Chapter I: Part 1

Mrs. WALTER BOWNE

From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B. Lawrence

ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.
]

A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO
SELECTIONS FROM THE LETTERS OF ELIZA SOUTHGATE BOWNE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY CLARENCE COOK

_ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS AND VIEWS_

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1887

Copyright, 1887,
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

_MRS. WALTER BOWNE_ _Frontispiece_
_Miniature by Malbone_

_Facing Page_
_DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE—MRS. SOUTHGATE_ _5_
_From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B.
Lawrence, Esq._

_MRS. JOHN DERBY_ (_Eleanor Coffin_) _22_
_Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss
Rogers, of Boston_

_RUFUS KING_ _42_
_From a painting by Woods_

_MRS. RUFUS KING_ _68_
_After a portrait by Trumbull_

_MR. E. HASKET DERBY, OF SALEM_ (_Æt. 28, 1794_) _110_
_From a Miniature in possession of Dr. Hasket
Derby, of Boston_

_MRS. RICHARD DERBY_ (_Martha Coffin_) _116_
_Miniature by Malbone, in possession of Mrs.
Peabody, of Boston_

_THE VAN RENSSELAER MANOR HOUSE_ _130_

_MR. WALTER BOWNE_ _140_
_Miniature by Malbone_

_THE LYMAN PLACE—WALTHAM_ _148_

_LUCIA WADSWORTH—ZILPAH WADSWORTH_ _159_
_From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B.
Lawrence, Esq._

_SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE, HELL GATE, LONG ISLAND_ _167_

_THE BOWNE HOUSE, FLUSHING_ _195_
_Erected 1661_

_JAMES GORE KING_ _206_
_From a Miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq._

_CHARLES KING_ _210_
_From a Miniature in the possession of his
daughter, Mrs. Martin._

INTRODUCTION.

Eliza Southgate, the writer of the letters here collected, was the daughter of Robert and Mary Southgate, and was born in Scarborough, Me., September 24, 1783. She was the third in a family of twelve children. Her father came of English stock, and was born in Leicester, Mass., where his family had long been settled. Here he studied medicine, and when he had finished his course he left his native place, where there appeared to be no room for another practitioner, and settled in Scarborough. We are told that, after the primitive fashion of the time, he set out to seek his fortune on horseback, with all his worldly goods in a pair of saddle-bags. In this way he entered Scarborough, where his character and talents were not long in getting him a good position. He had picked up some law, and in a new and small community was able to make his knowledge useful, so that in course of time he was appointed a Judge in the Court of Common Pleas.

He had not been long in Scarborough before he married Mary, the daughter of Richard King, a large landholder in the District of Maine. “Pretty Polly King,” as Mary was familiarly called by her friends, was the second daughter of Mr. King by his first wife. The eldest child by this marriage was Rufus—well known for the distinguished part he played in the early history of our country. A third child, Pauline, married Mr. Porter; their son Moses, whose name often occurs in these letters, was a young man of great promise. He engaged his cousin Eliza in a correspondence, after the somewhat formal fashion of the time; only her letters remain to indicate its character, but they are among her best. In her lively tilting on the well-worn subject of the education of the sexes, the lady shows herself a clever mistress of the foils, and there are not wanting indications that the combatants did not escape from the encounter heart-whole. But however this may have been, all was ended by the sudden death of Mr. Porter from a fever caught in boarding an infected vessel in the transaction of some necessary business.

Scarborough was not a large town, but its position as a seaport gave it some importance, and the society was far above what is ordinarily met with in such places. The Hunnewells, Bragdons, Bacons, Emersons, Wadsworths, names that are distinguished in the social history of New England, belong to the early settlers of the neighborhood, and are still represented there. Zilpah, one of the daughters of General Peleg Wadsworth, who are frequently mentioned in these letters, married Stephen Longfellow, a cousin of Mrs. Southgate, and became the mother of the poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The Southgates gave their children the best education to be had in those times. They were first sent to school in Scarborough; but, later, were placed—to be “finished,” as the old phrase was—at boarding-schools near Boston. When she was fourteen years old, Eliza was sent to a school at Medford, and a letter written from that place gives a rather uncomfortable notion of her surroundings. In these few childish lines, however, the character of the woman is plainly prefigured—her observation, her power of clear, terse statement, her playful humor, her cheerful submission to duty, and her affection for her parents, making her willing to put up with whatever was disagreeable rather than give them uneasiness. However, Dr. Southgate, as a physician, could see that a school where the pupils slept, four beds in a small chamber and two in a bed, was not the place for a growing girl, and he therefore took his daughter away and put her at the school at Medford, kept by Mrs. Rowson. This, for its time, was an excellent school, and Miss Southgate remained there until the day came when “studies” were to be thrown aside, and “life” was to begin. She seems by her letters to have been very happy while under Mrs. Rowson’s care—the varied and somewhat romantic life led by that lady perhaps fitted her, better than would have been thought, to be the guide and friend of a girl of Eliza Southgate’s peculiar character.[1]

