends who enquire, and believe me

I enclose you a piece of Mr. Blovell’s poetry on the Miss Broomes’ country seat at Bloomingdale; as you both know him, I think it will amuse you. I expect Eliza and Jane Watts down here in a few days and should be delighted if you could be here at the same time. I wrote to you, Octavia, on Monday last a long letter,—answer it soon and tell me how far you mean to comply with my proposals. I spent several days at Flushing last week; they all enquired very affectionately for you; but I don’t know but Miranda is your rival—she is a monstrous favorite among some of them. I believe Mary Murray is engaged and all matters settled. I met the Murrays and Mrs. Ogden at Miss Curtis’s; they came up from New York the same day we did from Rockaway,—very fortunate meeting them, for it rendered my visit doubly pleasant. ’Twas the season for peaches, we feasted finely. I shall attend to your memorandums as soon as possible. Give my best love to Horatio and Nabby, if I may be allowed to connect the names, and tell him my plan. Mr. Bowne says I must write another letter to urge it more strongly; it must be so.

I have been in daily expectation of a letter from you ever since my return and none has yet come. I have not heard a word from Isabella, tho’ I have been very anxious. The trunks arrived yesterday with an old letter for me enclosed by Horatio in a blank cover, not a word to say how all the family did, particularly Isabella. We are still at our Mother’s, and shall probably remain a fortnight longer; the house would be ready in a few days, but we think it is too damp at present. Every body expected you back, for the Murrays had told most of our acquaintance you were to return with me. John and Hannah Murray came to see me the day after I arrived. John rattles as usual, talks much of getting married—his old tune, you know: he has completed his thirtieth year now since we have been gone; he says, “I begin to feel the approach of old age.” Mr. Newbold called to enquire particularly after your ladyship, and Mr. Rhinelander^[68] spent last evening with us; I think he improves fast; he told me a deal of news. Miss Farquar and Mr. Jepson^[69] were married last night, Miss Blackwell and Mr. Forbes, and one or two others. Rhinelander says half the girls in town are to be married before Spring. Maria Denning for one; and the world says Amelia and James Gillispie will certainly make a match,—that I was surprised at. Miss Bunner^[70] and John Duer are married; Sally Duer is soon to be; and Fanny is positively engaged to Mr. Smith, whom you saw several times last winter, of Princeton. So you see all the girls are silly enough to give up their fine dancing days and become old matrons like myself. Mrs. Kane is in town; looks older, paler, and thinner. She has got a charming little girl,^[71] fat and good-natured as possible. Mrs. Ogden stays out of town all winter. We are engaged at Mrs. Bogert’s this afternoon, but it storms so violently I believe I shan’t go. She regrets very much your not coming, and Lucia [Wadsworth] she would be delighted to have. Our things arrived yesterday, but are not out of the vessel yet. At present there is no gaiety, quite dull; there will be a revival soon, I suppose. Mr. Poinsett has been to see me several mornings; he goes on Monday to Carolina. Miss de Neufville spends the winter in New York with her Aunt Stowton. I meant to call on her this morning, but it was stormy. The few days I was in Boston I was constantly engaged. We dined at Sheriff Allen’s with a very large party,—Lady Temple,^[72] Mrs. Winthrop and daughters, Mrs. Bowdoin, Mrs. G. Green, Mrs. Stouton and daughter, and many others,—about 30; and we were at Mrs. G. Blake’s at a tea-party, she enquired particularly after you; she is a very fine woman I think. Our journey on was tolerably pleasant. We arrived before Uncle and Aunt. Eliza Watts told me she had a letter from you after I left home. Adieu; write me soon and tell me all the news. Give my best love to Father, Mother, and all the family. I am very well and grow fat; everybody says I am wonderfully improved. Write me soon.

