*y*&a 
 
 UC-NRLF 
 
 
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 *. _.,,.,;, -,Vr ( 
 
 
Mrs. WALTER BOWNE 
 *rom a miniature by Malbone, in possession of W. B, Lawrenc 
 
 TOTYPE, F UIERSTADT, 
 
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 
 
t 
 
 .fr* 
 
 Copyright, 1887, 
 Br CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SON& 
 
 7 Z-i-04 
 
 7 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 MRS. WALTER <B01VNE .... 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 (M. 28, 
 
 1794) "o 
 
 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 
 
xii List of Illustrations 
 
 Facing Page 
 
 MR. WALTER BOWNE 140 
 
 Miniature by Malbone 
 
 THE LYMAN PLACE-WALTHAM . . . 148 
 
 LUCIA WADSWORTH—ZILPAH WADSWORTH 15$ 
 
 From Silhouettes in the possession of W. B. Law?-etue, Esq. 
 
 SUNSWICK—THE DELAFIELD HOUSE, HELL 
 
 GATE, LONG ISLAND . .... 167 
 
 THE "BOWNE HOUSE, FLUSHING .... 795 
 Erected 1661 
 
 JAMES GORE KING 206 
 
 From a Miniature in the possession of A. Grade 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 Eng- 
 lish 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 l^is native place, where there ap- 
 peared to be no room for another practitioner, and settled in Scar- 
 borough. 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 Scarbor- 
 ough, 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 coun- 
 try. 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 re- 
 main to indicate its character, but they are among her best. In 
 
iv Introduction. 
 
 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 " stu- 
 dies" 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, 
 
Introduction. v 
 
 to be the guide and friend of a girl of Eliza Southgate's peculiar 
 character.* 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don, 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 sim- 
 plicity 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. 
 
 * Mrs. Rowson's story is well known. She was an Englishwoman, Susanna Haswell, 
 the daughter of an officer in the navy, and was brought to America by her father in 1767, 
 when she was only five years old. Their ship was wrecked on Lovell's Island, in Boston 
 Harbor, and they lived at Nantasket for nearly ten years, when they went back to Eng- 
 land. There she married William Rowson, a musician, and went upon the stage. In 
 I795-9 6 we find her acting in Baltimore and Boston. She published several comedies and 
 a number of novels ; one of these, " Charlotte Temple," gained great popularity. She 
 died at Boston in 1824. She taught school in several places— at Medford, at Newton, and 
 at Boston, and was very successful. 
 
vi Introduction. 
 
 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 inva- 
 lid to Charleston, S. C; and accordingly Mrs. Bowne set out, ac- 
 companied 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 en- 
 feebled 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 warm- 
 hearted 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, 
 
Introduction. vii 
 
 the record is almost uninterrupted ; so that the task confided to me 
 resolves itself into little more than a statement of the few facts con- 
 nected 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 -con- 
 venience 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 our- 
 selves that we are part and parcel of the times they record. 
 
 What a difference in our enjoyment it would make, were the let- 
 
viii Introduction. 
 
 ters 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 con- 
 temporary 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 Mal- 
 bone has drawn for us on ivory. Never was a reigning beauty 
 more spirited, never was a spirited girl of fashion more truly lov- 
 able, than Eliza Bowne. Whether she be at boarding-school, writ- 
 ing letters to her " honored parents," and hiding her little home- 
 sick 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 ; im- 
 pulsive, but with her impulses well in hand j 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. 
 
Introduction. ix 
 
 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 corre- 
 spondents 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 grand- 
 daughter, 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 de- 
 voted 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 read- 
 ing 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 consider- 
 
x Introduction. 
 
 able 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 interest- 
 ing 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 marked 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. 
 
 FlSHKILL-ON-HUDSON, 
 
 October i, 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. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 my- 
 self up to reflection, but not pleasing reflections. When 
 Mr. Boyd x left me I burst into tears and instead of try- 
 ing 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. 
 
 We get up early in the morning and make our beds 
 and sweep the chamber, it is a chamber about as large 
 
 1 Joseph Coffin Boyd, of Portland, Maine. Married Isabella, oldest 
 daughter of Dr. Southgate. 
 
V.IBRA 
 
 *>F THB 
 
 CJNIVERSITY 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 5 
 
 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 kind- 
 ness 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. 
 
6 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 1 since I have been here. I expect to begin 
 Geometry as soon as I have done Cyphering, which I 
 
 1 Horatio Southgate, Dr. Southgate's oldest son, followed the profession 
 of the law in the town of Portland, Maine, and was for twenty-one years 
 Register of Probate for Cumberland County, Maine. Mr. Southgate 
 married three times. His first wife was a friend of his sisters and was 
 Abigail McLellan, the daughter of Hugh McLellan, a well-known East 
 Indian merchant. Mary Webster was Mr. Southgate's second wife ; she 
 was the daughter of Noah Webster, whose name is well known in con- 
 nection with the dictionary that he wrote. Mr. Southgate's third wife was 
 Eliza Neal of Portland. By his three wives Mr. Southgate had a large 
 family of children, among them being the Rt. Rev'd Horatio Southgate 
 and the Rev'd William Scott Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 7 
 
 hope will be soon, for I have got as far as Practice. Tell 
 Isabella l and Mama 2 King, that some letters from them 
 would give me great pleasure and that I hope to expe- 
 rience 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 3 was going to have 
 the small-pox. Please to give my love to Harriet Emer- 
 son, 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 n, 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, 
 
 1 Isabella Southgate had married to Joseph Coffin Boyd. She was Dr. 
 Southgate's oldest child. 
 
 2 Mary Black, the second wife of Richard King, Mrs. Southgate's step- 
 mother. She had married Mr. King soon after the death of his first wife, 
 who was her cousin, and had been a kind and devoted mother to his three 
 children. 
 
 3 Octavia Southgate, Dr. Southgate's third daughter. She married, in 
 1805, William Browne. 
 
8 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 mar- 
 ried 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. 
 
io A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 a 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, 2 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. 
 
 1 Sarah Leland was the daughter of Mrs. Southgate's half-sister Dorcas 
 King, Mrs. Joseph Leland. 
 
 2 Arixene and Robert Southgate, Eliza's younger sister and brother. 
 Arixene married Henry Smith, of Sacarappa, Maine. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. n 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainly 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. 
 
i2 A Girl's Lip Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Medford, Oct. 17, 1797. 
 
 Dear Brother : 
 
 Yours of the nth 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 be- 
 fore 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. Lit- 
 tle'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. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 13 
 
 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 happi- 
 ness that is possible for you to enjoy be experienced is 
 the sincere wish of 
 
 Your affectionate Daughter 
 
 Eliza S. 
 
 Mrs. Mary Southgate. 
 
i4 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 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 grow- 
 ing 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 happi- 
 ness. 
 
 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 
 

 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 15 
 
 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 re- 
 spect 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 hap- 
 piness 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 remem- 
 ber. 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, pros- 
 perity, 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 
 
1 6 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 com- 
 plied with, had not I have seen my Uncle William l 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 
 
 1 William King, the son of Richard King by his second wife Mary 
 Black, was a large land-owner near the town of Bath. Mr. King was 
 elected the first Governor when the District of Maine was changed into a 
 State with a government of its own. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 17 
 
 you may peruse ; until then I remain with the same 
 affection, 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter, Eliza S. 
 
 Boston, February 13, 179S. 
 
 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 
 
1 8 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 remem- 
 bered by my Parents, I shall again be happy. 
 
 My Mother's letter greatly surprised me after having 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 19 
 
 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 disap- 
 probation it was enough, your wishes are and ever shall 
 be my commands. I have spent a week of painful ex- 
 pectation ; 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 op- 
 portunity of charging me with neglect in executing her 
 commission, but I can easily convince her I did not de- 
 
20 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 serve 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 ques- 
 tion. 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 yester- 
 day by a wound on his leg which he made with an axe, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 21 
 
 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 assem- 
 blies, one one week and one the next. They have reg- 
 ular 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 volun- 
 tarily 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 indis- 
 posed, but the truth of the matter was that I wanted to 
 
22 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 ; how- 
 ever 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 hand- 
 some 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 en- 
 tirely 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. 
 
 To Octavia. ELIZA. 
 
I 
 
 , * 
 
 ifin.) 
 From a miniature by ilalbone, in possess! Boston. 
 
 AHIOTYHE, t. BIEHSTADT. 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 23 
 
 Now Mamma, what do you think I am going to ask 
 for ? — a wig. Eleanor * 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 no- 
 body has long hair. If you will consent to my having 
 one do send me over a 5 dollar bill by the post immedi- 
 ately 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. 
 
 1 2th 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 
 
 1 Eleanor Coffin, afterwards Mrs. John Derby, was the daughter of Dr. 
 Coffin, a neighbor of Dr. Southgate's. Martha Coffin, another daughter, 
 had lately married Mr. Richard Derby. The Mrs. Codman mentioned in 
 the previous letter was a sister of Dr. Coffin's. 
 
24 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 ex- 
 pect a letter from Ann or Harriett to know the reason 
 that they don't hasten their visit. I am learning my 
 1 2th 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 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 25 
 
 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 y I would see you and all my friends in Bos- 
 ton 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 / not a bit of a one, Doc. Ba- 
 con excepted, and even him, Cousin Mary, selfish crea- 
 ture, 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 Plana, 1 one continued blush — I suppose 
 for fear of hearing her name mentioned, and she, unrea- 
 sonable creature ! thinks he is not all perfection. Un- 
 accountable taste ! he is very delightsome surely, — how 
 
 l Peony (vulgarly called Piny). Note by M. B. L. 
 
26 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. 
 
 I believe, my Dear Mother, that you meant to give me 
 a very close lesson in Economy — when you cut out the 
 shirts for me to make. You had measured off the 
 bodies of two and cut them part way in — and also the 
 sleeves were marked, — after I had cut them off there 
 was a quarter of a yard left. I now wanted the collars 
 and all the trimmings. I made out after a great deal of 
 planning to get out the shoulder pieces, — wrist-bands, 
 1 pair of neck gussets and one of sleeve do., are still 
 wanting. I shall send this on by Mrs. Smith, and if you 
 can find out when she returns I wish you would send 
 some linen and some more shirts to make as I shall soon 
 finish these, and can as well finish making up the piece 
 here as at home. I was very sorry I did not wear my 
 habit down as I shall want it when I go to Wiscassett. 
 If you can possibly find an opportunity, I wish you 
 would send it to me. Aunt Porter's child is one of the 
 most troublesome ones I ever saw, he cries continually, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 27 
 
 and she is at present destitute of any help except a little 
 girl about 12 years old. I wish, my Dear Mother, that 
 you would forward all letters that come to Scarborough 
 for me immediately. I hope you will enjoy yourself in 
 Portland this week. I was almost tempted to wish to 
 stay a week there, — there were so many parties, and 
 so gay every body appeared — that I longed to stay and 
 take part. I forgot all about it before I got to Topsham, 
 — much as I enjoy society I never am unhappy when 
 without it, — I cannot but feel happy that I was brought 
 up in retirement, — since from habit at least, I have con- 
 tracted a love for solitude, I never feel alone when I have 
 my pen or my book. I feel that I ought to be very 
 happy in the company of such a woman as Aunt Porter, 
 for I really don't know any one whose mind is more im- 
 proved, and which makes her both a useful and instruct- 
 ing companion. Her sentiments and opinions are more 
 like those I have formed than any person I know of. I 
 think my disposition like hers, and I feel myself drawn 
 towards her by an irresistible impulse, not an hour but 
 she reminds me of you and I sincerely think her more 
 like you than your own sister. I shall write you when I 
 go farther East. I don't know what I shall do about 
 writing Octavia, as Mrs. Rawson told her I wrote on an 
 improper subject when I asked her in my letter if Mr. 
 Davis was paying attention to Eleanor Coffin, and she 
 would not let her answer the question. This is refining 
 too much, and if I can't write as I feel, I can't write at 
 all. Now I ask you, Mamma, if it is not quite a natural 
 
28 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 question when we hear that any of our friends are paid 
 attention to by any gentleman, to ask a confirmation of 
 the report from those we think most likely to know the 
 particulars. Never did I write a line to Octavia but I 
 should have been perfectly willing for you or my Father 
 to have seen. You have always treated me more like a 
 companion than a daughter, and therefore would make 
 allowance for the volatile expressions I often make use 
 of. I never felt the least restraint in company with my 
 Parents which would induce me to stifle my gaiety, and 
 you have kindly permitted me to rant over all my non- 
 sense uncorrected, and I positively believe it has never 
 injured. I must bid you good-night. Eliza. 
 
 Pray don't forget to send some more shirts. 
 
 July 17, 1800. 
 
 I must again trouble my Dear Mother by requesting 
 her to send on my spotted muslin. A week from next 
 Saturday I set out for Wiscassett, in company with Un- 
 cle William and Aunt Porter. Uncle will fetch Ann l to 
 meet us there, and as she has some acquaintance there 
 we shall stay some time and aunt will leave us and re- 
 turn to Topsham ; so long a visit in Wiscassett will 
 oblige me to muster all my muslins, for I am informed 
 they are so monstrous smart as to take no notice of any 
 
 1 Ann, daughter of Cyrus King (Mrs. Southgate's half-brother) and his 
 wife Hannah Stone. She was named after her aunt, Mrs. William King, 
 Ann Frazier. She afterwards married Mr. Bridge. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 29 
 
 lady that can condescend to wear a calico gown, there- 
 fore, dear mother, to ensure me a favorable reception, 
 pray send my spotted muslin by the next mail after you 
 receive this, or I shall be on my way to Wiscassett. I 
 shall go on horseback, — how I want my habit, — I wish 
 it had not been so warm when I left home and I should 
 have worn it. I am in hopes you will find an opportu- 
 nity to send it by a private conveyance before I go, but 
 my muslin you must certainly send by the mail. Aunt 
 Porter's little Rufus is very sick, poor child, he was born 
 under an evil star. I believe Pandora opened her box 
 upon him when he first came into existence. The 
 mumps, I believe, now afflict him ; night before last we 
 were alarmed about him for fear of his having the 
 Quinsy, but I believe he is in no danger of that now. I 
 wish to hear from home very much. Eliza. 
 
 I shall anxiously await the arrival of the next mail 
 after you receive this. 
 
 Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800. 
 