Her life after she left school is so fully described in her letters that there is no need of following it in detail. She tells her own story far better than another could do it, and much that would inevitably be dull and commonplace narrated in plain prose, sparkles with life under the swift pen of this lively girl. She tells of her visit to Saratoga, with her friends Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby; and no school-girl of our time, writing from Paris or London, could describe the wonders of her tour with greater ecstasy. She sees this new corner of the world with the miracle-working eye of youth, and accepts everything with youth’s unquestioning heart. Previous letters had described Salem in terms equally ecstatic, and after her account of the country-seat of the Derbys, there could be nothing left to say of Versailles or St. Cloud. But what then? Was not this a fine old country-house, with its formal garden, its provincial but still solid stateliness, and, above all, with its hearty, cheerful hospitality? It was our heroine’s first glimpse of the gay world of fashion of her time, and she enjoyed it to the full.

The story of her first meeting with her future husband, of her engagement to him, of their wedding-journey, is told with the simplicity and unaffected candor that were characteristic of her. The letter to her mother in which she asks her consent to the marriage, shows mother and daughter in the happiest light; it is the highest praise that could be awarded the training the Southgates had given their children. Perfect love had bred perfect confidence, and it is certainly pleasant to know that the hearts and judgments of the parents could only confirm the decision of their daughter. Mr. Walter Bowne was everything that the most exacting parents could wish as the husband of a daughter so dear to them.

But the new life of happiness thus entered upon was brief, and in a few months more than six years it had come to an end. In 1803 Mr. Bowne and Miss Southgate were married. In 1806 their first child, a boy, named Walter, after his father, was born; and two years later, in July, 1808, came their second child, a girl, named Mary, after Mrs. Bowne’s mother. After the birth of this child, Mrs. Bowne did not recover her strength, and as winter was coming on, the medical men recommended a sea-voyage and a visit to a warmer climate. It was determined to send the invalid to Charleston, S. C.; and accordingly Mrs. Bowne set out, accompanied by her sister Octavia and her husband, Mr. Browne, leaving Mr. Bowne in New York, where he had some business-affairs to settle before he should join his wife later in the season. Unhappily, the sea-voyage proved a disastrous experiment; and when the party arrived at Charleston, Mrs. Bowne was in so enfeebled a condition from its effects that her sister gave up all hope of saving her life. She failed rapidly, and died on the 20th of February, only two months after her arrival. Mr. Bowne, who, in common with her family, had probably no idea of the serious nature of his wife’s illness when she left New York, yet made all the haste he could to follow her, but had the inexpressible grief to arrive too late. His only consolation was in the fact that her suffering had been brief, and that her departure was serene, while all that a sister’s affectionate devotion could avail to comfort her had been given without stint from a full heart; and even strangers in a strange city had been moved, by the beauty and loveliness of this young mother, and by her pitiful case, deprived of husband and children, to shield her and cheer her with all that the warmhearted Southern hospitality knows so well to bestow. She was buried in Charleston and her grave was hid in flowers sent by the people of the town and the neighboring plantations, many of whom had only heard her name and story.

There is little need for an editor’s help in following the story of the life which these letters portray. They are, in fact, an almost complete diary of that life, for the earliest bears date when the writer was a child at boarding-school, and the last was written only a few days before she died. Of the years that came between, the record is almost uninterrupted; so that the task confided to me resolves itself into little more than a statement of the few facts connected with the personal and family history of their author, that naturally have no place in the letters themselves.

No doubt we have gained much, so far as the material convenience of the great public life is concerned, from the inventions that, for all practical purposes, have reduced time and space to comparative insignificance. We have, however, lost some good things, which those who lived in younger days must always regret, and for which there is small compensation in the material gain we have received in exchange. Among these losses, that of letter-writing is perhaps the most serious. A whole world of innocent enjoyment for contemporaries and for posterity has been blotted out, and, so far as appears, nothing is taking its place. Is it the newspapers? But how scattered, how disjointed, how impersonal, the record they contain! We might as well hope to recall the charm of some old garden loved in youth, by turning over the leaves of a _herbarium_ in which its flowers had been pressed, as to make the domestic life of a time gone by, live again in reading the files of a newspaper. Nor do memoirs or biographies give us what we want. They are too formal, too self-conscious; they want the spontaneity, the vividness of impression, the lightness of the recording hand. These things letters give us, and letters alone.

Science has many fairy-tales to tell us, but the most magical of all her inventions is that toy, the phonograph, invented by our own Edison. It listens to the words that are whispered in its ear, to the songs that are sung to it, to the gossip that buzzes about it, and the record made on its revolving surface, replaced at any time upon the cylinder—after the lapse of an hour, or of a hundred years—will repeat what has been confided to it in the very voice of the speaker, with every tone and every inflection as clear as when first it spoke.