I received your letter, my Dearest Mother, three days since, and every moment of my time and attention since has been taken up with our dear Eliza. I am grieved that you are so low-spirited about her, tho’ as you predicted her trouble has again ended, I yet feel confident if we once get her home, that she will gain strength and do well. Her Physician has been in great hopes that she would get through this time without any difficulty, indeed the first week we were in the country she was so finely, that we all felt encouraged about her. She had been as prudent as possible, and she can’t with any reason reflect upon herself. The last week we were there she began to droop again, and Mr. Bowne brought her into town with an intention of carrying her to Flushing; now we shall set off for home as soon as she is strong enough to travel. I am astonished at her spirits, they are as good again as mine, and yet to-day she is so much better. I feel finely myself.

She has had no pain, but only suffers from weakness. We shall go in three or four days to Flushing, which is a fine, bracing air, and stay there a few days till Eliza is smart enough to travel 10 miles a day. I place full confidence in this journey; I am sure that the change of air and scene, and more than all, the prospect of home, will render it truly beneficial. We are at Mr. Bowne’s mother’s, for we have shut our house up. She is a fine old lady, and Caroline is perfectly amiable and as attentive as possible. I am very glad we are here and in the neighborhood of Mrs. Bogert, for she is all goodness. I grow more and more anxious every hour to get home. The city is quite deserted, though it never was more healthy. There are as few deaths as there were in the winter. There has been two weeks of very cool weather. I go wandering about and see scarcely a face I know. I used to complain last winter of our large acquaintance, and having the house full of company, but now I exclaim out half a dozen times a day that “I wished I could see some one I knew.” There are gentlemen enough, but no ladies. Uncle and Aunt, I suppose, have nearly set out for Scarborough. I wish we were to be there whilst they are with you. You can have no idea how very anxious I am to return. Was I not so much occupied I should be positively homesick, but I have no time to think but upon one subject. Kiss the dear children for us all, for we are equally anxious to see you. Remember me very affectionately to Sister Boyd and to the children. Before I leave here I shall be in need of a little money. I won’t seal my letter to-night, but will write you how she is to-morrow.

I did not finish my letter this morning because Eliza did not feel as well as usual, but this afternoon she is better. She is in charming spirits and so very well that we are delighted. She gives her best love to you; says she don’t feel at all obliged to you for your wishes, and is determined not to join with you. The old lady desires to be remembered, and says,—“If thee was here, thee could do no more for thy child than we have.” Indeed she is the most tender, affectionate of women. My best love to my Father. We are in the full of seeing you soon. I shall not make it long before I write again.

Mamma arrived safe and well on Wednesday morning to our great joy, after having a pleasant passage from Newport, staying two days in Boston, two in Newport, and one in Providence. We are going to Uncle’s to dine to-day, and I can’t persuade Miranda to write a line to let you know Mamma had come,—company coming in every minute, and can but just steal a moment to write. Louise is with you,—I am more than half vexed that I am to be disappointed of the charming winter I had promised myself, with you and Louise to spend it with me, so you need not be surprised if I am rather ill-natured at times. The secret is out, and all your friends, beaux I mean, walk the other side of the street when I meet them. Mary Murray called this morning; seemed rather disappointed at not having a letter. Eliza Watts thanks you for the wedding-cake as well as myself. Give my best love to Louise as well as all my other friends. We go over into Jersey to-morrow,—E. Watts and Susan go with us,—John Wadsworth. I wish you could have been here while Mamma was. Adieu; write me soon, and expect a longer letter as soon as I can command a little more time.