 I suppose I ought to commence my letter with an 
 humble apology, begging forgiveness for past offences 
 and promising to do better in future, but no, I will only 
 tell you that I have been so much engaged since I got 
 home from Topsham that I could not write you. Martha 
 tells us you were in Boston last Sunday. Mamma thinks, 
 Octavia, you are there too much, we do not know how 
 often, but we hear of you there very often indeed. I 
 
30 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 think, my dear sister, you ought to improve every mo- 
 ment of your time, which is short, very short to com- 
 plete your education. In November terminates the pe- 
 riod of your instruction. The last you will receive per- 
 haps ever, only what you may gain by observation. 
 You will never cease to learn I hope, the world is a vol- 
 ume of instruction, which will afford you continual em- 
 ployment, — peruse it with attention and candor and you 
 will never think the time thus employed misspent. I 
 think, Octavia, I would not leave my school again until 
 you finally leave it. You may — you will think this is 
 harsh ; you will not always think so ; remember those 
 that wish it must know better what is proper than you 
 possibly can. Horatio will come on for you as soon as 
 your quarter is out. We anticipate the time with plea- 
 sure; employ your time in such a manner as to make 
 your improvements conspicuous. A boarding-school, I 
 know, my dear Sister, is not like home, but reflect a mo- 
 ment, is it not necessary, absolutely necessary to be more 
 strict in the government of 20 or 30 young ladies, nearly 
 of an age and different dispositions, than a private fam- 
 ily ? Your good sense will easily tell you it is. No 
 task can be greater than the care of so many girls, it is 
 impossible not to be partial, but we may conceal our 
 partiality. I should have a poor opinion of any person 
 that did not feel a love for merit, superior to what they 
 can for the world in general. I should never approve 
 of such general love. I say this not because I think 
 you are discontented, far from it — your letters tell us 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 31 
 
 quite the reverse and I believe it. Surely, Octavia, you 
 must allow that no woman was ever better calculated to 
 govern a school than Mrs. Rawson. She governs by 
 the love with which she always inspires her scholars. 
 You have been indulged, Octavia, so we have all. I was 
 discontented when I first went from home. I dare say 
 you have had some disagreeable sensations, yet your 
 reason will convince you, you ought not to have had. 
 You had no idea when you left home of any difference in 
 your manner of living. I knew you would easily be 
 reconciled to it and therefore said but little to you about 
 it. Yesterday Miss Haskell's letter, which I so much 
 wished for and so highly prize, was sent me ; tell her to 
 trust no more letters to the politeness of Mr. Jewett, 1 
 for he will forget to deliver them ; he has been studying 
 in the same office with Horatio ever since he returned 
 and never told him he had a letter forme till I told Ho- 
 ratio to ask him. I did get it at last and will answer it 
 as soon as I have an opportunity, which I expect soon, 
 my letters are of too little consequence to send by Post. 
 Tell Miss Haskell how highly I am obliged to her for 
 every letter, and how much it gratifies me to have her 
 write thus. My love and esteem ever awaits our good 
 Mrs. Rawson, and hope she does not intend my last let- 
 ter shall go unanswered. Susan Wyman is still remem- 
 
 1 Mr. Jewett married Sally Weeks, a friend and neighbor of the Misses 
 Southgate. He was a grandson of Aaron Jewett, who built the first saw- 
 mill on Algers Falls, Dunstan, in 1727, and carried on what was then con- 
 sidered an extensive lumber business. 
 
32 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 bered as the companion of my amusements in Medford. 
 Irene joins me in love to her. Betsey Bloom my love to 
 her likewise. — Family are all well, Octavia, Sister Boyd 
 is here, been with us several days. Let us hear from you 
 when you have an opportunity. I should like to know 
 how many tunes you play, but you have never answered 
 any of my enquiries of this kind, therefore I suppose I 
 ought not to make them. Your Eliza. 
 
 Octavia. 
 
 Scarborough, Sept. 14, 1800. 
 
 Tired, stupid, and sleepy, I feel that I can write noth- 
 ing instructive or amusing. Oh these summer balls are 
 not the thing, but it was much more comfortable than 
 I expected. My ears were continually assailed with 
 lamentations that you were not present. Mr. Kinsman 
 would certainly have gone out for you (so he said) had 
 he ever been at our house. He really asked one or two 
 gentlemen to go. He is a frothy fellow. He rattles 
 without a spark of fancy and stuns you with his volu- 
 bility, as anything hollow or empty always makes the 
 most noise. I told him I received a letter from you 
 yesterday. He gave a pious ejaculation to heaven, 
 turned gracefully on his heel and entreated in the most 
 humble manner that I would grant him a sight of one 
 line ! I refused as I thought him too insignificant an 
 animal to be so much honored. Col. Boyd arrived last 
 night, I found him in the parlor when I went down to 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 33 
 
 breakfast, he enquired for you. Mr. Derby and Mr. 
 Coffin will leave town to-day or to-morrow for Boston, 
 they undoubtedly will call and see you. 'Twill be a 
 good opportunity to send me the money if Mamma 
 pleases. Harriet will sail to-morrow or next day, she 
 sends an abundance of love. Eliza. 
 
 Octavia. 
 
 Bath, October, Sunday. 
 
 After a fortnight very pleasantly spent in Wiscassett 
 I return to Bath. In my last I mentioned that Judge 
 Lowell's family were expected in Wiscassett; they came 
 immediately after, and Eliza, the youngest, brought 
 letters from Ellen Coffin, thus I very readily got 
 acquainted with them. Judge Lowell appears to be 
 one of the mildest, most amiable men I ever saw. 
 Mrs. Lowell is a fine ladylike woman, yet her manners 
 are such as would have been admired 50 years ago, 
 there is too much appearance of whalebone and buck- 
 ram to please the depraved taste of the present age. 
 Nanny L., the oldest daughter, is animated, sensible, 
 enthusiastic, and very easy and pleasing in her conver- 
 sation and manners, you would be delighted with her 
 conversation — 'tis elegant and refined, she has no airs. 
 Eliza is a little, charming, sweet creature, she is about 
 17 or 18, short, fat, and a blooming complexion, hand- 
 some blue eyes, light hair, beautiful dimples, artless 
 and unaffected in her manners, — indeed I was de- 
 lighted with her, she is so perfectly amiable in her 
 
34 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 appearance. I was much pleased at an acquaintance 
 with them. At Wiscassett I was invited to accompany 
 them to Bath, as they were going in a boat. I accepted 
 with pleasure. In the morning, which was Monday, 
 they called for me and I went with them as far as 
 Tincham's where they kept ; at last, after a long debate, 
 it was thought too hazardous to go by water while the 
 wind blew so violently, 'twas determined to go by land. 
 Mr. Lee took the two Miss Lowells and myself in his 
 carriage, which holds 4 very charmingly. Judge Lowell 
 and wife in a chaise with a boy to carry it back. Judge 
 Bourne in a chair with a boy, and Mr. Merrill on horse- 
 back. About 5 miles on our way Mr. Lee took Mr. 
 Merrill's horse and he sat in with us, and he sang us a 
 number of songs ; we had a charming time. At the ferry 
 Mr. Lee, Mr. Merrill, and the boys with the chaise left 
 us ; we then all got into a boat and landed at Uncle's 
 wharf ; 'tis about 3 miles, a most charming sail, indeed 
 we had a very pleasant time. They went directly to 
 Page's, and in the evening I went up to see them ; left 
 them at 8 and with real regret. I had passed several 
 pleasant hours in their society. They set out in the 
 morning for Portland. Only think of Eleanor going to 
 be married ; 'tis no more than I expected and believed 
 at the moment I heard it. Poor Mrs. Sumner, what an 
 afflicting loss she has met with, my heart bleeds while I 
 think how very fond she was of the little creature, she 
 was a lovely child. How do all do at home ? I long to 
 get home, I never wanted to see home more in my life, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 35 
 
 yet I am very happy here. I wish Mamma would send 
 me two of my cotton shifts and my habit or great-coat 
 to ride home in ; send them by Uncle. Pray get the 
 instrument tuned. If you see Moses * soon tell him I 
 think it impossible to find words to express my obliga- 
 tion to him for his many and long letters, yet I shall 
 endeavour to convince him I have a due sense of them. 
 I shall make all the return in my power. I was going 
 up to Topsham this week. I wish to very much, but 
 Mamma King and Uncle both going, Nanny would be 
 quite alone, I must stay to comfort her. As to Aunt 
 Porter I believe she will think I am never coming to 
 Topsham. I begin to think so myself, but what am I to 
 do ? However I must. I shall go as soon as Uncle re- 
 turns and stay till I return home. I want to see Aunt 
 Porter very much. Write me soon and tell me what 
 news you hear. Love to all. Is Pappa gone to Salem ? 
 
 Eliza. 
 
 To Octavia Southgate. 
 
 To Moses Porter. 
 
 My most charming Cousin ! Most kind and conde- 
 scending friend — teach me how I may express the 
 grateful sense I have of the obligations I owe you ; your 
 many and long letters have chased away the spleen, j 
 they have rendered me cheerful and happy, and I almost 
 
 1 Moses Porter was Eliza's cousin. He was the oldest son of Mrs. 
 Aaron Porter (Paulina King). 
 
36 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 forgot I was so far from home. — O shame on you ! 
 Moses, you know I hate this formality among friends, 
 you know how gladly I would throw all these fash- 
 ionable forms from our correspondence; but you still 
 oppose me, you adhere to them with as much scru- 
 pulosity as to the ten commandments, and for aught I 
 know you believe them equally essential to the salva- 
 tion of your soul. But, Eliza, you have not answered 
 my last letter ! True, and if I had not have answered 
 it, would you never have written me again — and I 
 confess that I believe you would not — yet I am 
 mortified and displeased that you value my letters so 
 little, that the exertions to continue the correspondence 
 must all come from me, that if I relax my zeal in the 
 smallest degree it may drop to the ground without your 
 helping hand to raise it. I do think you are a charm- 
 ing fellow, — would not write because I am in debt, 
 well, be it so, my ceremonious friend, — I submit, and 
 though I transgress by sending a half sheet more than 
 you ever did, yet I assure you 'twas to convince you of 
 the violence of my anger which could induce me to 
 forget the rules of politeness. I am at Wiscassett. I 
 have seen Rebecca every day, she is handsome as ever, 
 and we both of us were in constant expectation of see- 
 ing you for 2 or 3 days, you did not come and we were 
 disappointed. 
 
 I leave here for Bath next week. I have had a 
 ranting time, and if I did not feel so offended, I would 
 tell you more about it. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 37 
 
 As I look around me I am surprised at the happiness 
 which is so generally enjoyed in families, and that mar- 
 riages which have not love for a foundation on more 
 than one side at most, should produce so much apparent 
 harmony. I may be censured for declaring it as my 
 opinion that not one woman in a hundred marries for 
 love. A woman of taste and sentiment will surely see 
 but a very few whom she could love, and it is altogether 
 uncertain whether either of them will particularly dis- 
 tinguish her. If they should, surely she is very fortu- 
 nate, but it would be one of fortune's random favors 
 and such as we have no right to expect. The female 
 mind I believe is of a very pliable texture; if it were 
 not we should be wretched indeed. Admitting as a 
 known truth that few women marry those whom they 
 would prefer to all the world if they could be viewed by 
 them with equal affection, or rather that there are often 
 others whom they could have preferred if they had felt 
 that affection for them which would have induced them 
 to offer themselves, — admitting this as a truth not to 
 be disputed, — is it not a subject of astonishment that 
 happiness is not almost banished from this connexion ? 
 Gratitude is undoubtedly the foundation of the esteem 
 we commonly feel for a husband. One that has pre- 
 ferred us to all the world, one that has thought us 
 possessed of every quality to render him happy, surely 
 merits our gratitude. If his character is good — if he 
 is not displeasing in his person or manners — what 
 objection can we make that will not be thought frivo- 
 
38 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 lous by the greater part of the world ? — yet I think 
 there are many other things necessary for happiness, 
 and the world should never compel me to marry a man 
 because I could not give satisfactory reasons for not 
 liking him. I do not esteem marriage absolutely essen- 
 tial to happiness, and that it does not always bring 
 happiness we must every day witness in our acquaint- 
 ance. A single life is considered too generally as a 
 reproach ; but let me ask you, which is the most despi- 
 cable — she who marries a man she scarcely thinks well 
 of — to avoid the reputation of an old maid — or she, 
 who with more delicacy, than marry one she could not 
 highly esteem, preferred to live single all her life, and 
 had wisdom enough to despise so mean a sacrifice, to 
 the opinion of the rabble, as the woman who marries a 
 man she has not much love for — must make. I wish 
 not to alter the laws of nature — neither will I quarrel 
 with the rules which custom has established and ren- 
 dered indispensably necessary to the harmony of so- 
 ciety. But every being who has contemplated human 
 nature on a large scale will certainly justify me when I 
 declare that the inequality of privilege between the 
 sexes is very sensibly felt by us females, and in no 
 instance is it greater than in the liberty of choosing a 
 partner in marriage; true, we have the liberty of re- 
 fusing those we don't like, but not of selecting those 
 we do. This is undoubtedly as it should be. But let 
 me ask you, what must be that love which is alto- 
 gether voluntary, which we can withhold or give, which 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 39 
 
 sleeps in dulness and apathy till it is requested to 
 brighten into life ? Is it not a cold, lifeless dictate of 
 the head, — do we not weigh all the conveniences and 
 inconveniences which will attend it ? And after a 
 long calculation, in which the heart never was con- 
 sulted, we determine whether it is most prudent to love 
 or not. 
 
 How I should despise a soul so sordid, so mean ! 
 How I abhor the heart which is regulated by mechan- 
 ical rules, which can say " thus far will I go and no 
 farther," whose feelings can keep pace with their con- 
 venience, and be awakened at stated periods, — a mere 
 piece of clockwork which always moves right ! How 
 far less valuable than that being who has a soul to 
 govern her actions, and though she may not always be 
 coldly prudent, yet she will sometimes be generous and 
 noble, and that the other never can be. After all, I 
 must own that a woman of delicacy never will suffer 
 her esteem to ripen into love unless she is convinced 
 of a return. Though our first approaches to love may 
 be involuntary, yet I should be sorry if we had no 
 power of controlling them if occasion required. There 
 is a happy conformity or pliability in the female mind 
 which seems to have been a gift of nature to enable 
 them to be happy with so few privileges, — and another 
 thing, they have more gratitude in their dispositions 
 than men, and there is a something particularly gratify- 
 ing to the heart in being beloved, if the object is 
 worthy; it produces a something like, and "Pity melts 
 
40 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 the heart to love." Added to these there is a self-love 
 which does more than all the rest. Our vanity ('tis 
 an ugly word but I can't find a better) is gratified by 
 the distinguished preference given us. There must be 
 an essential difference in the dispositions of men and 
 women. I am astonished when I think of it — yet — 
 But I have written myself into sunshine — 'tis always 
 my way when anything oppresses me, when any chain 
 of thoughts particularly occupies my mind, and I feel 
 dissatisfied at anything which I have not the power to 
 alter, — to sit down and unburthen them on paper ; it 
 never fails to alleviate me, and I generally give full 
 scope to the feelings of the moment, and as I write all 
 disagreeable thoughts evaporate, and I end contented 
 that things shall remain as they are. When I began 
 this it absolutely appeared to me that no woman, or 
 rather not one in a hundred, married the man she should 
 prefer to all the world — not that I ever could suppose 
 that at the time she married him she did not prefer him 
 to all others, — but that she would have preferred 
 another if he had professed to love her as well as the 
 one she married. Indeed, I believe no woman of deli- 
 cacy suffers herself to think she could love any one 
 before she had discovered an affection for her. For 
 my part I should never ask the question of myself — 
 do I love such a one, if I had reason to think he loved 
 me — and I believe there are many who love that never 
 confessed it to themselves. My Pride, my delicacy, 
 would all be hurt if I discovered such unasked for love, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 4 1 
 
 even in my own bosom. I would strain every nerve 
 and rouse every faculty to quell the first appearance of 
 it. There is no danger, however. I could never love 
 without being beloved, and I am confident in my own 
 mind that no person whom I could love would ever 
 think me sufficiently worthy to love me. But I con- 
 gratulate myself that I am at liberty to refuse those I 
 don't like, and that I have firmness enough to brave the 
 sneers of the world and live an old maid, if I never find 
 one I can love. 
 