Familiar letters are privileged to play the same magical part. To the readers of successive generations, they speak with the living voice of the writer; they recall the fugitive emotions, the joys, the sorrows, the whims, the passions, and as we read we persuade ourselves that we are part and parcel of the times they record.

What a difference in our enjoyment it would make, were the letters of Fanny Burney and Horace Walpole taken from us! Even Hannah More becomes entertaining; for though her circle was a narrow one, there were delightful people in it, and the letters make us at home in her little world, as no formal biography could do.

Nowadays no one writes letters, and no one would have time to read them if they were written. Little notes fly back and forth, like swallows, between friend and friend, between parent and child, carrying the news of the day in small morsels easily digested; it is not worth while to tell the whole story with the pen, when it can be told in a few weeks, at the farthest, with the voice. For nobody now is more than a few weeks from anywhere. In the spring my neighbor came home with his wife from the Philippine Islands, to pass a few weeks with his friends and hers. Yesterday he ran back to the islands, to buckle to business again. Why take the trouble while here to detail the gossip of his home-circle to his Philippine friends, in letters, when in a fortnight or so he would be recounting it to them at their own tables?

The letters here printed have more than the interest of contemporary records; they paint in words, with a thousand delicate and expressive touches, the portrait of a lively and beautiful girl, with a character as striking and individual as the face that Malbone has drawn for us on ivory. Never was a reigning beauty more spirited, never was a spirited girl of fashion more truly lovable, than Eliza Bowne. Whether she be at boarding-school, writing letters to her “honored parents,” and hiding her little homesick heart in vain under the formal phrases dictated by the starched decorum of the day; or stealing an hour for her pen amid the whirl of the gay world in which she sparkled, such a cheerful star, and rattling off to her mother the story of the day’s doings—she is always the same generous, unselfish creature; impulsive, but with her impulses well in hand; a heart brimming over with mirth, its clear crystal clouded by no drop of malice; witty, but with a friendly glint in her mischievous eyes, even when, as now and then happens, she gives formality or presumption a fillip. Love and friendship followed her wherever she went in her too brief span of life, and fortune heaped her girlish lap with all good things; but she showed herself worthy of her blessings, and kept herself unspotted from the world.

Something should be said of the literary merit of these letters. The name of Richardson has been mentioned; but Richardson never wrote anything so fresh from the heart, so playful in their sincerity, as some of the letters to her cousin, Moses Porter; nor could Richardson have touched with so light a hand the story of the drive home in the snow-storm after the Assembly ball, or the account of the game of Loo, when, with a fluttering heart, she stands, divided between the eager desire to read the letter she has just slipped into her pocket, and the impatient calls of her partners to join them at the game. Fanny Burney, and Fanny Burney alone, could have written letters like these.

They are not, however, the letters of a practised writer, nor was there ever in her mind any thought of publication. It was the age of “epistolary correspondence:” all the girls of Miss Southgate’s acquaintance were writing letters to their friends, long ones, often, made up in the manner of a diary, with a week’s doings recorded day by day; for postage was dear, and to send blank paper an extravagance, and no doubt, like her friends, she forgot her letters as soon as they were sent off. Her correspondents were not so indifferent, however, and they kept her letters carefully. Her mother, to whom the most of them were written, left those sent to herself as a bequest to her granddaughter, Mrs. John W. Lawrence, the “little Mary” of the later letters. Mrs. Bowne died in the same year in which this daughter was born; but her sister-in-law, Miss Caroline Bowne, who devoted herself to the care of the little girl after her mother’s death, instilled into her heart such an affection for her parent’s memory that she came to cherish it with an almost religious devotion, and guarded as a sacred relic everything that had belonged to her. To the letters left her by her grandmother, Mrs. Lawrence added all she could collect from other persons with whom her mother had corresponded. They came to her in a sad state, from much reading and passing about from hand to hand; and to preserve their contents she copied the whole collection, with the greatest care, in her neat, methodical handwriting, into two small books, and these, in her turn, she bequeathed to her children, as her grandmother had bequeathed the originals to her.

They are now given to the public, enriched with a considerable number of contemporary portraits and other illustrations, carefully reproduced from original miniatures and old prints; and with an abundance of biographical notes, industriously collected by a competent hand, which cannot fail to be of value to the social chronicler of our time. While the importance of these letters as illustrations of the domestic life of our country at a most interesting time is considerable, their chief value, after all, lies in the picture they give of the writer. It is a picture drawn, as we have said, with a thousand graceful touches, and the natural girlish loveliness of the portraiture shows best when it is read from end to end. Then, as we look up from the printed page to Malbone’s portrait, the vision takes shape:

“A hair-brained, sentimental trace
Was strongly markèd in her face;
A wildly witty, rustic grace
Shone full upon her;
Her eye, even turned on empty space,
Beamed keen with honour.”

CLARENCE COOK.

FISHKILL-ON-HUDSON,
October 1, 1887.

A GIRL’S LIFE EIGHTY YEARS AGO

Medford, Jan. 23, 1797.