P. S. Remember I don’t call this a letter, so no lectures on that head.

I am delighted, my Dear Octavia, to hear you are so finely, and the more so as I hear it from yourself. I did not so soon expect such fine effects from the new system of living; I am sure all will be well now. A wedding I suppose next, for I conclude from the melancholy pathos with which you say, you shall “neither have the independence of a married woman, nor of a single,” that you don’t mean to try the half-way being. However, let the man teaze if he will; do not think of being married until your health is perfectly confirmed,—I would not for the world. ’Tis so late in the season, ’tis not possible I can come to see you this fall, even tho’ there should be two weddings in November. And so you talk of spending the winter with me,—how you love to tantalize!—and wish me to give you the pleasure of refusing me. You know I should be delighted to have you, but you know you never mean to visit New York as Miss Southgate again. Somebody would put on a graver face than he did last fall on a like occasion, and as he had as much influence then as to counteract my wishes, I won’t subject myself to the mortification of another defeat now I know his power to be much greater. However I won’t ask, tho’ I shall be very happy to have you with me. As for news, you give me more than I can you. We have left Rockaway more than a week ago, still exiled from our home by this dreadful calamity. We are at lodgings in Jamaica, where we shall probably remain until ’tis safe removing to the City. Uncle and Aunt,—Mr. and Mrs. Bogert,^[73] have gone about 30 miles down the Island, sporting for Grouse, and return to Jamaica until we can all go in town. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers (Cruger that was) have taken a house in Jamaica during the fever; the next door to this I lodge in. Mr. and Mrs. Hayward^[74] are with them, but leave here for Charleston this week. I am in there half of my time. We make a snug little party at Brag in the evening frequently, and work together mornings. Mr. Bowne goes to Greenwich, where all the business is transacted, on Mondays and Thursdays, but returns the same night, so I am but little alone. As to news—Miss Charlotte Manden Heard was married last week to a gentleman from Demarara, whom nobody knew she was engaged to until he came a few weeks since and they were married. John Murray, I believe, is at last really in love, tho’ ’tis not yet determined whether the lady smiles or not. A Miss Rogers from Baltimore, whom he met at the Springs,—a sweet interesting girl, ’tis said. Wolsey Rogers^[75] and Harriet Clarke^[76] were talked of as a match at the Springs. Mrs. Kane^[77] staid at the Springs till she was so late she could not venture to ride to Providence with her Mother, and the fever kept her from New York, so was obliged to stop at Mrs. Gilbert Livingstone’s^[78]—Mr. Kane’s sister—at Red Hook, until able to resume her journey home, which will probably be in November. Mrs. Fish^[79] has a daughter; great joy on the occasion. Give my love to Cousin Pauline,^[80] and tell her I congratulate her on the birth of her son. What do Mary^[81] and Paulina call their boys—Nathaniel and Enoch? I hope not, never keep up such ugly names. Mr. B. says you must spend the winter with us,—he will come under bonds to somebody to return you safe. Give my best love to Sister Boyd, Horatio, and all the family at home. Has any progress been made in the new house? I am sorry to say I fear not—’tis pity,—I had almost said ’tis wrong. I am half mortified when I hear of any of my acquaintance visiting Portland,—’tis true, I declare,—tho’ Husband would scold me for saying so. Pappa is an affectionate Father, yet therein he acts not up to his character. I must check my pen—I am too much interested in this subject. Adieu; make my compliments to all acquaintances and write me again soon. Love to Miranda—tell her Mrs. Bogert talks much of her, and remind her from me of Aunt’s sleeves; are they finished?—if they are, I hope she will send them by Mrs. McKersen. I am working me a beautiful dress,—it will be when ’tis done. By-the-by, any purchases for the coming occasion will be executed with pleasure. Give my best love to (sister I had almost said) Nabby,^[82] and tell her I shall feel myself flattered by any commission she will give me either in clothes or furniture; do away her modesty in this thing, if you think I can be of any service in that way, for I assure you ’twill gratify me. Tell Horatio^[82] I am impatient to thank him for giving so pleasant an acquisition to our family, but I could do it more heartily in person in New York, if so I might be indulged. Since you won’t be honest and tell the truth, I won’t tell you what I’ll say to you. Do ask Papa if he could send us 6 or 8 barrels of potatoes, there is like to be a great scarcity in New York; put them in the hold of the vessel or anywhere. Col. Barclay has sent to Nova Scotia for a vessel load,—a housekeeper—

What a romantic conclusion.