 Scarborough, Tuesday Night. 
 
 Dear Mother : 
 
 We have got Miranda 1 all fix't, only her clothes to 
 be washed, or rather ironed. You have undoubtedly 
 got all things ready for her, or you would not send for 
 her immediately. I suppose we shall send her over in 
 the stage, as the riding is as yet too bad to go in a 
 chaise; she wants some pocket handkerchiefs and a 
 pair of cotton gloves to wear to school ; she had 3 pairs 
 of white mitts and I have given her another pair. I 
 think she must have another dimity skirt ; her jaconet 
 muslin we could not fix, for it wants a new waist and 
 sleeves and a hem put on the bottom, and we could get 
 
 1 Miranda and Arixene Southgate were at this time aged respectively 
 twelve and eight years. Their cousin Sally Leland was about the same 
 age. Frederic Southgate, born in 1791, became a tutor in Bowdoin Col- 
 lege, and died unmarried in 1820. 
 
42 A Girts Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 no muslin to pattern it ; you can buy a piece and it can 
 be sent over any time, she won't need it immediately. 
 Charles says you told him I must send over to you for 
 anything I needed. I want nothing so much as some 
 new linen and some English stockings ; excepting the 
 two fine pairs I have none but homespun ones. I should 
 like a half dozen pair, 4 at least. If you see anything 
 that would be light and handsome for our summer 
 gowns, I should like you would get them. Why can't 
 you go and see McLellan's lace shades? Perhaps he 
 may let you have one reasonably. I think there are 
 some for 10, 6 and 12 shillings a yard, at 18 they would 
 not come to more than 9 or 10 dollars ; you can look 
 at them at least. I should like one very much. Sally 
 Weeks has taken one of them. We do very well here, 
 all goes on charmingly, only Arixene loses her thimble, 
 her needle and anything to avoid working. Sally Ice- 
 land has been here ever since Miranda returned, and you 
 know when they are together there must be romping, 
 — however, Frederic has gone to carry her home to-day. 
 Miranda must have my little trunk. Octavia and I 
 both want little trunks, my old one is a good size. How 
 is Sister ? give my love to her, kiss the children ; I really 
 miss them, and our own don't seem more natural than 
 they did. The little Isabella 1 (so they say it is) is Aunt 
 Eliza's darling. I love that little thing dearly. I never 
 
 1 Isabella Boyd, second child of Isabella Southgate and Joseph Coffin 
 Boyd. She died of consumption, the fatal disease which carried off so 
 many of her aunts, sisters, and cousins. 
 
RUFUS KING 
 From a painting by Woods 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 43 
 
 loved an infant more in my life, Isabella says it is be- 
 cause it has blue eyes ; she will make me selfish. I had 
 a letter from Martha yesterday, the third since you have 
 been in Portland ; she mentions Uncle Rufus * and family 
 in all of them. In her last but one she says Aunt King 2 
 was confined ; she had dined there the Sunday before, 
 and they requested her in a billet to bring yours and my 
 Father's profiles, 3 which I gave her some time before she 
 went away. She carried them, and Uncle thought them 
 good likenesses. She admires Uncle Rufus ; she says 
 when he first called on her he stayed two hours, but she 
 could have talked with him two days. In her last she 
 says she was to have been introduced at court, but Aunt 
 King's confinement prevented ; as soon as she gets out 
 she is to be introduced. She says she shall write by the 
 Minerva and send the fashions to me. Mr. Smith the 
 Russian was here last week, bro't me some letters. I 
 am now writing to Martha, to send by William Weeks ; 
 'twill be a fine opportunity, and I shall write as much 
 as I can ; he will probably see her. Mrs. Coffin will be 
 
 1 Rufus King, oldest son of Richard King and Isabella Bragdon, and 
 brother of Mrs. Southgate. He was born in 1755 and married Mary 
 Alsop. He was delegated by the State of Massachusetts to the Conven- 
 tion for framing the Constitution of the United States, was a member of 
 Congress from Massachusetts, Senator of the United States from New 
 York, and at this time Minister to the Court of St. James. 
 
 2 Alary Alsop was born in 1786. She was the daughter of John Alsop 
 and Mary Frogat 
 
 3 Mr. and Mrs. Southgate's " profiles " hung in Mr. King's house at 
 Jamaica until about 1875, when they were given by his granddaughter to 
 Mrs. Southgate's grandson, Mr. Lawrence, of Flushing, L. I. 
 
44 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 delighted with such an opportunity. Don't hurry home 
 until you have staid as long as you wish, for I don't 
 know anything at present that requires your presence. 
 I think I make a very good manager, and tell Sister 
 Boyd I am astonished to find how I have improved in 
 my housewife talents this last winter. The children 
 won't allow me absolute rule among them, but I have 
 the worst of it ; they do pretty well, considering what a 
 young gay mistress they have. I sometimes get up to 
 dance and all of them flock up to help me, and when I 
 am tired I find it difficult to still them, so as I set the 
 example I am obliged to put up with it. I have not 
 been out of the yard since I came home till this after- 
 noon. I rode a mile or two on horseback just to smell 
 the fresh air. I never was more contented in my life; 
 tho* I have not seen anybody but Mr. Smith these 3 
 weeks almost, I have not had an hour hang heavily on 
 me; 'tis charming to get home after being gone so long! 
 I believe you will think I am never going to leave off. 
 Your affectionate Eliza. 
 
 To Mrs. Mary King Southgate, Portland. 
 
 Portland, March 18, 1801. 
 
 Thank you for being so particular in your description 
 of your eastern tour. I told you that Wiscassett would 
 delight you; ease and sociability you know always please 
 you. By the bye, Jewett thought Saco was the land of 
 milk and honey, such fine buxom girls ! so easy and 
 familiar. Dorcas Stour charmed him much, her haughty 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 45 
 
 forbidding manners corresponded with the dignity of her 
 sentiments, so he says, something congenial in their dis- 
 positions I think. But he has made his selection — Miss 
 Weeks is handsome, censorious, animated, violent in her 
 prejudices, genteel, impatient of contradiction, speaks 
 her sentiments very freely, has many admirers and many 
 enemies, — on the whole a pleasant companion amongst 
 friends. — How think they will do together ? Jewett 
 you know. 
 
 Last evening I was out at Broads ; x we had only 7 in 
 our party — a very pleasant one. Jewett, Horatio, Wil- 
 liam Weeks, and Charles Little were our beaux. Miss 
 Weeks, Miss Boardman (from Exeter), and myself, the 
 ladies. Mr. Little is engaged to Miss Boardman ; he is 
 an open, honest, unaffected, plain, clever fellow. She 
 has a pleasant face, an open guileless heart, plain un- 
 affected manners, a clumsy shape, easy in company — 
 but it is rather the ease which a calm, even temper pro- 
 duces, than that which is acquired in polite circles. I 
 think they are as much alike as possible and 'twill be a 
 pleasant couple. We played cards, talked and wrote 
 crambo ; after we had scribbled the backs of two packs 
 of cards, cut half of them up, and eat our supper, we set 
 out for home, about one o'clock. You say in your last 
 that if reports are true, I am on the highway to matri- 
 mony, — you know what I always said with regard to 
 these things ; if they are true, well and good — if they 
 are not, let them take their course, they will be short- 
 
 1 Broads, a tavern near Portland, to which gay parties of young people 
 went on frolics. 
 
46 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 lived. I despise the conduct of those girls who think 
 that every man who pays them any attention is seriously 
 in love with them, and begin to bridle up, look conscious, 
 fearful lest every word the poor fellow utters should be 
 a declaration of love. I have no idea that every gentle- 
 man that has a particular partiality for a lady thinks 
 seriously of being connected with her, and I think any 
 lady puts herself in a most awkward situation to appear 
 in constant fear or expectation that the gentleman is 
 going to make love to her. I despise coquetry, — every 
 lady says the same, you will say, — but if I know myself 
 at all — my heart readily assents to its truth — I think 
 no lady has a right to encourage hopes that she means 
 never to gratify, but I think she is much to blame if she 
 considers these little attentions as a proof of love ; they 
 often mean nothing, and should be treated as such. 
 The gentleman in question I own pays me more atten- 
 tion than any other gentleman, yet I say sincerely, I 
 don't think he means any thing more than to please his 
 fancy for the present. I pride myself upon my sincerity, 
 and if I ever am engaged, I trust it will be to one whom 
 I shall not be ashamed to acknowledge. Our intimacy 
 has been of long standing. He and Enoch Jones were 
 Martha's most intimate acquaintance, they were there 
 almost every evening. Here comes Enoch and William 
 [Weeks], we used to say as soon as we heard the knocker 
 in the evening. I was always at the Doctor's a great 
 part of the time I spent in Portland, I could not but be 
 intimate with them. I liked them both, they were pleas- 
 ant companions, and I was always glad to see them come 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 47 
 
 in ; — since that time, Enoch has been gone most of the 
 time, and William has been left alone; — true, he has this 
 winter been more attentive to me than usual ; he lent 
 me books, drawings, and music ; he used often to be my 
 gallant home from parties if I walked, and if I rode help 
 me to the sleigh, yet every gentleman does the same, — 
 all have a favorite, some for a month, some a little longer. 
 It seems like making you a confidant to talk thus, but I 
 say many things which would appear ridiculous if com- 
 municated to a third person, and I know you would have 
 too much delicacy to communicate any thing which 
 might hurt my feelings. I have heard all these stories 
 before, yet I must act and judge for myself. I know 
 better than any other person can, how far they are true, 
 and I candidly confess that he never said a word to me 
 which I could possibly construe into a declaration of 
 love, not the most faint or distant. Then think for a 
 moment how ridiculous it would be for me to alter my 
 conduct towards him ! No ! while he treats me as a 
 friend, I shall treat him as such ; and let the world say 
 what they will, I will endeavor to act in a manner that 
 my conscience will justify, — to steer between the rocks 
 of prudery and coquetry, and take my own sense of pro- 
 priety as a pilot that will conduct me safe. I should 
 not have been thus particular, but I felt unwilling that 
 you should be led into error that I could easily remove 
 from your mind ; it would seem like giving a silent 
 assent, as I confess to write as I think to you, and to 
 speak openly on all occasions, I felt that I ought to say 
 more to you on this affair than I ever have to any other. 
 
48 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Let the world still have it as they will. I confess it 
 would be more pleasing to me if my name was not so 
 much 1 . . . what Johnson says of an author may apply 
 ... is much known in the world. That his name like 
 . . . must be beat backward and forward as it falls to 
 the ground. I recollect in a former letter you asked 
 why I did not say more of particular characters, and 
 among my acquaintance select some and give you a few 
 characteristic sketches. The truth is — I felt afraid to, 
 I did not know but you might mention many things 
 which would make me enemies. I am always willing to 
 speak my opinion without reserve on any character, be- 
 cause I should take care that I spoke it before those who 
 would not abuse the frankness ; but letters may be mis- 
 carried, may fall into hands we know not of, — but I 
 never think of these, or I am sure I should burn this 
 in a moment, — another thing that it requires a quiet 
 discernment, a correct judgment and a thorough knowl- 
 edge of the world, of human nature, to form a just char- 
 acter of any one that we are not intimately acquainted 
 with. However, we all of us form an opinion of every 
 person we see, and whatever I shall say and have said 
 you must recollect is only the opinion of one who is 
 oftener wrong than right, and you can form no correct 
 idea of my character from what I say. 
 
 Scarborough, March, Sunday. 
 
 P. S. — Congratulate me, I am at home at last ! 
 Come and see us, — we expect Miss Tappan to-morrow 
 
 1 The manuscript which was under the seal was so torn as to make 
 this sentence illegible. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 49 
 
 and Paulina Porter 1 and Miranda Southgate. I wish 
 much to see Miss T. I think I shall like her ; tell her 
 she does not know what she lost last week, — a young 
 gentleman came several miles out of his way only to see 
 her ; she was not here and he returned to Portland with 
 a heavy heart. Jewett says she is rather shy. 
 
 I meant to have written more about Wiscassett, about 
 Miss R., 2 but I must leave that for another letter. I 
 have a great deal to say on that head, — " exercise the 
 same coolness and judgment as in choosing a horse !" 
 I heard a gentleman make really the same observation, 
 and yet that very gentleman is raving, distractedly in 
 love, — he is a little calmer now, but he was a madman. 
 He, like you, always talks of his insensibility, his cold- 
 ness and discretion, and he, like yon, is always upon 
 extremes, extravagant beyond all bounds. More here- 
 after, 
 
 Mr. Moses Porter. 
 
 1 Paulina Porter, daughter of Dr. Aaron Porter of Portland. She mar- 
 ried, first Enoch Jones, and then Edward Beecher. Her sister Harriet 
 married Lyman Beecher. 
 
 2 Miss Rice's father was Joseph Rice ; he raised a company of fifty men 
 and, after the receipt of the news of the skirmish at Lexington, set out as 
 soon as possible for Cambridge and joined Colonel Phinney's regiment. It 
 was the first regiment that marched into Boston after its evacuation by the 
 British on the 17th of March, 1776. In a letter from Rufus King to Dr. 
 Southgate, dated August 6, 1776, he says : "Phinney's regiment is ordered 
 from Boston to Ticonderoga. I guess the pious Elder would as lieve 
 tarry where he is, but he was formerly fond of action — hope now he 
 will be satisfied. . . . Gen. Gates will doubtless make a stand at Ticon- 
 deroga." 
 
50 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Thursday, April 8th. 
 