My Mamma:

I went to Boston last Saturday, and there I received your letter. I have now to communicate to you only my wishes to tarry in Boston a quarter, if convenient. In my last letter to my Father I did not say anything respecting it because I did not wish Mrs. Wyman to know I had an inclination to leave her school, but only because I thought you would wish me to come home when my quarter was out. I have a great desire to see my family, but I have a still greater desire to finish my education.

Still I have to beg you to remind my friends and acquaintances that I remain the same Eliza, and that I bear the same love I ever did to them, whether they have forgotten me or not.

Tell my little Brothers and Sisters I want to see them very much indeed. Write me an answer as soon as you can conveniently. I shall send you some of my work which you never have seen,—it is my Arithmetic.

Permit me, my Honored Mother, to claim the title of

Your affectionate daughter,
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, May 12, 1797.

Honored Parents:

With pleasure I sit down to the best of parents to inform them of my situation, as doubtless they are anxious to hear,—permit me to tell them something of my foolish heart. When I first came here I gave myself up to reflection, but not pleasing reflections. When Mr. Boyd[2] left me I burst into tears and instead of trying to calm my feelings I tried to feel worse. I begin to feel happier and will soon gather up all my Philosophy and think of the duty that now attends me, to think that here I may drink freely of the fountain of knowledge, but I will not dwell any longer on this subject. I am not doing anything but writing, reading, and cyphering. There is a French Master coming next Monday, and he will teach French and Dancing. William Boyd and Mr. Wyman advise me to learn French, yet if I do at all I wish you to write me very soon what you think best, for the school begins on Monday. Mr. Wyman says it will not take up but a very little of my time, for it is but two days in the week, and the lessons only 2 hours long. Mr. Wyman says I must learn Geometry before Geography, and that I better not begin it till I have got through my Cyphering.

DR. ROBERT SOUTHGATE MRS. SOUTHGATE

From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Lawrence, Esq.
]

We get up early in the morning and make our beds and sweep the chamber, it is a chamber about as large as our kitchen chamber, and a little better finished. There’s 4 beds in the chamber, and two persons in each bed, we have chocolate for breakfast and supper.

Your affectionate Daughter
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Medford, May 25, 1797.

My dear Parents:

I hope I am in some measure sensible of the great obligation I am under to you for the inexpressible kindness and attention which I have received of you from the cradle to my present situation in school. Many have been your anxious cares for the welfare of me, your child, at every stage and period of my inexperienced life to the present moment. In my infancy you nursed and reared me up, my inclinations you have indulged and checked my follies—have liberally fed me with the bounty of your table, and from your instructive lips I have been admonished to virtue, morality, and religion. The debt of gratitude I owe you is great, yet I hope to repay you by duly attending to your counsels and to my improvement in useful knowledge.

My thankful heart with grateful feelings beat,
With filial duty I my Parents greet,
Your fostering care hath reared me from my birth,
And been my Guardians, since I’ve been on earth,
With love unequalled taught the surest way,
And Check’d my passions when they went astray.
I wish and trust to glad declining years,—
Make each heart gay—each eye refrain from tears.
When days are finished and when time shall cease
May you be wafted to eternal peace

Is the sincere wish of your dutiful Daughter,

ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Robert Southgate Esqr. & Lady.

Medford, June 13, 1797.

Dear Mother:

With what pleasure did I receive your letter and hear the praises of an approving Mother! It shall be my study to please and make you happy. You said you hoped that I was not disappointed in learning French; I hope you think that I have too much _love_ and _reverence_ for my Parents to take any thing amiss that _they_ thought most proper for me. I was very happy to hear that you had received the bonnets, and I hope they will suit you. I have never received a letter from Horatio[3] since I have been here. I expect to begin Geometry as soon as I have done Cyphering, which I hope will be soon, for I have got as far as Practice. Tell Isabella[4] and Mama[5] King, that some letters from them would give me great pleasure and that I hope to experience it soon. I should have written to Mama King, but I had not time, but I intend to, the first opportunity. I have found the nubs and sent them to Portland. I received your letter by my Brother Boyd, and was very much surprised to hear that Octavia[6] was going to have the small-pox. Please to give my love to Harriet Emerson, and Mary Rice, and tell them that I intend to write to them very soon and shall expect some letters from them. Give my love to all my friends and tell them that I often think on them, and I hope they will not forget your affectionate daughter

ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, August 11, 1797.

Dear Parents:

It is a long time since I received a letter from home, and I have neglected my duty in not writing to you oftener. I shall send you with this some of my Pieces, and you will see if you think I have improved any: the Epitaph on the Hon. Thomas Russell was the first one that I wrote. My brother Boyd never came to see me when he was up, only called and delivered me the letter. I have never heard any thing since from Boston, nor seen any of my acquaintance from there. I have not been to Boston since Election. I expected to have gone to Commencement, but I did not. I fear that the time allotted for my stay here will be too short for me to go so far as I wish, for I shall have to go much farther in Arithmetic than I had an idea of, then go over it again in a large book of my own writing; for my Instructor does not wish to give me a superficial knowledge only. He says if I am very diligent; he thinks that 9 months from the time I came will _do_, if I can’t stay longer; I should feel happy, and very grateful, if you thought proper to let me tarry that time. I have Cyphered now farther than Isabella did, for I have been thro’ Practice, the Rule of Three and Interest and two or three rules that I never did before.