Horatio is really married then; and we not married; and I suppose the next account your ladyship will be added to the list. How swimmingly you all go on! What a tremendous marrying place Portland is. New Yorkers don’t marry—sad sett of them. I am half angry to think you are marrying in such an out-of-the-way season, that ’tis impossible any one can come to see you. However, I hope to come early in the summer, if nothing happens to prevent, and spend 3 or 4 months. I shall have so many new relations that ’twill be necessary to come often to keep an account. Robert Murray^[83] came home quite delighted with his eastern visit, but disappointed at seeing so little of Miranda. What has been the matter with her, any thing more than a heavy cold? I wish she was here with all my heart. I am quite alone and require a companion more than ever, but I suppose Mamma could not hear of that. I wish Arixene and Mary could have found a good opportunity to come this fall, and we could take them home in the summer,—but I suppose I must be content. We have been in town since the 31st of October, the day your letter was dated; it has been a long time in coming. I got it only last evening. Mr. Bowne had found out Capt. Libby, and we were preparing to send the sheeting and diaper by him; he sails the last of the week; the other things you wish we will send as many as can be procured before the vessel sails, but ’twill be impossible to get any plate made to send for several weeks,—we will order it immediately, and as it will not be bulky, there will probably be no difficulty in finding a conveyance. We made a sketch of the articles you wished and of the pieces, which cannot be very incorrect, as I took them all from our own furniture book, and we calculated that the whole of Mamma’s plate and another suit of curtains for Nabby included would come at about 400 dollars. Mr. B. has 340 in his hands of Pappa’s, about the sum that would buy all the things but Mamma’s plate and Nabby’s curtains; however, that makes not the least difference to Mr. Bowne, as he desires me to say he shall execute the commissions with great pleasure, and ’twill be no inconvenience to him to purchase the other articles, and I merely mentioned it as I did not know that you knew the real sum in Mr. Bowne’s hands. ’Tis very lucky there is so direct an opportunity to Scarborough; we shall endeavor to send as many things as possible. Shopping at present is a prohibited pleasure to me, but as all the things can be better procured at wholesale stores, and my husband has both a great deal of taste and judgment in those things, and makes better bargains than I do, you will be no sufferer by the loss of my services in that,—and I can have anything sent to me to look at, and therefore ’tis quite as well as if I went for them. I don’t mean you shall understand because I don’t go shopping that I am confined to the house. On the contrary, I am much better than could be expected and hope with care to do very well. I shall go out very little until the middle or last of the winter, when I hope, if I continue well, to be most as smart as other people. My husband does not allow me to go into a shop. I laugh at him and tell him I don’t believe but the health of his purse is one-half his concern—a fine excuse. Mrs. Bogert is in expectation of seeing Lucia Wadsworth when the General comes on. I have been confined to the house with a severe cold since Thursday,—Friday and Saturday was quite sick, and to-day feel unfit for anything almost but my bed. Adieu; my best love to all the family. You mentioned nothing of the Cypher on the Plate: O. S. or B.—or your crest, or William’s crest, if you can find them out,—I suppose we could here,—or what? Mamma’s I suppose will be S. only. I have a great mind to tell you what a saucy thing my husband said on your anxiety—that the bowls and edges of the spoons should not be sharp; but I leave you to guess, or if you can’t, perhaps William may help you to an explanation.

Capt. Libby sails to-morrow; we have got as many things as possible. There is not a piece of embossed Buff in New York, nor of plain either, there is not more than 2 pair alike, therefore I have done nothing about the trimmings. I fancy Boston is a better place for those things than New York. The most fashionable beds have draperies the same as my dimity window curtains. However, if you think best I will look farther, and perhaps there will be something new open in a week or two. There is but one barrel urn in the city. Mr. B. was two days in pursuit of one; he purchased this and sent it back: ’twas brown, and no plate on it except the nose. I can get you one like mine for $25. Let me know immediately respecting these things. Yesterday the Silversmith came for instructions respecting the plate, and bro’t patterns for me to look at. I ordered a set of tea-things for Mamma the same as mine; I think them handsomer than any I see. The man is to send me some patterns to look at which he thinks are similar to your description. On the next page I will make a list of the goods and pieces copied from the bills.

The sheeting is quite as cheap as mine, the fine I like very much and think it quite a bargain. The Diaper is not quite so cheap as mine, but it has risen; the tablecloths are cheap, the linen is high I think. The Cake Basket is very cheap, $2 cheaper than mine, and rather handsomer I think. I could get no crimson marking, but send you a few skeins of cotton which I procured with much difficulty. The napkins are not the kind I wished, but there was none of those excepting at 2 places, and they were 18/–22/ a piece. I thought these pretty and would answer your purpose. I enclose the marking cotton and the key of the trunk. Adieu.