 I have been thinking on that part of your letter 
 which interests me most, respecting the propriety of 
 conduct, opinion of the world, etc., etc. I don't exactly 
 recollect what I wrote in my last, but I am positive you 
 have mistaken my meaning, or at least have taken what 
 I said on too large a scale ; — as a general rule of con- 
 duct, in so extensive a sense as you talk about, such 
 doctrine would indeed be pernicious. But whatever I 
 said I meant to apply to this particular case, and per- 
 haps did not express myself so clearly as I ought to 
 have done. You have described principles which I 
 have ever condemned — as those I now act upon. Per- 
 haps I shall find it impossible fully to explain my sen- 
 timents on this subject — it is of a delicate nature; 
 and many things I shall say will probably bear a mis- 
 construction. However, I trust to your candor to judge 
 with lenity, and to your knowledge of my heart, to be- 
 lieve I would not intentionally deviate from the laws of 
 female delicacy and propriety. Reputation undoubtedly 
 is of great importance to all, but to a female 'tis every 
 thing, — once lost 'tis forever lost. Whatever I may 
 have said, my heart too sensibly tells me I have none of 
 that boasted independence of mind which can stand col- 
 lected in its own worth, and let the censure and malice 
 of the world pass by as the "idle wind which we regard 
 not." I have ever thought that to be conscious of doing 
 right was insufficient ; but that it must appear so to 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 51 
 
 the world. How I could have blundered upon a senti- 
 ment which I despise, or how I could have written any- 
 thing to bear such a construction as you have put upon 
 a part of my letter, I know not. When I said that I 
 should let these reports pass off without notice or pre- 
 tending to vindicate myself, 'twas not because I de- 
 spised the opinion of the world, but as the most effectual 
 method to preserve it ! — You say as well as myself, that 
 whatever we say in vindication of ourselves, only makes 
 the matter worse. When I said, that I meant not to 
 alter my conduct while my conscience did not accuse 
 me, I had no idea that you would suppose my conduct 
 towards him had ever been of a kind that required an 
 alteration, or any thing more pointed than to any other 
 gentleman. I supposed you would infer from what I 
 said that it was such as propriety and a regard for my 
 reputation would sanction. I know not what you think 
 it has been, but if I can judge of my own actions, — 
 their motives I know I can, but I mean the outward 
 appearance, — I have never treated him with any more 
 distinction than any other gentleman, nor have ap- 
 peared more pleased with his attentions than with an- 
 other's ; believe me, I have kept constantly in view the 
 opinion of the world, and if you knew every circum- 
 stance of my life, you would be convinced my feelings 
 were " tremblingly alive " to all its slanders. But 
 "something too much of this" ; you, who know my dis- 
 position, may easily conceive how often I subject my- 
 self to the envenomed shafts of censure and malice, by 
 
52 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 that gaiety and high flow of spirits, which I sometimes 
 think my greatest misfortune to possess, — sometimes 
 I err in judgment — don't always see the right path, — 
 sometimes I see it, yet the warmth and ardor of my 
 feelings force me out of it. Yet in this affair I feel con- 
 fident I have acted from right principles, — there are 
 a thousand trifling things which at times influenced my 
 conduct, which you cannot know, and you may be sur- 
 prised when I say that his attentions were of a kind 
 that politeness obliged me to receive, nor should I ever 
 have suspected they meant any thing more than gal- 
 lantry and politeness, had not the babbles of the world 
 put it into my head. You have been misinformed in 
 many respects, I am convinced. You mentioned his 
 constant visits at Sister Boyd's. I declare to you he 
 never was there a half dozen times the three months I 
 was in Portland, excepting the morning after the as- 
 semblies, when the gentlemen all go to see their part- 
 ners ; neither was I his constant partner at assemblies. 
 I never danced but two dances in an evening with him 
 all winter, excepting once, and then there was a mis- 
 take, — this surely was nothing remarkable, for I always 
 danced two with Mr. Smith at every assembly we were 
 at. I danced as much with one as the other. True, he 
 was my partner at 2 parties at Broads. I at the time 
 asked Horatio, when he mentioned the party, why he 
 would not carry me ; he said if I was asked by any 
 other, to say I was going with my brother, would be 
 considered as a tacit declaration that I had an aversion 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 53 
 
 to going with him, therefore 'twould have been folly. 
 You cannot judge unless you know a thousand customs 
 and every . . . which they have in Portland. But I 
 declare to you, Cousin, I am much gratified that you 
 told me what you thought — had you have locked it in 
 your bosom, I should never have had an opportunity to 
 vindicate myself. I beg of you always to write with 
 freedom, always write with the same openness you did 
 in your last — 'tis one of the greatest advantages I ex- 
 pect to derive from our correspondence — I enjoin it 
 upon you as you value my happiness. I told you I 
 would show you some of Martha's letters ; I had one 
 from her since I wrote you, in which she says I must 
 on no condition whatever show her letters, — however, 
 I will read you some passages in some of them. You 
 shall see some parts ; I will make my peace with — in- 
 deed I know she would not object. I love to show you 
 her letters because you feel something as I do in read- 
 ing them. You admire her or you should not be the 
 friend of Eliza. 
 
 P. S. I wrote this letter last night intending to keep 
 it by me to send whenever I please ; all the family were 
 absent, left me reading, — I read your letter, the house 
 was silent, and I was entirely alone. I knew I should 
 not have another opportunity as convenient for giving 
 you my sentiments — no fear of intrusion — and I there- 
 fore took my pen and scribbled what I now send you, 
 but I believe I must adopt your plan and send it im- 
 
54 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 mediately to the office, — but I repent and burn it, and 
 I find on reading it that I have said not half I meant 
 to ; but I will send it away immediately. I am almost 
 ashamed to answer yours so soon, 'tis so unlike the 
 example you set me that I suppose you will say 'tis a 
 tacit disapprobation of your conduct. 
 
 Scarborough, April 9th. 
 Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. 
 
 Sunday, Scarborough, May — , 1801. 
 
 When one commences an action with a full convic- 
 tion they shall not acquit themselves with honor, they 
 are sure not to succeed ; imprest with this idea I write 
 you. I positively declare I have felt a great reluctance 
 ever since we concluded on the plan. I am aware of 
 the construction you may put on this, but call it affecta- 
 tion or what you will, I assure you it proceeds from dif- 
 ferent motives. When I first proposed this correspon- 
 dence, I thought only of the amusement and instruc- 
 tion it would afford me. I almost forgot that I should 
 have any part to perform. Since, however, I have re- 
 flected on the scheme as it was about to be carried 
 into execution, I have felt a degree of diffidence which 
 has almost induced me to hope you would forget the 
 engagement. Fully convinced of my inability to afford 
 pleasure or instruction to an enlarged mind, I rely 
 wholly on your candor and generosity to pardon the 
 errors which will cloud my best efforts. When I re- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 55 
 
 fleet on the severity of your criticisms in general, I 
 shrink at the idea of exposing to you what will never 
 stand the test. Yet did I not imagine you would throw 
 aside the critic and assume the. friend, I should never 
 dare, with all my vanity (and I am not deficient), give 
 you so fine an opportunity to exercise your favorite pro- 
 pensity. I know you will laugh at all this, and I must 
 confess it appears rather a folly, first to request your 
 correspondence and then with so much diffidence and 
 false delicacy, apparently to extort a compliment, talk 
 about my inability and the like. You will not think I 
 intend a compliment when I say I have ever felt a dis- 
 agreeable restraint when conversing before you. Often, 
 when with all the confidence I possess I have brought 
 forward an opinion, said all my imagination could sug- 
 gest in support of it, and viewed with pleasure the little 
 fabric, which I imagined to be founded on truth and 
 justice, with one word you would crush to the ground 
 that which had cost me so many to erect. These things 
 I think in time will humble my vanity, I wish sincerely 
 that they may. 
 
 Yet I believe I possess decent talents and should 
 have been quite another being had they been properly 
 cultivated. But as it is, I can never get over some lit- 
 tle prejudices which I have imbibed long since, and 
 which warp all the faculties of my mind. I was pushed 
 on to the stage of action without one principle to guide 
 my actions, — the impulse of the moment was the only 
 incitement. I have never committed any grossly im- 
 
56 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 prudent action, yet I have been folly's darling child. I 
 trust they were rather errors of the head than the 
 heart, for we have all a kind of inherent power to dis- 
 tinguish between right and wrong, and if before the 
 heart becomes contaminated by the maxims of society 
 it is left to act from impulse though it have no fixt 
 principle, yet it will not materially err. Possessing a 
 gay lively disposition, I pursued pleasure with ardor. I 
 wished for admiration, and took the means which would 
 be most likely to obtain it. I found the mind of a 
 female, if such a thing existed, was thought not worth 
 cultivating. I disliked the trouble of thinking for my- 
 self and therefore adopted the sentiments of others — 
 fully convinced to adorn my person and acquire a few 
 little accomplishments was sufficient to secure me the 
 admiration of the society I frequented. I cared but 
 little about the mind. I learned to flutter about with 
 a thoughtless gaiety — a mere feather which every 
 breath had power to move. I left school with a head 
 full of something, tumbled in without order or connec- 
 tion. I returned home with a determination to put it 
 in more order ; I set about the great work of culling the 
 best part to make a few sentiments out of — to serve as 
 a little ready change in my commerce with the world. 
 But I soon lost all patience (a virtue I do not possess 
 in an eminent degree), for the greater part of my ideas 
 I was obliged to throw away without knowing where I 
 got them or what I should do with them ; what remained 
 I pieced as ingeniously as I could into a few patchwork 
 
UNIVE 
 
 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 57 
 
 opinions, — they are now almost worn threadbare, and as 
 I am about quilting a few more, I beg you will send me 
 any spare ideas you may chance to have that will an- 
 swer my turn. By this time I suppose you have found 
 out what you have a right to expect from this corre- 
 spondence, and probably at this moment lay down the 
 letter with a long sage-like face to ponder on my ego- 
 tism. — Tis a delightful employment, I will leave you 
 to enjoy it while I eat my dinner : And what is the 
 result, Cousin ? I suppose a few exclamations on the 
 girl's vanity to think no subject could interest me but 
 where herself was concerned, or the barrenness of her 
 head that could write on no other subject. But she is 
 a female •, say you, with a manly contempt. Oh you Lords 
 of the world, what are you that your unhallowed lips 
 should dare profane the fairest part of creation ! But 
 honestly I wish to say something by way of apology, 
 but don't seem to know what, — it is true I have a kind 
 of natural affection for myself, I find no one more 
 ready to pardon my faults or find excuses for my fail- 
 ings — it is natural to love our friends. 
 
 I have positively not said one single thing which I in- 
 tended when I sat down ; my motive was to answer your 
 letter, and I have not mentioned my not having received 
 it? — Your opinion of Story's Poems I think very unjust ; 
 as to the man, I cannot say, for I know nothing of him, 
 but I think you are too severe upon him ; a man who 
 had not a "fibre of refinement in his composition" 
 could never have written some passages in that poem. 
 
58 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 What is refinement ? I thought it was a delicacy of 
 taste which might be acquired, if not any thing in our 
 nature, — true, there are some so organized that they 
 are incapable of receiving a delicate impression, but we 
 won't say any thing of such beings. I just begin to 
 feel in a mood for answering your letter. What you say 
 of Miss Rice — I hardly know how to refuse the chal- 
 lenge ; she possesses no quality above mediocrity, and 
 yet is just what a female ought to be. Now what I 
 would give for a little Logic, or for a little skill to sup- 
 port an argument. But I give it up, for tho' you might 
 not convince me, you would confound me with so many 
 learned observations that my vanity would oblige me 
 to say I was convinced to prevent the mortification of 
 saying I did not understand you. How did you like 
 Mr. Coffin ? Write soon and tell me. We expect you 
 to go to the fishing party with us on Tuesday. Mr. 
 Coffin told us you would all come. You must be here 
 by 9 o'clock (not before) (in the morning). My love to 
 the girls, and tell them — no ! I '11 tell them myself. 
 
 Eliza. 
 
 To Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. 
 
 Scarborough, June ist, 1801. 
 
 As to the qualities of mind peculiar to each sex, I 
 agree with you that sprightliness is in favor of females 
 and profundity of males. Their education, their pur- 
 suits would create such a quality even tho' nature had 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 5.9 
 
 not implanted it. The business and pursuits of men 
 require deep thinking, judgment, and moderation, while, 
 on the other hand, females are under no necessity of 
 dipping deep, but merely "skim the surface," and we 
 too commonly spare ourselves the exertion which deep 
 researches require, unless they are absolutely necessary 
 to our pursuits in life. We rarely find one giving them- 
 selves up to profound investigation for amusement 
 merely. Necessity is the nurse of all the great qualities of 
 the mind; it explores all the hidden treasures and by its 
 stimulating power they are " polished into brightness." 
 Women who have no such incentives to action suffer 
 all the strong energetic qualities of the mind to sleep 
 in obscurity ; sometimes a ray of genius gleams through 
 the thick clouds with which it is enveloped, and irra- 
 diates for a moment the darkness of mental night ; yet, 
 like a comet that shoots wildly from its sphere, it ex- 
 cites our wonder, and we place it among the phenome- 
 nons of nature, without searching for a natural cause. 
 Thus it is the qualities with which nature has endowed 
 us, as a support amid the misfortunes of life and a 
 shield from the allurements of vice, are left to moulder 
 in ruin. In this dormant state they become enervated 
 and impaired, and at last die for want of exercise. The 
 little airy qualities which produce sprightliness are left 
 to flutter about like feathers in the wind, the sport of 
 every breeze. 
 