I would thank you to write me word if you are willing for me to stay so long. With wishing you health and all the happiness which you are capable of enjoying, permit me to subscribe myself

Your affectionate and most dutiful Daughter

ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mr. & Mrs. Southgate.

Medford, Aug. 14, 1797.

Dear Mother:

I am very sorry for your trouble, and sympathize with you in it. I now regret being from home, more than ever, for I think I might be of service to you now the children are sick. I hope they will be as much favored in their sickness _now_, as they were when they had the measles. I am very sorry that Jane has broken her arm, for it generally causes a long confinement, and I fear she has not got patience enough to bear it without a great deal of trouble. I suppose that Isabella will be very much worried about her babe. I would thank you to write me very often now—for I shall be very anxious about the children. I believe I have got some news to tell you, that is, I have found one of your acquaintance, and relation; it is a Mrs. _Sawyer_, before she was married she was Polly King, and she says that you kept at their house when you was in Boston. I believe I have nothing more to request, only for you to give my love to all the children, and _kiss_ each of them for _me_, and tell them to be as patient as they can. Give my respects to my Father and tell him I want to receive a letter from him very much.

I am your affectionate and dutiful daughter

ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, August 25, 1797.

Dear Mother:

I received your packet of things the 20th inst. and was very glad of them. If you will be so kind as to send me word whether Sarah’s[7] ear-rings were in the basket, I will be much obliged to you. I have forgotten whether I did or not—write me word if you like your bonnet and the children’s, I hope you do.

Give my love to Sarah and all the children, and kiss Arixene,[8] and Robert for me. Never did I know the worth of good parents half so much as now I am from them; I never missed our closet so much, and above all things our cheese and Butter which we have but very little of, but I am very contented. I wish you would send me up my patterns all of them for I want them very much indeed, for I expect to work me a gown.

I am with due respect
Your dutiful daughter
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, Sept. 30, 1797.

Dear Mother:

You mentioned in yours, of the 16th inst. that it was a long time since you had received a letter from me; but it was owing to my studies which took up the greater part of my time; for I have been busy in my Arithmetic, but I finished it yesterday, and expect now to begin my large manuscript Arithmetic. You say that you shall regret so long an absence; not more certainly than I shall, but a strong desire to possess more useful knowledge than I at present do, I can dispense with the pleasure a little longer of beholding my friends and I hope I shall be better prepared to meet my good parents towards whom my heart overflows with gratitude. You mentioned in your letter about my Winter clothes of which I will make out a Memorandum. I shall want a coat and you may send it up for me to make, or you may make it your self, but I want it made loose with a belt. I wish you to send me enough of all my slips to make long sleeves that you can, and I wish you would pattern my dark slip to make long sleeves. I want a flannel waist, and a petticoat, for my white one dirts so quick that I had rather have a colored one. I have nothing more to write, only give my love to all who ask after me. I have just received a letter from Horatio, he is very well.

Your ever affectionate daughter
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, Oct. 17, 1797.

Dear Brother:

Yours of the 11th of Sept. was gratefully received by your affectionate Sister; and your excuse at first I thought not very good, but now I think it very good, for I have been plagued very much myself. William Boyd came from Portland about a fortnight since and by him I was informed that Sister Isabella’s child was very sick and he was in doubt whether it would ever get over it. I feel for Isabella much more than I can tell you who is but just entered the bonds of Matrimony should so soon have sickness, and perhaps Death, be one of the guests of her family. I was also informed that the children had all got over the hooping cough and that Octavia was much healthier than she was before she had the small-pox. By my last letter from home Papa informed me that I might tarry all Winter and I have concluded to. I suppose you would like to know how I spend my time here. I shall answer, very well; my going abroad is chiefly in Boston, for I don’t go out much in Medford. It was vacation about a week since and I spent it in Boston very agreeably.

I keep at Mr. Boyd’s when I am there, and Mrs. Little’s. I go to Boston every public day as Mr. B. is so good as to send for me. I am very fond of that family and likewise Mrs. Little’s. You speak of my writing and you think that I have improved. I am glad of it. I hope I shall make as great progress in my other studies and be an “Accomplished Miss.”

Horatio do write very soon; will you?

Adieu! your affectionate Sister
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Horatio Southgate.

Medford, Nov. 10, 1797.