P. S. The bills are in Miranda’s book in the trunk.

Mr. Abbot is here from Brunswick and will take a letter for me to any of my friends. I should not have been surprised any more to have seen the cupola of the college itself walk into the room than I was to see Mr. Abbot, I could hardly believe my eyes; but I could not but know him, as I know nobody like him: he always seems like a frightened bird—so hurried in his manner and conversation. How much he looked like some of Timothy Dexter’s wooden men—at commencement last year; it came across my mind while he was sitting by me yesterday,—’twas well I was alone, or I should have certainly laughed. Frederic,^[84] I suppose, is at home, tho’ Mr. A. could not tell me. John^[85] and Charles King have some thought of going to Portland. I have told them they had better go some other time, as they will find Portland so dull and none of you in quite so good spirits. James is here and they return with him. You ask about Jane Watts—nobody sees her, she is entirely confined to her room. Doctor Burchea attends her now; her cough they think a little better, but she is not able to sleep at all without laudanum. I have no expectation she will recover, the family seem to have.

As to news—New York is not so gay as last Winter, few balls but a great many tea-parties. I believe I told you Mrs. Gillespie^[86] has a daughter, and still more news. You never wrote me anything about the muslin for Arixene to work her a frock, ’tis so good an opportunity to send it that I have a great mind to get it notwithstanding. If you can, send the things I left to Louisa Davis in Boston. John and Charles would bring them on to me. Walter^[87] will want the shirts as soon as the weather becomes warm. You say I have said nothing of Walter in any of my letters; he is so hearty and well I hardly thought of him when I wrote; he has not had a day’s sickness since I returned. I send him out walking frequently when ’tis so cold it quite makes the tears come; he trudges along with leading very well in the street, he never takes cold. He goes to bed at 6 o’clock, away in the room in the third story you used to sleep in, without fire or candle, and there he sleeps till Phœbe goes to bed to him. You know I am a great enemy to letting children sleep with a fire in the room; ’tis the universal practice here, and as long as I can avoid it I never mean to practice it; it subjects them to constant colds. They think I am very severe to suffer such a child to be put in the third story to sleep without a fire. I presume Aunt King and family are all well; they are going to have a fine waffle party on Tuesday. I wish you were here to go, for the boys want to have a fine frolic. Kitty Bayard^[88] is to be married in April to Duncan Campbell; all engaged since Wolsey and Susan were married. Mary Watts^[89] is engaged to the big Doctor Romaine,—that is quite a surprise to every one: this is rumor. And now I have written all the trifling, I come to what is nearer my heart. You are not half particular enough about Octavia. Does Isabella live in the same house she did when we were there? Has Octavia nobody with her to take care of her child? I am very glad to hear they are so cheerful. Pappa you say has been sick but is quite recovered. How is Mamma this winter, quite recovered her health?

And so I must hear of all the important events of the family from anybody who casually may have it in their power to communicate them. Horatio has a fine son, I hear, of which I am very glad; congratulate them for me—do they mean to call him the same name as their other little boy? I suppose you have heard from John and Charles King^[90] since they have been in Boston. If you would send the little bundle for them to bring on I should be very glad, and I wish you to get me 3 pr. of Mr. Smith’s little white worsted socks, such as I bo’t for Walter, only two or three sizes larger, big enough for him next winter,—don’t neglect it, for I wish for them very much. Let them be full large for a child 3 years old. How are all the family? Octavia, I don’t hear from anybody; you ought to write once a fortnight certainly. Poor Jane Watts is very low, confined to her bed,—I fear she will never go out again. Adieu; love to all. This is my second letter since I heard from you. I write more particularly that you may send those things by the boys.