 Women have more fancy, more lively imaginations 
 than men. That is easily accounted for : a person of 
 
60 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 correct judgment and accurate discernment will never 
 have that flow of ideas which one of a different char- 
 acter might, — every object has not the power to intro- 
 duce into his mind such a variety of ideas, he rejects 
 all but those closely connected with it. On the other 
 hand, a person of small discernment will receive every 
 idea that arises in the mind, making no distinction be- 
 tween those nearly related and those more distant, they 
 are all equally welcome, and consequently such a mind 
 abounds with fanciful, out-of-the-way ideas. Women 
 have more imagination, more sprightliness, because 
 they have less discernment. I never was of opinion 
 that the pursuits of the sexes ought to be the same; on 
 the contrary, I believe it would be destructive to happi- 
 ness, there would a degree of rivalry exist, incompatible 
 with the harmony we wish to establish. I have ever 
 thought it necessary that each should have a separate 
 sphere of action, — in such a case there could be no 
 clashing unless one or the other should leap their re- 
 spective bounds. Yet to cultivate the qualities with 
 which we are endowed can never be called infringing 
 the prerogatives of man. Why, my dear Cousin, were 
 we furnished with such powers, unless the improvement 
 of them would conduce to the happiness of society? 
 Do you suppose the mind of woman the only work of 
 God that was " made in vain." The cultivation of the 
 powers we possess, I have ever thought a privilege (or 
 I may say duty) that belonged to the human species, 
 and not man's exclusive prerogative. Far from de- 
 
A Girl's Lip Eighty Years Ago. 61 
 
 stroying the harmony that ought to subsist, it would fix 
 it on a foundation that would not totter at every jar. 
 Women would be under the same degree of subordina- 
 tion that they now are ; enlighten and expand their 
 minds, and they would perceive the necessity of such a I 
 regulation to preserve the order and happiness of so- 
 ciety. Yet you require that their conduct should be 
 always guided by that reason which you refuse them 
 the power of exercising. I know it is generally thought 
 that in such a case women would assume the right of 
 commanding. But I see no foundation for such a 
 supposition, — not a blind submission to the will of 
 another which neither honor nor reason dictates. It 
 would be criminal in such a case to submit, for we are 
 under a prior engagement to conduct in all things ac- 
 cording to the dictates of reason. I had rather be the 
 meanest reptile that creeps the earth, or cast upon 
 the wide world to suffer all the ills " that flesh is heir 
 to," than live a slave to the despotic will of another. 
 I am aware of the censure that will ever await the 
 female that attempts the vindication of her sex, yet I 
 dare to brave that censure that I know to be unde- 
 served. It does not follow (O what a pen !) that every 
 female who vindicates the capacity of the sex is a disci- 
 ple of Mary Wolstoncraft. Though I allow her to have 
 said many things which I cannot but approve, yet the 
 very foundation on which she builds her work will be 
 apt to prejudice us so against her that we will not allow 
 her the merit she really deserves, — yet, prejudice set 
 
62 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 aside, I confess I admire many of her sentiments, not- 
 withstanding I believe should any one adopt her prin- 
 ciples, they would conduct in the same manner, and 
 upon the whole her life is the best comment on her 
 writings. Her style is nervous and commanding, her 
 sentiments appear to carry conviction along with them, 
 but they will not bear analyzing. I wish to say some- 
 thing on your natural refinement, but I shall only have 
 room to touch upon it if I begin, " therefore I'll leave it 
 till another time." 
 
 Last evening Mr. Samuel Thatcher spent with us ; 
 we had a fine "dish of conversation" served up with 
 great taste, fine sentiments dressed with elegant lan- 
 guage and seasoned with wit. He is really excellent 
 company — a little enthusiastic or so — but that is no 
 matter. In compassion I entreat you to come over 
 here soon and make me some pens. I have got one 
 that I have been whittling this hour and at last have 
 got it to make a stroke (it liked to have given me the 
 lie). I believe I must give up all pretension to profun- 
 dity, for I am much more at home in my female char- 
 acter. This argumentative style is not congenial to 
 my taste. I hate anything that requires order or con- 
 nection. I never could do anything by rule, — when I 
 get a subject I am incapable of reasoning upon, I play 
 with it as with a rattle, for what else should I do with 
 it? But I have kept along quite in a direct line; I 
 caught myself "upon the wing" two or three times, but 
 I had power to check my nonsense. I send you my 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 63 
 
 sentiments on this subject as they really exist with me. 
 I believe they are not the mere impulse of the moment, 
 but founded on what I think truth. I could not help 
 laughing at that part of your letter where you said the 
 seal of my letter deprived you of some of the most 
 interesting part of it. I declare positively I left a blank 
 place on purpose for it, that you might not lose one 
 precious word, and now you have the impudence to tell 
 me that the most interesting part was the blank paper. 
 It has provoked my ire to such a degree that I posi- 
 tively declare I never will send you any more blank 
 paper than I possibly can avoid, to " spite you." 
 
 To Mr. Moses Porter. E. S. 
 
 Portland, July 17, 1801. 
 
 I almost at this moment wish myself in your situa- 
 tion, meeting old acquaintances, shaking hands with old 
 friends and telling over with renewed pleasure your Col- 
 lege frolicks. I can almost see you convulsed with 
 laughter, hear you recount the adventures of the last 
 year, while imagination brings every boyish frolic to 
 your view, unimpaired by time. What a world of hu- 
 mour ! what flashes of wit ! what animated descriptions ! 
 O these social meetings ! How they animate and in- 
 spire one ! how they lighten the cares and multiply the 
 joys of life ! I wish you would write me about Com- 
 mencement. I heard yesterday that Sam. Fay of Con- 
 cord delivered an oration the 4th of July. I should 
 
64 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 admire to see it. I know it must be very fine ; in my 
 opinion he is a man of excellent talents, capable of writ- 
 ing on the occasion an oration that would reflect great 
 honor. The sentiments must be noble and generous. 
 He possesses so much feeling, there must be many 
 glowing passages in it. If it is possible I beg you will 
 get me a copy and I will confess myself very, very 
 greatly obliged. Last night I attended the Theater, — 
 " Speed the plough " was performed, and I assure you 
 very decently ; the characters in general were well sup- 
 ported. Villiers in Fannie Ashfield really outdid him- 
 self ; he threw off the monkey and became a good honest 
 clown, and did not, as he usually does, outstep the 
 bounds of nature and all other bounds. Mrs. Powell as 
 Miss Blandford delighted us all. How I admire that 
 woman ! She is perfectly at home on the stage, and yet 
 there is no levity in her appearance ; she has great en- 
 ergy, acts with spirit, with feeling, yet never rants ; her 
 private character we all know is unexceptionable. Mr. 
 Donnee as a young buck is very pleasing, he has a most 
 melodious voice in speaking, and has a very easy, stylish 
 air, — good figure, tho' small. As for Mrs. Harper she is 
 my aversion — for, as Shakespeare says, she will " tear a 
 passion to tatters, to very rags," and she is too indecent 
 ever to appear on the stage. Harper is a fine fellow ; he 
 appears best among the common herd of Players, and 
 has as much judgment in supporting his part as any one 
 I ever saw, and even in comic characters I think he 
 excels Villiers. He has much greater resources within 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 65 
 
 himself. Villiers gains applause by distorting his face 
 and playing the monkey, while Harper adheres more 
 strictly to nature. In Villiers we cannot help seeing the 
 player thro' the thin disguise, — Villiers, not the char- 
 acter he personates, is continually in our minds. S. 
 Powell is contemptible as a player (and I believe as a 
 man) ; he puffs and blows so incessantly that it is enough 
 to put one into a fever to see him ; he does not know in 
 the least how to preserve a medium, but takes a certain 
 pitch and there remains ; he cannot gradually bring his 
 passion to the height, but he thunders it out without any 
 preparation, and the unvarying monotony of his voice is 
 truly disgusting. I am sure, by his strutting and bellow- 
 ing, Hamlet would think he was made by one of "Na- 
 ture's journeymen." But it is time to have done with 
 players, for you will think my head turned indeed if I 
 rant about them any longer ; but it has served to fill up a 
 part of my letter, and I assure you that alone was a suf- 
 ficient reason why I should give them a place. Society, 
 bustle, and noise frustrate all my ideas. I cannot write 
 anywhere but at home. I am ashamed that things of so 
 little consequence should turn my head, but 'tis a melan- 
 choly truth. O you malicious fellow, don't talk to me 
 about my favorite topic "female education," don't tell 
 me of your philosophical indifference! O Moses, you 
 can't leave the subject, every word that could any way 
 dash at it is marked. I believe you do itch to com- 
 mence the attack. Well, rail on, you shall not say it is 
 in compassion to me that you desist. God forbid that 
 your greatest enemy should ever inflict so severe a pun- 
 
66 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 ishment as to prohibit you from speaking of your " fa- 
 vorite topic." I fancy you have forgotten that it is such, 
 Mr. Indifference. Your ironical letter has had a wonder- 
 ful effect, but perhaps not the desired one. I blush not 
 to confess myself contemptibly inferior to my antagonist. 
 You ought to blush, but from a very different cause ; but 
 I had forgotten myself, and was taking the thing too se- 
 riously. I am not slow at taking the hint, perhaps my 
 presumption merited the reproof. I receive it and will 
 endeavor to profit by it ; and pray, Cousin, how does 
 Mr. Symmes' coat suit you ? His "haughty humility," 
 his "condescending pride." You have assumed the 
 habit, and I hope will ever clothe yourself with it when 
 you meet your superior antagonist. 
 
 You have a fine imagination and have pictured a chain 
 of delightful events which probably will exist there 
 alone, yet I should have no objection to your being a 
 true prophet. We all can plan delightful schemes, but 
 they rarely ever become realities ; but no matter, we en- 
 joy them in imagination. I expect from you a particu- 
 lar account of yourself when you return. You will have 
 many amusing anecdotes to tell me, if you will take the 
 trouble. I have just read your last and picture some- 
 thing in it that at first I did not pay much attention to. 
 You say all you have said on the subject of education 
 was merely the thought of the moment, "written not to 
 be received but laughed at." What shall I think? — 
 That you think me too contemptible to know your real 
 sentiments ? I should be very unwilling to admit such 
 a suspicion, yet what can you mean ? — with the greatest 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 67 
 
 apparent seriousness, you speak of the sincerity with 
 which you conduct this correspondence. Was that like- 
 wise meant to be laughed at ? I had flattered myself, 
 when I commenced this correspondence, to reap both 
 instruction and amusement from an undisguised commu- 
 nication of sentiments. I had likewise hoped you would 
 not think it too great a condescension to speak to me 
 with that openness you would to a male friend. How- 
 ever, I shall begin to think it is contrary to the nature 
 of things that a gentleman should speak his real senti- 
 ments to a lady, yet in our correspondence I wished and 
 expected to step aside from the world, speak to each 
 other in the plain language of sincerity. I have much 
 to say on this subject, but unfortunately my ideas never 
 begin to flow until I have filled up my paper. Do not 
 imagine from what I have said that the most disagreea- 
 ble truths will offend me. I promise not to feel hurt at 
 any thing you write, if 'tis your real sentiment. But, 
 Cousin, don't trifle with me. Do not make me think so 
 contemptibly of myself as you will by not allowing me 
 your confidence ; promise to speak as you think and I 
 will never scold you again. Eliza. 
 
 Cousin, I wish you would write a list of your mother's 
 children, names and ages, those that have died together 
 with the others. We are going to send them out to 
 Uncle Rufus, as he requested it some time since. By 
 Martha it will be a fine opportunity, — as soon as con- 
 venient send them over. 
 
 Mr. Moses Porter, 
 Biddeford. 
 
68 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Scarborough, August 6, 1801. 
 Hon. Rufus King. 
 
 Pardon, my dear Sir, the liberty I take in addressing 
 you, and let my motives shield me from the imputation 
 of presumption. Some time since, you requested a list 
 of my Aunt Porter's and our family. It has never been 
 sent, and as we have now a very favorable opportunity, 
 my father has requested me to make it out and enclose 
 it to you. I tremble while I write, lest I should appear 
 disrespectful in my manner of addressing you. Unused 
 as I am to writing to any one so much superior in years, 
 I cannot but feel embarrassed. A degree of confidence 
 in ourselves is necessary in every undertaking to ensure 
 success ; as I feel at this moment destitute of that con- 
 fidence, I likewise despair of succeeding in my wishes, 
 yet I entreat you to attribute whatever may appear as- 
 suming rather to an incapacity of expressing myself as 
 I wish than to a want of respect. When I consider you 
 as a public character esteemed and respected by your 
 country, I would willingly shrink from observation, lest 
 my intruding myself on your attention should be thought 
 impertinence. But when I think how nearly I am allied, 
 I flatter myself I shall obtain that indulgence which I 
 now earnestly solicit. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, by whom I 
 shall send this, intend taking the tour of Europe after 
 having taken that of the United States. Mrs. Derby is 
 my particular friend, and as she is intimately acquainted 
 in our family, can give you whatever information you 
 
Mrs. R 
 iter a portrait b 
 
 lOTYI'L. E QIEHbTADT, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 69 
 
 wish respecting us. I say nothing to remind her, for I 
 have too high an opinion of your discernment to suppose 
 any recommendation necessary. My mother joins me 
 in desiring you would make our respects acceptable to 
 Mrs. King, and all the family unite in earnest wishes for 
 the complete restoration of her health. Our family are 
 all in good health . . . My mother really looks young ! 
 My Aunt Porter [Pauline] is not wholly restored to her 
 former health, but is much better than she has been for 
 many years past. 
 
 I cannot conclude this without earnestly intreating 
 you to receive it with the candor of an Uncle rather 
 than the severity of a critic. I feel I do not write as I 
 ought to, yet I entreat you not to think me deficient in 
 that respect and esteem with which I shall ever remain 
 Your niece Eliza Southgate. 
 
 Scarborough, August 4, 1801. 
 
 Dr. Southgate to Rufus King in London. 
 
 You will receive this by Mr. Richard Derby, youngest 
 son of the late H. Derby of Salem. His lady who ac- 
 companies him is the daughter of Dr. N. Coffin of Port- 
 land. The Doctor's family and mine have ever been on 
 terms of intimacy and friendship. Mrs. Derby in par- 
 ticular has ever been a favorite of my daughters Octa- 
 via and Eliza. They can give you all particulars about 
 friends at home. 
 
70 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Bath, Sunday, Sept. 13. 
 