You mentioned in your letter, my dear mother, that Cousin Mary informed you that I expected to go to the Ball. I did think that I should go but I altered my mind; I had 2 or 3 invitations but I would not accept of any of them. My cloak likewise you mentioned something about, which I shall attend to when I go to Boston. I expect to go to Boston at Thanksgiving, for there is a vacation of a week. I had a letter from _Horatio_ yesterday, he was well. Isabella wrote me word that my Father had got the Rheumatism very bad, which I am sorry to hear. If the wishes or prayers of Eliza would heal the wound, it would not long remain unheal’d.

My love to all the children, tell them I don’t dare to tell them how much I want to see them, nor even think. My love to all that ask after me. May all the happiness that is possible for you to enjoy be experienced is the sincere wish of

Your affectionate Daughter
ELIZA S.

Mrs. Mary Southgate.

Medford, Dec. 16, 1797.

My Dear Father:

I received yours with pleasure and was happy to hear that you were better. I hope you will continue growing better until the complaint is entirely removed. I came from Boston yesterday after spending vacation there. I went to the theater the night before for the first time, and Mr. Turner came into the box where I was. I did not know him at first, neither did he me, but he soon found me out. With this I shall send some pieces. My respect is justly due to my good Mother, and my love to all who ask after me, the children in particular. I hope to improve to your satisfaction, which will amply reward me for all my pains.

I must conclude with wishing you health and happiness.

Your ever affectionate daughter, E. S.

Medford, Jan’y 9th, 1798.

My Good Father:

The contents of your letter surprised me at first; it may sometimes be of service to me, for while I have such a monitor, I never can act contrary to such advice. No, my Father, I hope by the help of Heaven never to cause shame or misery to attend the grey hairs of my Parents nor myself, but on the contrary to _glad_ your declining years with happiness and that you may never have cause to rue the day that gave me existence. My heart feels no attachment except to my family. I respect many of my friends but _love_ none but my Parents. Your letter shall be my guide from home, and when I again behold our own peaceful mansion then will I again be guided by my Parents’ happiness,—their happiness shall be my pursuit. My heart overflows with gratitude toward you and my good Mother. I am sensible of the innumerable obligations I am under to you. You mention in your letter about my pieces, which you say you imagine are purloined; I am very sorry if they are, for I set more by them than any of my pieces; one was the Mariner’s Compass, and the other was a Geometrical piece. I spent Thanksgiving at Mrs. Little’s and Christmas here. I have finished my large Manuscript Arithmetic and want to get it bound, and then I shall send it to you. I have done a small Geometry book and shall begin a large one to-morrow, such a one as you saw at Mr. Wyman’s if you remember. It is the beginning of a new year; allow me then to pay you the compliments of the season.—I pray that this year to you may prove a year of health, prosperity, and love. My quarter will be out the 8th day of next month, it will be in about four weeks. I wish you would write me soon how I am to come home—for I wish to know.

I should be very glad if _you_ could make it convenient to come for me, for I wish _you_ to come. Give my love to Irene and tell her I believe she owes me a letter; if you please you may tell her that part of my letter which concerns school affairs.

My love is due to all who will take the trouble to ask after me. Tell Mamma I have begun the turban and will send it as soon as I finish it. When I see her I will tell her why I did not do it before.

Accept my sincere wishes that My Parents may enjoy all the happiness that ever mortals know.

Still I hope I am
Your _dutiful_ Daughter,
ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Robert Southgate, Esq.

Boston, Jan. 30, 1798.

My Honored Father:

By Capt. Bradbury I was informed that you wished me to come home with him, which I should have complied with, had not I have seen my Uncle William[9] to-day, and he informed me that you had concluded to let me spend some time in Boston, which I was very glad to hear. I shall now wait until I hear certain, which I wish you to send me word by the next post.—I shall enclose in this a card of Mrs. Rawson’s terms which you may peruse; until then I remain with the same affection,

Your dutiful Daughter, ELIZA S.

Boston, February 13, 1798.

Hon. Father:

I am again placed at school under the tuition of an amiable lady, so mild, so good, no one can help loving her; she treats all her scholars with such a tenderness as would win the affection of the most savage brute, tho’ scarcely able to receive an impression of the kind. I learn Embroidery and Geography at present and wish your permission to learn Musick. You may justly say, my best of Fathers, that every letter of mine is one which is asking for something more; never contented—I only ask, if you refuse me, I know you do what you think best, and I am sure I ought not to complain, for you have never yet refused me anything that I have asked, my best of Parents, how shall I repay you? You answer, by your good behaviour. Heaven grant that it may be such as may repay you. A year will have rolled over my head before I shall see my Parents. I have ventured from them at an early age to be so long a time absent, but I hope I have learnt a good lesson by it—a lesson of experience, which is the best lesson I could learn.