I am most impatiently looking for Miranda and hoping, tho’ I dare not place too much dependence on seeing my Father. I am better than when I wrote you before, tho’ still subject to these faint turns. I have become more used to them and they don’t alarm me. I ride frequently and take the air every fine day in some way or other. I have been free from a return of the nervous headache for a fortnight, till the night before last I had a return of the numbness and pain, tho’ not so severe as the last. I have a very good appetite and look very fat and rosy, but really am very weak and languid. I don’t know why I look so much better than I feel. Mary Murray is to be married a week from next Wednesday; she is very desirous that Miranda should get here; I really hope she may. Perhaps I may get courage enough to go myself if she comes in time, otherwise I don’t believe I shall venture; however, ’twill depend upon my feelings at the time. I shall look out the last of the week for Pappa and Miranda very seriously. I hope they are on their way now. Uncle’s oldest son, John Alsop, arrived here about a week since; he seems a very fine young man, rather taller than his Father,—he will be a second Uncle William, for he does not appear to have half got his height. Charles King has gone to Holland.

Before you receive this my Father will be with you. He says I need not fear any thing, that I am in a very fair way of doing well; he will tell you all the particulars better than I could write. He got quite homesick, we could not prevail on him to lengthen his visit or go to the Springs and return here. I promised to let you hear from me once a week how I got along. For the last 3 days I have been finely, for me; the fore part of the day I am often very faint—all the forenoon, but generally better towards evening. ’Tis a great comfort to me to have Miranda with me, as I am a great part of the time unfit for anything. My head has been much more clear and comfortable for the last few days than for some time past. Tell Father there was a meeting called last evening of the Federalists in the city, to make some further remonstrances on the defenceless state of the Port of New York, occasioned by an accident that has set the whole City in an uproar. There are 3 British Frigates at the Hook, a few miles from the City, that fire upon all the vessels that come in or go out, and search them. They have sent several on to Halifax, and yesterday they fired in a most wanton manner upon a little coaster that was entering the harbor with only three men on board, and before they had time to come to as they were preparing to do, they fired again, and killed one of the men dead upon the spot,—he was brought up and the body exposed to view on one of the wharves, where several thousand people were collected to see it,—it put the City in great confusion, and this meeting was called in consequence—where Uncle made a very elegant speech. I am very sorry Father had not been here, it would have gratified him. ’Tis the first time he has spoken in public since his return to this Country. The British Consul had sent several boats of provisions down to the frigates—which as soon as ’twas known the Pilot-boats went after and brought them all back,—they were loaded upon carts and carried in procession thro’ the streets to the poor house, attended by a prodigious mob—huzzaing, and the English and American colors fixed on the carts; they demanded the Commander of the frigate to be given up as a murderer by the British Consul,—he replied he had no power over him. It has made a prodigious noise in the City, as you may imagine. So much for Father;—I shall expect to hear to-morrow when he got to Providence. Adieu, my dear Mother.

By way of punishment, if it is any, I have denied myself the pleasure of answering your letter till I thought you would begin really to wish for a letter. However, I quite want to hear again, and as there is little hope of that until I answer yours, I’ll e’en set about it at once. William Weeks told me he saw you in Portland the day before he left there. I wonder he did not tell you he was coming to New York. Mr. Isaac McLellan is here too from Portland. You did not write to me half particulars; you said nothing about Arixene.

After a week has elapsed I resume my pen to finish my letter. I was expecting Mr. Isaac McLellan to call and let me know when he should return, as I intended writing by him, but he has left town without my knowing it. Now for news, which I suppose you are very anxious to hear. In the first place—Miss Laurelia Dashaway is married to Mr. Hawkes. On Saturday morning, 8 o’clock, Trinity Church was opened on purpose for the occasion; something singular, as it would not be like Miss Laurelia. But what do you think—Mr. Grellet has taken French leave of New York—sailed for France about a fortnight ago, without anybody’s knowing their intention till they were gone. There are many conjectures upon the occasion not very favorable to the state of their finances. ’Tis said his friends were very averse to her going with him. If she had not, I suspect she must have sympathized with Madame Jerome Buonoparte and many other poor Madames that have founded their hopes on the fidelity of a Frenchman. Poor Mrs. Ogden has another little petticoated little John Murray—4 daughters!—I am sorry it was not a boy. What should you think to see me come home without Mr. Bowne? I strongly fear he won’t have it in his power to leave the office more than once in the Season; if so, I would much prefer him to come for me in the Autumn. However, we have made no arrangements yet. Walter grows such a playful little rogue, he is always in mischief; I am just leaving off his caps; I want his hair to grow before his Grandmamma sees him; he won’t look so pretty without his caps. He creeps so much I find it impossible to keep him so nice as I used to. Poor Harriet Beam I think is going rapidly in a decline, she has been confined to her room 5 or 6 weeks. I have not seen the Wattses this some time; they are gone to Passaic Falls with a little party,—Maria Laight, Mr. Delort, Robert Harney, etc. My love to all; write me soon particularly. I hope soon to be with you. How is Sister Boyd’s infant?