 There are some kinds of indisposition that instead of 
 weakening the faculties of the mind, serve only to ren- 
 der them more vigorous and sprightly, and in proportion 
 as the body is debilitated, the mind is strengthened. I 
 have- every reason to believe that the imagination never 
 soars to such lofty heights as it sometimes does in sick- 
 ness. But where am I ! What about — Well may you 
 ask the question. Believe me, Cousin, I have attempted 
 to finish this letter 4 times this day. I cannot account 
 for my inability to write. It used to be the joy of my 
 life, nothing delighted me so much as to steal into the 
 chamber by myself and scribble an hour, but since I re- 
 ceived your last I have often attempted to answer it, but 
 in vain. I have a stubborn brain ; it must be coaxed, 
 not driven. I find there is nothing so tedious as to 
 write when we are not in the mood for it. You may 
 easily see that I am not in one at present. Now for 
 Heaven's sake see what I have written — find the chain 
 that connects. When I began I meant to say I had 
 been quite unwell ever since I left Portland, that some 
 disorders only served to give vigor to the mind, &c, 
 &c, but I meant also to say mine was altogether of a 
 different nature. But as I left that out, so I had better 
 have done the other. Oh — 'tis too, too bad ! I'll not 
 write another till I think I can understand it after it is 
 written. I am low-spirited, stupid and everything else. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 71 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Now I shall really think I have no soul if I find my- 
 self as destitute of ideas as I was on Sunday. I have 
 just been viewing the most delightful prospect I have 
 seen this long time, and if it has left no more impression 
 on my mind than objects passing before a mirror, I shall 
 think myself devoid of every quality that constitutes us 
 rational beings. I think nature has done everything to 
 render Bath pleasant : the window at which I now sit 
 commands a most delightful water prospect ; the river 
 is about a mile in breadth at this place, the opposite 
 banks are neither sublime nor beautiful. What if I for a 
 moment should take a poet's license, and by the force of 
 imagination project steep and rugged rocks ! bid them 
 stoop with awful majesty to reflect their gloomy horrors 
 in the wave! See you not that enormous precipice 
 whose awful summit was ne'er profaned by human foot- 
 steps ? Does not your blood freeze as it creeps along 
 your veins ? Behold again that barren waste, the axe 
 nor the plough have never clothed it with a borrowed 
 charm, or robbed it of those nature bestowed upon it ; 
 it still boasts its independence of the labor of man. 
 But to leave fiction for reality, the surface of the water 
 is a perfect mirror. I never saw it so perfectly smooth ; 
 at this moment there is a boat passing, rowed by two 
 men — the reflection in the water is so distinct, so very 
 clear, it looks like two boats. I admire to see a boat 
 rowed; it seems to look like arms or wings, moving with 
 
72 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 graceful majesty, while the boat cuts the liquid bosom of 
 the water, leaving as it recedes a widening track. There 
 is always to me something very charming in the rowing 
 of a boat. There is music in the motion ; and what can 
 be more graceful and majestic than the motion of a 
 ship under sail? Yesterday there was a brig passed by 
 here — 'twas within hearing — very near. I never was 
 more forcibly struck than at the moment ; I longed to 
 prostrate myself in humble admiration — as she ap- 
 proached with a slow, commanding, celestial air ; — at 
 the moment I am sure it gave me a better idea of the 
 awful grandeur of a deity than anything I had ever seen. 
 I saw Juno's dignified gracefulness such as I had read 
 of but could not conceive. 
 
 I have often in reading been disagreeably struck by 
 the epithets used for the motions of the gods. Some- 
 times they make them glide thro' the air, sometimes 
 approach with a solemn step, and many other words I do 
 not recollect ; nor do I at present think of any words 
 that would answer better — yet to glide seems stealing 
 along — to move rapidly and imperceptibly; — a bird 
 glides thro' the air, yet there is nothing celestial in the 
 flight of a bird. It seems to me properly applied to 
 fairies ; something light and airy should glide, — that a 
 fairy should glide along seems right, — just as I have 
 an idea of them. And then for a god to step — that 
 seems too grovelling, too like us mortals, — yet that in 
 my opinion is better than the other. 
 
 The place on which this house stands seems to pro- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 73 
 
 ject in a small degree toward the water. I believe there 
 is not a window in the house that does not command a 
 view of the water. In front there is a kind of cove the 
 water makes in several rods ; the river is broad and 
 straight, the land rises gradually from it a half mile ; — 
 but I think it is to be regretted that the inhabitants 
 have built under the hill, or rather that they did not 
 prefer climbing a little higher; however, I think it 
 must have a fine appearance from the water. Last year 
 I recollect sailing along in front of the settlement and 
 remarked how much more compact it looked than it 
 really is, the houses rising one above the other in such 
 a manner that every one was seen distinctly. I think 
 nothing can be more beautiful than a town built on a 
 sloping ground ascending from so fine a river as this 
 branch of the Kennebec. All the navigation belonging 
 to the different ports on this river above Bath, passes 
 directly by here, and several times I have seen 12 or 
 14 at a time. To one who has been brought up amidst 
 salt marsh and flats, this large fine river affords much 
 novelty and amusement, and I cannot confess but the 
 sensations I feel in viewing it are more pleasing than 
 those produced by a stagnant water in a Scarborough 
 salt pond. I have almost filled my sheet without say- 
 ing a word of your letter, indeed I have forgotten what 
 was in it — at the time you gave it me I know I received 
 it with much pleasure, as it robbed me of some painful 
 moments. After Horatio's recovery I sat down one 
 evening to write you, but I had only written the day of 
 
74 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 the month, when a most violent clap of thunder (the 
 same that struck Mrs. Horper's house) shook the pen 
 from my hand and my desk from my lap. I do not 
 imagine even by this omen that I offend the strictest 
 laws of virtue and propriety by continuing to write you, 
 therefore should something equally powerful wrest the 
 pen from my hand, depend upon it I will seize it with 
 renewed vigor and dare assure you of my esteem, &c, 
 &c. Eliza. 
 
 I shall go to Wiscassett on Monday ; expect to hear 
 from me after I return to Bath; while there I shall have 
 no time. I expect to have important communications 
 to forward — a certain pair of sparkling eyes, which 
 are far more eloquent than her tongue ! Now I have 
 half a mind to be affronted. I know at this time, as 
 soon as you have read this you are tumbling it into 
 your pocket as waste paper to ponder on the brilliancy 
 of said eyes. Is it true ? Well, I shall see them soon 
 and shall be tempted to ask some atonement for the 
 damages I may suffer. Write me often while I am 
 here, it is your duty. 
 
 Mr. Moses Porter, Biddeford. 
 
 By Mrs. King. 
 
 To Mr. Moses Porter at Biddeford. 
 
 I want to write, yet I don't want to write to you, my 
 ceremonious Cousin, but at this time I can think of 
 nobody else and am compelled to address you. My last 
 was dated from Bath, so is this ; since then I have made 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 75 
 
 a visit to Wiscassett. Oh I believe — yes I did write a 
 few lines from there by Uncle Thatcher — I had for- 
 gotten that I wrote any more than the letter I finished 
 before I left Bath. I wish I could give you an account 
 of my spending my fortnight at Wiscasset, which would 
 amuse you as much as the reality did me, but that is 
 impossible. I have seen so many new faces — (I was 
 going to say new characters, but they were generally 
 such as we see every day), so many handsome ladies, 
 so many fine men, indeed I have seen a little of every- 
 thing. Mr. Wild and Mr. Davis (of Portland) kept at 
 Mrs. Lee's. Mr. Wild is a most charming man, and 
 sensible and genteel, apparently has one of the mildest 
 and most amiable dispositions in the world. Mr. Davis 
 
 you know. There was a Miss P spent 2 or 3 days 
 
 at Mrs. Lee's. She was — was — I can't tell you what ; 
 you may have heard of her, celebrated for her wit, lost 
 a lover by exercising it rather too severely ; poor soul ! 
 it was a sad affair ; she has at length become sensible 
 of the impropriety of her conduct, and now hopes to 
 atone for it by flattering every gentleman she sees — 
 time will show whether this plan will succeed. She 
 talks incessantly, laughs always at what she says her- 
 self. At table, when the judges, lawyers, and a dozen 
 
 gentlemen and ladies were seated, Miss P engrossed 
 
 all the conversation. I defy any person to be in the 
 room with her and not be compelled to converse with 
 her, not by the irresistible force of her charms, they 
 are rather in the wane. Tf you look at her she asks 
 
76 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 what you were going to say — " I know you were going 
 to speak by your looks." Of course my gentleman 
 walks up, how can he help it ? In this manner she 
 draws a whole swarm around her ; the poor souls rattle 
 out their outrageous compliments, trembling with fear,, 
 for the moment their ardor to please appears to abate, 
 she rouses them to a sense of their duty by a lash of 
 her tongue. 
 
 Sunday. — Now I can't bear to be hurried, and I must 
 submit to be or not send this by Mamma King. Last 
 night when I began this, I felt quite disposed to throw 
 away an hour (for my letters to you are thrown away as 
 you won't take the trouble to answer them) without con- 
 sulting anything but my feelings. I began, and soon 
 found, to my mortification, that I ought to have con- 
 sulted my candle, for as if piqued at my neglect, it took 
 French leave to doze. I broke off my description of 
 
 Miss P in the most striking part. I do not resume 
 
 the subject, 'twould be a profanation of this day to 
 scandalize a frail sister ; my mind is full of charity and 
 Christian love. I hope I shall not stumble against some 
 unlucky thought that may derange its present peaceful 
 state. Now, Cousin, don't you think it unpardonable, 
 don't you think it a violation of all the laws of polite- 
 ness, that you should neglect writing me merely be- 
 cause I owed a letter? I should not be surprised if you 
 counted the words in yours and my letters and settled 
 the account by some rule in Arithmetic. But let me 
 entreat you not to estimate mine by the weight, but the 
 
A Girl's Lip Eighty Years Ago. 77 
 
 number ; in that case I am equal to anybody ; but if, 
 unhappily for me, you should weigh them with critical 
 exactness, 'twill take many of them to repay you for' 
 one of yours. I feel assured you must have adopted 
 this method, and sincerely ask your pardon for doubting 
 a moment that this was the true cause. What pre- 
 vented your coming to Wiscassett ? I tho't you had 
 determined upon it. Rebecca and I used to expect you 
 every day ; believe me I was asked a dozen times if you 
 were not absolutely engaged to Miss Rice. How such 
 things will get about. I told every body that asked me 
 that I was your confidant, of course must keep your 
 attachment a secret, for which I am prepared to receive 
 your thanks. 
 
 Mr. Kinsman has been down to Wiscassett. He 
 attended the courts, as he says, to acquire a better 
 knowledge of the law ; but I should imagine he mis- 
 took the ladies for the law, as he makes them his con- 
 stant study. But I leave so dangerous a subject, lest 
 my feelings should deprive me of the power to fin- 
 ish this sheet. I shall probably return home the be- 
 ginning of next month. If I have a letter due from 
 you, according to your new arrangement, I beg you to 
 forward it as soon as possible ; however, I have not the 
 vanity to suppose there is more than a dozen lines as 
 yet ; perhaps when I have written half a dozen more 
 letters I may be richly rewarded with one from you. 
 Where is Maria ? How does she do ? Rebecca wrote 
 her while I was in Wiscassett, and told her undoubtedly 
 
?S A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 she is expected to spend the winter there. I must 
 finish : Uncle calls. Eliza. 
 
 I believe it is about the ioth day of October. E. 
 
 Ellen Coffin is going to be married to a widower and 
 3 children, think of that, sir ! ! ! I had a letter from her 
 last week. She is not coming home till she leaves 
 Portland as Mrs. Derby. 
 
 Topsham, Oct. 29, 1801. 
 
 Why, you unaccountable wretch ! you obstinate fel- 
 low ! you malicious, you vain, you — Oh, I am run out, 
 I will e'en call in the assistance of Sir John Fallstaff 
 to help me exclaim against you — provoking creature ! 
 With one scratch of your pen to banish such delightful 
 thoughts ! I was applauding myself for my condescen- 
 sion in writing so often without answers. I exulted 
 in the thought of your shame and confusion at the 
 proofs of my superiority, — so much above the little 
 forms that narrowed your own heart. How did I see 
 you hanging your head with penitence and sorrow, 
 while your face glowed with conscious shame ! Oh, 
 'twas delicious ! Every day I reflected on it with re- 
 newed pleasure. I felt assured nothing prevented your 
 writing but an aversion to acknowledging how humble, 
 how little you felt, — yet the letter at length arrived, 
 my heart trembled with delight, a glow of triumph 
 flushed my face. I saw the humiliation so grateful to 
 my vanity, (I was at the Lieu table) — I hurried the 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 79 
 
 letter into my pocket, I had no wish to read it — I knew 
 (I tho't I did) what it must contain. I could scarcely 
 breathe ; vanity, exultation, revenge (sweet sensation) 
 gave me unusual spirits. I stood and called 5 — I was 
 sure of a Palm-flush ! 'twas impossible anything could 
 go wrong, — 'twas a frail hope — I got nothing, was 
 lieued ; never mind it, thought I, the letter is enough. I 
 played wrong, discarded the wrong card, knocked over 
 the candlestick, spilt my wine ; positively, if it had been 
 a love-letter, a first declaration, it would not put me in 
 a worse flustration ; but ah ! 't was so different, — I did 
 not blush, look down, tremble, fear to raise my eyes ; 
 my heart did not dissolve away in melting tenderness — 
 hey-day ! I had no notion of telling you what I did not 
 do — but what I did. Well then — I sat so upright, I 
 was a foot taller, I looked at every body for applause. I 
 wondered I did not hear them exclaim : Oh, generous, 
 excellent girl ! I demanded it with my eyes — 'twas 
 all in vain, I heard nothing but — " Eliza, you must fol- 
 low suit. Why do you play that card ? You will cer- 
 tainly be lieued ! " I was vexed ; I thought of the letter, 
 all was sunshine again. I am called — dinner; oh, this 
 eating seems to clog all my faculties, I never write with 
 half so much ease as when I'm half starved. I believe 
 it is true that poets ought not to live well. 
 
 But begging your pardon for leaving you so in the 
 lurch, I had forgotten that the letter was as yet un- 
 opened in my pocket. Well then, we did not break up 
 till late ; after I retired to bed out came the letter. I 
 
80 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 was sleepy and had a great mind not to open it till 
 morning ; however I thought I would, to have the satis- 
 faction of the confirmation of my hopes, not once think- 
 ing of the stroke that should annihilate them. It came. 
 How shall I tell you my consternation ! — "description 
 falters at the threshold ; " yet I did not rave, I did not 
 tear my hair with a frenzy of passion. I did not stand 
 in mute despair, — no; I collected all my dignity and 
 stood fixed and immovable. I was convinced 'twas ob- 
 stinacy alone, 'twas envy, 'twas a something that pre- 
 vented you from giving me what you knew I deserved. 
 I am called again. 
 
 Portland, Nov. 10, 1801. 
 
 I had almost determined to light the fire with this 
 scrawl ! — but upon second thoughts I withdrew my 
 hand from the devouring flames and saved it from 
 the fate it so justly merits. Yet we have such a par- 
 tiality for our own offspring we rarely ever treat them 
 with the severity they deserve. But I ought to tell you 
 where I am, — but this letter has nothing like method 
 in it — but never mind — I began it immediately after I 
 received your last. I wrote while the first impressions 
 it made were on me ; unluckily I was called from the 
 pleasing task while in the midst of it, and as I never 
 feel the same two hours together, I was unable to con- 
 tinue as I began : 'twould have been cold and studied ; 
 so I left it. I threw it into my trunk, determining not to 
 have anything more to do with it. I had grown amaz- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 81 
 
 ingly wise ; I wondered how I could suffer myself to 
 write such nonsense. To-day I have received an in- 
 vitation to the second wedding of Capt. Stephenson. 
 I shall go. I thought I would write you a line to let 
 you know I was still in existence and on my way home. 
 I could not find any paper and was compelled to tumble 
 over my trunk to find this. I have a world of news to 
 tell you, but I don't know that you would care a far- 
 thing about any of it. Mary has been at Boston. Capt. 
 Stephenson told me all about it. Tell her I hear she 
 has a heap of fine things, at which, together with her 
 ladyship, I hope to have a peep. I have something of 
 vast importance to say to her likewise, a thing on which 
 depends the life and happiness of a fellow-creature. 
 " Oh, Mary ! who would have thought cruelty one of 
 the failings of your heart." But I shall out with this 
 secret to you before I am aware of it. Now I have a 
 great mind to turn this into a letter to Mary. I have 
 as much again to say to her as I have to you, but she 
 would not know what to make of some of it. I expect 
 to be at home on Saturday next ; bring Mary on Sun- 
 day, — mind, and don't disobey. Horatio will be with 
 me. I am in a monstrous hurry. I must send more 
 blank paper than I ever did before, for which you will 
 thank me, as I think you once told me that the blank 
 paper in my letters always afforded you the most pleas- 
 ure, — not exactly so — but something like it. Adieu. 
 