I have described one of the blessings of creation in Mrs. Rawson, and now I will describe Mrs. Wyman as the reverse: she is the worst woman I ever knew of all that I ever saw; nobody knows what I suffered from the treatment of that woman—I had the misfortune to be a favorite with Miss Haskell and Mr. Wyman, she said, and she treated me as her own malicious heart dictated; but whatever is, is right, and I learnt a good lesson by it. I wish you, my Father, to write an answer soon and let me know if I may learn music.—Give my best respects to my good Mother, tho’ what I say to my Father applies to my Mother as much as to my Father. May it please the disposer of all events to return me safe home to the bosom of my friends in health safely. I never was happier in my life I think, and my heart overflows toward my heavenly Father for it; and may it please him to continue it and afford it to my Parents, is the sincere wish of

Your ELIZA SOUTHGATE.

Robert Southgate, Esqr.

Boston, May 12th, 1798.

My dear Parents:

Now at the end of the week, when my hopes are almost exhausted of seeing my brother, I attempt to address you,—a task which was once delightful but now painful since my Mother’s last letter. I see my errors, and if I can hope they will no longer be remembered by my Parents, I shall again be happy.

My Mother’s letter greatly surprised me after having received so different a one from my Father. Indeed, my Parents, did you think I would any longer cherish a passion _you_ disapproved? After expressing your disapprobation it was enough, your _wishes are_ and ever shall be my commands. I have spent a week of painful expectation; no letter, no brother, no father have come, and I am now in anxious expectation to receive a letter to-night, but I dare not hope it to be so. Do, my Father, as soon as you receive this send for me as soon as possible, for my quarter at Mrs. Rawson’s was out last Saturday, and as circumstances are, I thought it proper not to go to Mr. Boyd’s. I beg of you to send for me home directly, for I only board at Mrs. Rawson’s now, for I am in expectation of seeing or hearing every day and therefore I have not begun any more work. My time is spending without gain. I am at Mrs. Frazier’s and have been here ever since Thursday. I shall go back to Mrs. Rawson’s to-night and there wait for further orders. Time hangs more heavy than ever it did before. I am with the most sincere Respect and affection

Your daughter ELIZA.

R. & M. Southgate.

Scarborough, Dec. 16th.

I am sorry to have given Aunt Porter such an opportunity of charging me with neglect in executing her commission, but I can easily convince her I did not deserve censure; for until last Friday I never received yours of Nov. 22nd, and I shall execute that part of Aunt’s request which I can in Scarborough—the gown patterns I shall enclose. The one with a fan back is meant to just meet before and pin the Robings, no string belt or any thing. The other pattern is a plain waist with strips of the same sticked on, and for white, laced between with bobbin or cord. I have a muslin done so with black silk cord, which looks very handsome—and I have altered my brown silk into one like the other pattern. I was over at Saco yesterday and saw one Mary [King] had made in Boston. It was a separate waist, or rather the breadths did not go quite up. The waist was plain with one stripe of cording let in behind and the rest of the waist perfectly plain—the skirt part was plaited in box plaits 3 of a side—which reached to the shoulder strap and only enough left to meet strait before, as is one of the patterns I have sent. You ask so many questions that I hardly know how to answer them. Isabella is almost recovered—her family well. The baby I believe will be named Charles Orlando. The assemblies begin next Thursday—as also do Saco assemblies, and on Friday I go to the Saco assembly—probably I shall go to next Portland assembly. You ask how Mr. Little and Laura do? A strange question. Laura is well or was last Thursday, and Mr. Little is soon to be married to Miss Bowman of Exeter.

Papa has been confined to the house a week yesterday by a wound on his leg which he made with an axe, he wounded the tendon which leads from his great toe up, he cut it a little above the ankle—it has been very painful. Give my love to Aunt, tell her I shall not be able to come down this winter, for my next visit will be to Boston. Write me the next opportunity respecting the sables, and the time and how Uncle goes to Boston that I may be in readiness.

Family all well.

ELIZA.

To Octavia.

Boston, Feb. 7th, 1800.

After the toil, the bustle and fatigue of the week I turn towards home to relate the manner in which I have spent my time. I have been continually engaged in parties, plays, balls, &c. &c. Since the first week I came to town, I have attended all the balls and assemblies, one one week and one the next. They have regular balls once a fortnight, so that I have been to one or the other every Thursday. They are very brilliant, and I have formed a number of pleasing acquaintances there; last night, which was ball night, I drew No. 5, & 2nd sett drew a Mr. Snow, bad partner; danced voluntarily with Mr. Oliver, Mr. Andrews, Mr. McPherson; danced until 1 o’clock; they have charming suppers, table laid entirely with china. I had charming partners always. To-day I intended going to Mrs. Codman’s, engaged to a week ago, but wrote a billett I was indisposed, but the truth of the matter was that I wanted to go to the play to see Bunker hill, and Uncle (William King) wished I should—therefore I shall go. I have engagements for the greater part of next week. To-morrow we all go to hear Fisher Ames’ Eulogy. And in the morning going to look at some instruments; however we got one picked out that I imagine we shall take, 150 dollars—a charming toned one and not made in this country. I am still at Mrs. Frazier’s, she treats me with the greatest attention. Nancy is indeed a charming girl,—I have the promise of her company the ensuing summer. I have bought me a very handsome skirt, white satin. Richard Cutts went shopping with me yesterday morn, engaged to go to the play next week with him. For mourning for Washington the ladies dress as much as if for a relation, some entirely in black, but now many wear only a ribbon with a line painted on it. I have not yet been out to see Mrs. Rawson and Miss Haskell, but intend to next week. Uncle William [King] has been very attentive to me—carried me to the play 3 or 4 times and to all the balls and assemblies excepting the last which I went with Mr. Andrews. Give my best respects to Pappa and Mamma, and tell them I shall soon be tired of this dissipated life and almost want to go home already. I have a line to write to Mary Porter and must conclude.