I am quite anxious to hear good news from you. Miranda has been in Jamaica this fortnight; she has taken a frock and cap along with her to work for you; I hope she will have it finished when she returns. Maria Denning is married, and William Duer has returned to New Orleans; left her with her friends for the winter. Amelia was married to Mr. Gillespie in the spring; lives at home yet.

Miss Pell was married last week to Robert MacComb; they are making a prodigious dash. I went to pay the bride’s visit on Friday; they had an elegant ball and supper in the evening, as it was the last day of seeing Company; 7 brides-maids and 7 Bride-men, most superb dresses; the bride’s pearls cost 1,500 dollars; they spend the winter in Charleston. Adieu! Love to all friends, and tell your husband to write me immediately after this great event. I am looking forward to a happy summer spent among you. Best love to Isabella and family, Horatio and family. How is Robert Southgate junr.? That is as it ought to be. Pappa is pleased I dare say.

I find it quite in vain to wait for a letter from Miranda, and she has left me to chance and uncertainty to know whether she has ever arrived at Providence, but luckily, from constant enquiries, I have learnt she did arrive safe, and from some other accidental information, that she was to leave Boston last Thursday for home, with Judge Thatcher. I presume by this she is with you. As the Spring opens I begin to look forward to my Eastern visit. Octavia’s boy is as beautiful as a cherub, I hear.

Mrs. Derby has returned from Philadelphia, and intends leaving here for Boston on Tuesday. She spent a long sociable day with me yesterday and I found it quite a treat; I have seen so little of her but in mix’t parties that it hardly seems like a visit. She is almost worn out with dissipation, and I greatly fear her constitution has suffered an injury from this kind of life it will never recover. She has absolutely refused all invitations since her return, and means to rest for a few days while she remains here; she takes one of our belles on to Boston with her,—Miss Fairlie;^[91] Miranda knows her. Martha had a letter from Mrs. Sumner yesterday, where she mentions Miranda leaving there for home the Sunday before with Mr. and Mrs. Kinsman; I am really hurt at her unaccountable silence. I promised to tell her all the news and account of all the parties after she left me, but I was quite provoked at her not writing. Tell her, however, that there seems no end to the gaiety this Spring; it does not abate as yet at all. The day after she left me I paid the bride’s visit to young Mrs. Murray; there was a prodigious crowd, a hundred and fifty at least, and many never sat down at all. Madame Moreau^[92] wore a long black velvet dress with Pearl ornaments, looking elegantly. The next day I dined at Uncle Rufus King’s with company; on Tuesday following, went to a ball at Mrs. Stevens’;^[93] next day, a ball at Miss Murray’s, very pleasant; they very much regretted her not being here; she was intended to be one of the Bridesmaids; and the day after the last Assembly, as you may suppose, was completely tired dancing three nights in succession. Last Friday I was at a ball at the Watts’s, and the week before at Miss Lyde’s^[94] to a ball, and Mrs. Turnbull’s to a monstrous tea-party. Yesterday at Mrs. Morris’. On Monday next Aunt King has a very large party. On Tuesday I go to Mrs. Stoughton’s, on Thursday to Mrs. Hopkins’, and on Friday dine at Mrs. Bogert’s, and this evening to Mrs. Henderson’s to a ball. I think it will be one of the most elegant we have had this winter. I wish Miranda was here,—so much for Miranda. Adieu! I have promised to go shopping with Mrs. Derby this morning and ’tis growing late. I look forward with delight to the approaching summer spent amidst all my family.

Give my affectionate regard to all.