 Eliza. 
 
 Mr. Moses Porter. 
 
82 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Scarborough, Dec. 4th, 1801. 
 
 "I give you thanks," as Parson Fletcher says, for 
 your dissertation upon apologies and old sayings. You 
 have stored up enough to fill a volume, if I should take 
 your last as a specimen of the quantity. However, they 
 are things I trouble myself but little about, and I 
 should rather be inclined to join in railing against 
 them than in enumerating their good effects. I per- 
 ceive that you were much more inclined to be their 
 advocate after supper than you were before. You had 
 just laid down your pen after venting all your spleen 
 and ill-nature (occasioned by your impatience for roast- 
 beef) upon these poor harmless old sayings. You re- 
 turn, with an entire new set of sentiments on the sub- 
 ject. You commence their advocate with more vehe- 
 mence than is usual with you, and conclude by making 
 them the very foundation of every virtue. Now I have 
 endeavored to find some natural cause for this sudden 
 change, but cannot. Was it that you heard one trickle 
 from the lips of some favorite fair with eloquence too 
 powerful to be resisted ? Or was it a bumper of wine 
 which proved so warm a friend to them ? Or was it the 
 good-natured effects of the roast-beef, which exhilarat- 
 ing your spirits, made you look with an eye of pity and 
 compassion on these poor neglected things, and en- 
 deavor by rubbing off the rust and polishing them 
 anew, to compensate for your malicious endeavors to 
 lessen their merit? But after all I must confess my- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 83 
 
 self a great enemy to them, in conversation particu- 
 larly. I never knew a person who made frequent use 
 of them, but I pitied them for the scanty portion of 
 ideas which must have driven them to such a paltry 
 theft ; and moreover, if I must steal the idea, I would 
 clothe it myself, lest its garment should betray me. I 
 dislike them because they are in every body's mouth, 
 the greatest fool on earth has sense enough to use 
 them with as much propriety as any other, and you will 
 find every old beggar has his wallet stuffed full of them, 
 ready to launch out on every occasion. I don't know, 
 however, but you are perfectly right in what you say in 
 their defence. I am inclined to believe what you say 
 is just, but I have so often seen instances of their 
 meaning being perverted to answer some vicious pur- 
 pose that I am compelled to believe the balance is 
 against them. " So much for old sayings." — But now 
 as to apologies, I must with due reverence beg leave to 
 differ from you in my opinion of them. I am by no 
 means inclined to think they are never used but when 
 we know ourselves in fault, and that we ought always 
 to suspect the sincerity of any one who makes them. 
 You certainly must have known instances when they 
 were essentially necessary, and not to have made them 
 would have proved an obstinacy of disposition quite as 
 disagreeable as insincerity. I hate this parade and non- 
 sense about independence y which every gentleman of ton 
 puts on ; it always proves that the reality is small, when 
 such a fuss is made for the appearance. I know some 
 
84 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 gentlemen who boast of never having made an apology, 
 yet at the same time would say and do a thousand 
 things much more derogatory to their dear indepen- 
 dence than fifty apologies, such as any man of sense 
 might make. I should be glad to see our fine gentle- 
 men more careful in avoiding anything that would re- 
 quire an apology, and not like cowards skulk behind 
 their flimsy shield of independence for defence or se- 
 curity. I have as great an aversion to cringing apolo- 
 gies, made on every occasion, as you possibly can have, 
 and should always suspect the sincerity of them. — If 
 this class are the greater part of them, — still I can 
 conceive, nay I have known instances when an apology 
 has heightened my opinion of a person instead of les- 
 sening it. If we are in fault, ought we not to confess 
 it ? If we are not in fault, ought we not to exculpate 
 ourselves ? I should think a person valued my appro- 
 bation very little, if he knew I had any reason to cen- 
 sure him and yet would not by a single word convince 
 me I had been deceived. However, I did not mean to 
 dip so far into this weighty subject, 'twould have been 
 better to have just touched the edges and away. Now 
 really, Moses, I write in pain if I am not good-natured ; 
 you must attribute it all to the cold which makes my 
 fingers tingle ; I can't write below, there is such a gab- 
 bling. Tis a cold, comfortless night ; the rain patters 
 against the window and the wind whistles round the 
 house, it sounds like December, — oh ! that was an 
 unlucky word ! I feel gloomy at the sight of it. The 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 85 
 
 storm has driven all my thoughts back to myself for 
 shelter. I am at this moment so selfish and cross that 
 I would not walk ten steps to do good to any one. Our 
 old windows here clatter so that I can hear nothing 
 else. I shall begin to think the candle burns blue, and 
 that I hear the groans of distress between the blasts 
 of wind, which sound hollow and dreary ; even now the 
 shadow of my pen on the wall looked like a man's arm, 
 and as true as I live, here is a winding-sheet in the 
 candle. Oh these hobgoblin stories ! we never get rid 
 of them. I sometimes, when sitting alone, after all are 
 asleep in the house, get my imagination so roused, that. 
 I look in fearful expectation that the tall martial ghost 
 of Hamlet will stalk before my eyes, or that some less 
 dignified one will step through the keyhole, or pop 
 down chimney. — Ghosts, what a looking word that is ! ! 
 — nonsense! — what was I going to say, something 
 about ghosts and all not warming my fingers. I declare 
 this shall be the last letter I will write from the fire, — 
 December, and writing in the chamber without fire. 
 Oh — monstrous ! But here am I at the end without 
 saying several things I meant to. I never, when I sit 
 down to write, say any thing I wished or intended to 
 when I began. You found my letter, you say — 'twas 
 not worth the finding, as it was too late to answer the 
 purpose I wish. Write me often. I have been enter- 
 tained with Johnson's life. We are alone, so write me 
 often. E. S. 
 
86 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 A man of your gallantry, cousin, surely might make 
 a small exertion to confer an obligation on two of the 
 fair. Octavia and myself are very anxious that Miss 
 Tappan should make us a visit. My father will bring 
 Miranda home ; but our chaise is broken so much that 
 'tis impossible to use it in its present state ; none to be 
 hired or borrowed. Why can't you take a chaise and 
 bring over Pauline and Betsey Tappan ? Besides grati- 
 fying me with their company, I would be very glad to 
 see you — no coaxing Eliza ! But I am in earnest ; 
 come and see. Do come and bring them if possible. I 
 will show you some of Martha's letters from London, 
 Bath. I will tell you everything I can think of and per- 
 haps invent something if all this won't do. Lord bless 
 me ! I should not have to urge every one so hard to 
 come and see me. I am sure I should be discouraged ; 
 but seriously, I wish you to come very much, but if you 
 think it impossible, or rather very bad — don't mind 
 what I say ; however, I expect you. Eliza. 
 
 To Mr. Moses Porter. 
 
 Portland, Jan. 24, 1802. 
 
 Now at this moment imagine your friend Eliza half- 
 double with the cold, two children teazing and playing 
 round the table, sister and nurse talking all the time, 
 and you will then be prepared to receive a letter abound- 
 ing with sound reasoning, profound argument, elegant 
 language, and a profusion of sublime ideas ; but do not 
 stare if I intersperse, by way of relieving your mind, a 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 87 
 
 few little Jackey Horner stories which I am obliged to 
 gabble out by wholesale to stop the children's mouths. 
 If I had not had a most retentive memory, I should have 
 forgotten we were correspondents. I can put up with 
 such a tardy, indifferent, reluctant correspondent when 
 I myself set the example — but we ladies are so accus- 
 tomed to attention from gentlemen that I can hardly 
 bring myself to put up with your neglect. I have a 
 thousand times determined to wait just as long before I 
 answer your letters as you do before mine are noticed, 
 and you have nothing to prevent — but, pshaw ! I am 
 only spending time to give you something to laugh at. I 
 must honestly acknowledge, however, that your last let- 
 ter was very acceptable, though I was piqued at your neg- 
 lecting me so long. I wish I felt adequate to giving 
 an opinion on your perfect character, but as I have told 
 you before, I cannot think when all is noise and confu- 
 sion around me. But I have endeavored in vain to find 
 fault with it. I am really sorry that your sentiments so 
 perfectly coincide with my own, for you have said all I 
 think on the subject and much more than I could have 
 expressed, therefore I am compelled to assent to all you 
 have said. I am very glad we do not agree on every 
 subject, for our letters would (mine I mean) be very un- 
 entertaining, indeed they have no merit to part with. I 
 do not mean to send your perfect character away with- 
 out a more intimate acquaintance. When I feel in a 
 proper mood for it I will take it up and examine every 
 quality separately. I have the outlines impressed on 
 
SS A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 my mind, but I cannot refer to your letter for 'tis up in 
 my trunk and I feel no disposition to leave the fire ; with 
 your permission I will lay it by till another time. In 
 the meantime let us descend from these important dis- 
 cussions to the trifling occurrences of the day. With 
 great satisfaction we at length behold the ground cov- 
 ered with snow, for we are almost freezing here ; it has 
 been impossible almost to obtain wood to keep us warm, 
 and I declare I have thought a log-house and clay chim- 
 ney — The bell rings — I must stop ! — 
 
 Monday, Feb. I, 1802, Portland. 
 
 The sudden ringing of the bell last Monday stopt 
 me in the midst of a very homely catalogue of blessings 
 — 'tis not worth finishing, and if it was I could not take 
 up a broken sentence and finish it a week after it was 
 begun. I have in vain attempted to finish this sheet, 
 but I find I am entirely unfit to write. I hold my pen 
 firm in my hand, look this side and that side, yet still 
 cannot think. Scarborough — desolate, dreary Scar- 
 borough is the only place from whence I can write with 
 ease, — nothing present engages my attentions, and I 
 then have leisure to turn over the rubbish which I have 
 collected from home — ponder on things past and antici- 
 pate those to come : 'tis something like dreaming, — we 
 are insensible to everything around us, — the imagina- 
 tion is unchecked by the operation of our senses, and 
 
A Girl's Lip Eighty Years Ago. 89 
 
 soars beyond the boundaries of reality. Pray read over 
 this last half-page and see if you cannot tell how I feel, 
 look, and act at this moment. If your penetration does 
 not discover a something unlike my letters in general, — 
 cold and studied — I will not — I cannot write, another 
 post must pass and no letter, yet 'tis labor, 'tis pain to 
 write thus. 
 
 Sunday, Feb. 8. 
 
 To see the dates of this sheet one would immediately 
 conclude that my ideas flowed periodically and that I 
 had stated periods to "unpack the heart," but 'tis be- 
 cause I cannot take my pen and write at the moment I 
 feel an inclination, — not to defer it till a more conven- 
 ient time when I most probably should feel indifferent 
 about it. Now I am aware what you are about to infer 
 from such a dull studied letter as this is, — The " seven 
 days twice run " has put something into your head that 
 ought not to be there, and you are laughing in your 
 sleeve at the discovery. Now, I am not after the man- 
 ner of our sex going to protest it is false — that there is 
 no foundation for such a report, and counterfeit anger 
 that I don't feel, for these things always are viewed as 
 a modest confirmation of the truth, and frequently are 
 considered the greatest proof that can be brought. It 
 is folly to give importance to such stories by appearing 
 to feel interested, and the only way to destroy them is to 
 hear and let them pass with perfect indifference ; time 
 
go A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 will certainly show what is true and what is not, and the 
 only method is to let them take their course, they will 
 sink to oblivion if not fed by our own folly. I own 'tis 
 unpleasant to hear such things, but every girl must pre- 
 pare herself for such vexations. It has one good effect 
 — that of making us more circumspect in our conduct. 
 I do not say I am not in love ; if your penetration has 
 not discovered that I am, neither will what I say con- 
 vince you. How such a report came to you I do not 
 know. I had hoped it would wither and die in the hot- 
 bed of scandal from whence it sprang. If you lived 
 here you would not be surprised at any thing of the 
 kind. I declare to you I don't know the girl in town of 
 whom the same is not said. The prevailing propensity 
 this winter is match-making, and at the assemblies there 
 is no other conversation, ■ — such and such a one will 
 make a match because they dance together, — another 
 one is positively engaged because she does not dance 
 with him. If a lady does not attend the assembly con- 
 stantly — 'tis because her favorite swain is not a mem- 
 ber, — if she does — 'tis to meet him there: if she is 
 silent, she is certainly in love ; if she is gay and talks 
 much, there must be a lover in the way. If a gentleman 
 looks at you at meeting you are suspected, if he dances 
 with you at the assembly it must be true, and if he rides 
 with you — 'tis "confirmation strong as proof of holy 
 writ." I am vext to have spent so much time on this 
 subject, but I care nothing about it. 'Tis well I have 
 found something to fill my sheet, and had it not been for 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 91 
 
 that lucky seven days twice over, I should not have fin- 
 ished it this month, and finishing now has been a week's 
 work. Eliza. 
 
 To Mr. Moses Porter. 
 
 Sunday, Feb'y 14. 
 
 Only think, Moses, I was from home when you passed 
 thro' town ! I did not expect you so soon, altho' you 
 said you should return on Friday. I thought some- 
 thing might detain you in Wiscassett longer than you 
 expected ; but you are one of those odd fellows which 
 nothing can turn aside, no, not even the most sr. arkling 
 pair of black eyes in the world could detain you a mo- 
 ment longer than you first intended, — what a philoso- 
 pher in this age of gallantry to remain untainted ! It 
 will come at last, Moses. Belamy says there is as 
 much a time for love as for death, and every one as 
 surely one time or other will feel it. I expect to see 
 you throw off the Philosopher and assume the man ; one 
 more trial and I will pronounce you invulnerable. . For 
 
 Miss T , this one is reserved. I long to see how 
 
 you will look when (to use a religious phrase) you are 
 struck down. Pray write me as soon as you receive 
 this and tell me about your journey ; don't wait as long 
 as you commonly do. 
 
 Adieu. Eliza. 
 