ELIZA.

To Octavia.

Mrs. JOHN DERBY. (Eleanor Coffin.)

From a miniature by Malbone, in possession of Miss Rogers of Boston.

ARTOTYPE, E. BIERSTADT, N. Y.
]

Now Mamma, what do you think I am going to ask for?—a wig. Eleanor[10] has got a new one just like my hair and only 5 dollars, Mrs. Mayo one just like it. I must either cut my hair or have one, I cannot dress it at all _stylish_. Mrs. Coffin bought Eleanor’s and says that she will write to Mrs. Sumner to get me one just like it; how much time it will save—in one year we could save it in pins and paper, besides the _trouble_. At the assembly I was quite ashamed of my head, for nobody has long hair. If you will consent to my having one do send me over a 5 dollar bill by the post immediately after you receive this, for I am in hopes to have it for the next Assembly—do send me word immediately if you can let me have one. Tell Octavia she must write soon, and that there are many inquiries after her.

ELIZA.

To Octavia Southgate—Mrs. Frazier’s.

12th of June, 1800.
Hanover Street, Boston.

In the Hospital! Bless your heart, I am not there! Who told you I was? Mr. Davis I know, if you see him tell him I shall scold him for it. Martha has heard the same; true I had some idea of going in, but gave it up as soon as I heard Dr. Coffin did not attend. Horatio did likewise. Your last to Mamma is dated from Mrs. Frazier’s; how, Octavia, shall we discharge the debt of gratitude which we owe her? it had exceeded my hopes of payment before you went, surely it is now doubled. You mention nothing of any letters from me; I have written several and in one told you particularly that Mamma wished you by all means to take lessons in music; you don’t tell us what you have done since you have been in Medford. Martha writes me that you are to spend part of vacation at Mrs. Sumner’s. What has become of Ann and Harriett? I am out of patience waiting for them, why don’t they write, it is an age since I have had one line. Col. Boyd I hope will bring some letters from all of you. I have heard that Eleanor Coffin received attentions from Sam Davis when in Boston, did you hear of it? Martha writes me too that Mr. Andrews is paying attention to a young lady in Boston, but does not mention her name, _Miss Packman_ I guess; he was said to be her swain last winter. Mary Porter went home last week, I went with her, she has now gone to Topsham to tarry until uncle returns. I anxiously expect a letter from Ann or Harriett to know the reason that they don’t hasten their visit. I am learning my 12th tune, Octavia, I almost worship my Instrument,—it reciprocates my sorrows and joys, and is my bosom companion. How I long to have you return! I have hardly attempted to sing since you went away. I am sure I shall not dare to when you return. I must enjoy my triumph while you are absent; my musical talents will be dim when compared with the lustre of yours. Pooh, Eliza, you are not envious? no! I will excel in something else if not in music. Oh nonsense, this spirit of emulation in families is destructive of concord and harmony, at least I will endeavor to excel you in _sisterly affection_. If you outshine me in accomplishments, will it not be all in the family? Certainly. How I wish I had a _balloon_, I would see you and all my friends in Boston in a trice. I have not got one. Do tell me is Ann the same dear good friend and as much my _sister romp_ as ever? Tell her I am so affronted with her that I won’t speak to her. Sister Boyd is over, won’t go home this week; about your work, I will go down stairs and ask Mamma,—a _mourning piece_ with a figure in it, and two other pictures, _mates_—figures of females I think handsomer than Landscapes. Mrs. Rawson knows what is best,—thus says Mamma—she don’t wish any screens. Mr. Little, the bearer of this, another beau I send you, and here is poor _I_ not a bit of a one, _Doc. Bacon_ excepted, and even _him_, _Cousin Mary_, selfish creature, has lugged off his _heart_ and left the remainder here, so we might as well have a stump—poor soul, his face looks like a _Piana_,[11] one continued blush—I suppose for fear of hearing her name mentioned, and she, unreasonable creature! thinks he is not all perfection. Unaccountable taste! he is very _delightsome_ surely,—how long shall I rant at this rate. I long to go to Portland and then I shall see some being that looks like a beau—or a monkey, or anything you please;—To supply the loss I often look out the window, till my imagination forms one out of a tree or anything that I see, we can imagine anything you know. Bless my soul, Mr. L. is waiting!

ELIZA.

Give my love, respects, everything, to all.

July 3rd, 1800.