92 A Girl s Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Portland, March i, 1802. 
 
 Such a frolic ! Such a chain of adventures I never 
 before met w'tth, nay, the page of romance never pre- 
 sented its ecu lal. 'lis now Monday, — but a little more 
 method, that I may be understood. I have just ended 
 my Assembly's adventure, never got home till this 
 morning. Thursday it snowed violently, indeed for two 
 days before it had been storming so much that the 
 snow drifts were very large; however, as it was the last 
 Assembly I could not resist the temptation of going, as 
 I knew all the world would be there. About 7 I went 
 down-stairs and found young Charles Coffin, the min- 
 ister, in the parlor. After the usual enquiries were 
 over he stared awhile al my feathers and flowers, asked 
 if I was going out, — I told him I was going to the 
 Assembly. "Think, Miss Southgatc," said he, after a 
 long pause, "think you would go out to meeting in such 
 a storm as this ? " Then assuming a tone of reproof, he 
 entreated me to examine well my feelings on such an 
 occasion. I heard in silence, unwilling to begin an 
 argument that I was unable to support. The stopping 
 of the carriage roused me ; I immediately slipl on my 
 socks and coat, and met Horatio and Mr. Motley in the 
 entry. The snow was deep, but Mr. Motley took me 
 up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without diffi- 
 culty. I found a full assembly, many married ladies, 
 and every one disposed to end the winter in good 
 spirits. At one we left dancing and went to the card- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 93 
 
 room to wait for a coach. It stormed dreadfully. The 
 hacks were all employed as soon as they returned, and 
 we could not get one till 3 o'clock, for about two they 
 left the house, determined not to return again for the 
 night. It was the most violent storm I ever knew. 
 There were now 20 in waiting, the gentlemen scolding 
 and fretting, the ladies murmuring and complaining. 
 One hack returned ; all flocked to the stairs to engage 
 a seat. So many crowded down that 'twas impossible 
 to get past; luckily I was one of the first. I stcpt in, 
 found a young lady, almost a stranger in town, who 
 keeps at Mrs. Jordan's, sitting in the back-scat. She 
 immediately caught hold of me and beg'd if I possibly 
 could accommodate her to take her home with me, as 
 she had attempted to go to Mrs. Jordan's, but the drifts 
 were so high, the horses could not get through ; that 
 they were compelled to return to the hall, where she 
 had not a single acquaintance with whom she could go 
 home. I was distres't, for I could not ask her home 
 with me, for sister had so much company that I was 
 obliged to go home with Sally Weeks and give my 
 chamber to Parson Coffin. I told her this, and likewise 
 that she should be provided for if my endeavors could 
 be of any service. None but ladies were permitted to 
 get into the carriage ; it presently was stowed in so full 
 that the horses could not move ; the door was burst 
 open, for such a clamor as the closing of it occasioned 
 I never before heard. The universal cry was — "a 
 gentleman in the coach, let him come out ! " We all 
 
94 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 protested there was none, as it was too dark to distin- 
 guish ; but the little man soon raised his voice and bid 
 the coachman proceed ; a dozen voices gave contrary- 
 orders. 'Twas a proper riot, I was really alarmed. My 
 gentleman, with avast deal of fashionable independence, 
 swore no power on earth should make him quit his seat ; 
 but a gentleman at the door jump't into the carriage, 
 caught hold of him, and would have dragged him out if 
 we had not all entreated them to desist. He squeezed 
 again into his seat, inwardly exulting to think he 
 should get safe home from such rough creatures as the 
 men, should pass for a lady, be secure under their pro- 
 tection, for none would insult him before them, mean 
 creature ! ! The carriage at length started full of ladies, 
 and not one gentleman to protect us, except our lady 
 man who had crept to us for shelter. When we found 
 ourselves in the street, the first thing was to find out 
 who was in the carriage and where we were all going, 
 who first must be left. Luckily two gentlemen had 
 followed by the side of the carriage, and when it stopt 
 took out the ladies as they got to their houses. Our 
 sweet little, trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat 
 immovable whilst the two gentlemen that were obliged 
 to walk thro' all the snow and storm carried all the 
 ladies from the carriage. What could be the motive of 
 the little wretch for creeping in with us I know not : I 
 should have thought 'twas his great wish to serve the 
 ladies, if he had moved from the seat, but 'twas the 
 most singular thing I ever heard of. We at length 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 95 
 
 arrived at the place of our destination. Miss Weeks 
 asked Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl's name) 
 to go home with her, which she readily did. The gentle- 
 men then proceeded to take us out. My beau, unused 
 to carrying such a weight of sin and folly, sank under 
 its pressure, and I was obliged to carry my mighty self 
 through the snow which almost buried me. Such a 
 time, I never shall forget it! My great-grandmother 
 never told any of her youthful adventures to equal it. 
 The storm continued till Monday, and I was obliged to 
 stay ; but Monday I insisted if there was any possibility 
 of getting to Sister's to set out. The horse and sleigh 
 were soon at the door, and again I sallied forth to brave 
 the tempestuous weather (for it still snowed) and sur- 
 mount the many obstacles I had to meet with. We 
 rode on a few rods, when coming directly upon a large 
 drift, we stuck fast. We could neither get forward nor 
 turn round. After waiting till I was most frozen we got 
 out, and with the help of a truckman the sleigh was 
 lifted up and turned towards a cross street that led to 
 Federal Street. We again went on ; at the corner we 
 found it impossible to turn up or turn, but must go 
 down and begin where we first started, and take a new 
 course ; but suddenly turning the corner we came full 
 upon a pair of trucks, heavily laden ; the drift on one 
 side was so large that it left a very narrow passage 
 between that and the corner house, indeed we were 
 obliged to go so near that the post grazed my bonnet. 
 What was to be done? Our horses' heads touched 
 
96 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 before we saw them. I jump't out, the sleigh was un- 
 fastened and lifted round, and we again measured back 
 our old steps. At length we arrived at Sister Boyd's 
 door, and the drift before it was the greatest we had 
 met with ; the horse was so exhausted that he sunk 
 down, and we really thought him dead. 'Twas some 
 distance from the gate and no path. The gentleman 
 took me up in his arms and carried me till my weight 
 pressed him so far into the snow that he had no power 
 to move his feet. I rolled out of his arms and wal- 
 lowed till I reached the gate ; then rising to shake off 
 the snow, I turned and beheld my beau fixed and im- 
 moveable ; he could not get his feet out to take another 
 step. At length, making a great exertion to spring his 
 whole length forward, he made out to reach the poor 
 horse, who lay in a worse condition than his master. 
 By this time all the family had gathered to the window, 
 indeed they saw the whole frolic ; but 'twas not yet 
 ended, for, unluckily, in pulling off Miss Weeks' bonnet 
 to send to the sleigh to be carried back, I pulled off my 
 wig and left my head bare. I was perfectly convulsed 
 with laughter. Think what a ludicrous figure I must 
 have been, still standing at the gate, my bonnet half- 
 way to the sleigh and my wig in my hand. However, I 
 hurried it on, for they were all laughing at the window, 
 and made the best of my way into the house. The horse 
 was unhitched and again set out, and left me to ponder 
 on the incidents of the morning. I have since heard of 
 several events that took place that Assembly night 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 97 
 
 much more amusing than mine, — nay, Don Quixote's 
 most ludicrous adventures compared with some of them 
 will appear like the common events of the day. 
 
 March 12, 1802. 
 
 William Weeks is going to Philipsburg 1 and thinks of 
 returning by the way of Scarborough ; if so, will leave 
 this at our house, otherwise can return it to me. I have 
 not yet seen Miss Jewett, but I hear she has returned. 
 Did your Saco party come as you expected ? Give my 
 love to Miss Tappan, and tell her nothing but the fame 
 of her beauty would carry this young man so many 
 miles out of his way. I found he was very desirous of 
 calling at our house, therefore wrote by him. Tell her 
 she must answer for the mischief done by leading young 
 men astray from their path. I will estimate the loss it 
 will be to William : — he will ride 6 or 8 miles further 
 than necessary, — fatigue his horse, — wear out his 
 sleigh runners, and certainly be detained 3 hours. Now, 
 as we know a gentleman's time is much more valuable 
 than a lady's, it must be a real loss to him. 3 dollars a 
 day for posting books any common accountant would 
 have ; and allowing him but just so much, his loss would 
 certainly amount to 4 — 6 on that score. I speak merely 
 of the loss on the score of interest ; — how deeply it may 
 affect him otherwise may better be imagined from the 
 ravages she has committed in Mr. Orr's heart than from 
 any thing I can say. This short visit may derange all his 
 
 1 Phippsburg. 
 
98 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 reasoning faculties, and give a different hue to all his 
 future prospects, — it may give him a disrelish for all 
 amusements, and make him sigh for the calm serenity 
 of domestic life, — to sum up all together — it may 
 make him in love, — but I shall have no time to say 
 anything else, if I run on with this any further. To- 
 morrow I expect to go to Gorham, — return the same 
 evening or Sunday morning. I am still at Mrs. Coffin's, 
 but shall return to Sister when I come from Gorham. 
 We have had a number of pleasant parties this week, — 
 Tuesday Mrs. Robert Boyd had a charming one. 
 Wednesday had a large one here, and to-day all going to 
 Capt. Robinson's, where we expect to dance. To-mor- 
 row I go to Gorham. I wrote to Mamma requesting 
 money to buy a lace shade, — I called to look at them 
 again and the shopkeeper told me he was mistaken in 
 the price, for it was 21 per yard instead of the whole 
 pattern, which makes a vast difference. I, of course, 
 think no more of lace shades, but I still think of some 
 money, I have but 4 cents in the world, not enough to 
 pay the postage of a letter, pray send me a little imme- 
 diately. I shall send you a description of the Assembly 
 — which I believe you may read to my Mother if you 
 wish, 'twill amuse her I know. I wish you would look 
 in the old desk among my papers and get a little Draw- 
 ing book, — directions for drawing printed in a pam- 
 phlet, and give to William to bring over. I hope the 
 snow will last till Mamma comes over and I return 
 home, 'tis delightful weather. How do the daisies and 
 
TR] 
 
 UNr 
 
 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 99 
 
 jelly flowers ? Mrs. Parker is going to give me some 
 flower seeds. I hear frequent enquiries for you — when 
 are you coming in town ? Tell Miss Tappan I had the 
 honor of dancing a voluntary dance with Mr. Orr at the 
 last assembly, — he attracted much attention by his ir- 
 regular expression — " The floor was very unyielding" 
 &c, &c. I did not tell you any one's adventures but 
 my own on that eventful night. Poor Mr. Orr, impa- 
 tient to get home, plunged into the snow without wait- 
 ing for a carriage, and unfortunately turning up street 
 instead of down, got most to Mr. Vaughn's before he 
 discovered his mistake, and was obliged to turn round 
 and worry his way back again, he was half dead when 
 he got to his lodgings. Eunice Deering was tumbled 
 over and when Mr. Little took her from the carriage 1 . 
 
 Portland, May 23, 1802. 
 
 I receive your apology and am satisfied — 'tis not the 
 manner of making apologies I think most of, but that 
 long dissertation on the subject continually obtrudes it- 
 self on your mind whenever you feel conscious an apol- 
 ogy is necessary, but while I am convinced nothing but 
 the fear of appearing inconsistent prevents your making 
 these said apologies, I will not complain — let them 
 come " edgeways " or any other way — so long as I am 
 convinced you feel their necessity. But I have been 
 pondering on your new plan of life, yet I confess it does 
 
 1 This letter was never finished. 
 
ioo A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 not appear to me so delightful as to you, it sounds well, 
 — tickles the fancy, — cuts a pretty figure on paper 
 and would form a delightful chapter for a novel. Our 
 novelists have worn the pleasures of rural life thread- 
 bare, every lovesick swain imagines that with the mis- 
 tress of his heart he could leave the noisy tumultuous 
 scenes of life and in the shades of rural retirement feel 
 all the delightful serenity and peace ascribed to the 
 golden age. The Philosopher and the Poet fly to this 
 imaginary heaven with as much enthusiasm as the lover. 
 Here, say they, we can contemplate the beauty and sub- 
 limity of nature free from interruption ; here the reflect- 
 ing mind can find endless subjects for contemplation ! 
 here all is peace and love ! no discord can find a place 
 among these innocent and happy beings, — they live 
 but to promote the happiness of each other and their 
 every action teems with benevolence and love. Yet let 
 us judge for ourselves, — we all have seen what the 
 pleasures of rural life are, and whatever Poets may have 
 ascribed to it, we must know there is as much depravity 
 and consequently as much discontent in the inhabitants 
 of a country village as in the most populous city. They 
 are generally ignorant, illiterate, without knowledge to 
 discover the real blessings they enjoy by comparing 
 them with others, continually looking to those above 
 them with envy and discontent and imagine their share 
 of happiness is proportioned to their rank and power. 
 I am convinced that a country life is more calculated 
 to produce that security and happiness we are all in 
 pursuit of than any other, but those who have ever been 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 101 
 
 accustomed to it have no relish for its pleasures, and 
 those who quit the busy scenes of life, disgusted by the 
 duplicity or ingratitude of the world, or oppressed by 
 the weight of accumulated misfortune — carry with them 
 feelings and sentiments which cannot be reciprocated. 
 Solitary happiness I have no idea of, 'tis only in the 
 delightful sympathies of friendship, similarity of senti- 
 ments, that genuine happiness can be enjoyed. Your 
 mind is cultivated and enlarged, your sentiments deli- 
 cate and refined, you could not expect to find many with 
 whom you could converse on a perfect equality, — or 
 rather many whose sentiments could assimilate with 
 yours. Were I a man, I should think it cowardly to 
 bury myself in solitude, — nay, I should be unwilling to 
 confess I felt myself unable to preserve my virtue where 
 there were temptations to destroy it, there is no merit 
 in being virtuous when there is no struggle to preserve 
 that virtue. 'Tis in the midst of temptations and al- 
 lurements that the active and generous virtues must be 
 exerted in their full force. One virtuous action where 
 there were temptations and delusions to surmount would 
 give more delight to my own heart, more real satisfac- 
 tion than a whole life spent in more negative goodness, 
 he must be base indeed who can voluntarily act wrong 
 when no allurement draws him from the path of virtue. 
 You say you never dip't much into the pleasures of high 
 life and therefore should have but little to regret on 
 that score. In the choice of life one ought to consult 
 their own dispositions and inclinations, their own pow- 
 ers and talents. We all have a preference to some par- 
 
102 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 ticular mode of life, and we surely ought to endeavor to 
 arrive at that which will more probably ensure us most 
 happiness. I have often thought what profession I 
 should choose were I a man. I might then think very 
 differently from what I do now, yet I have always 
 thought if I felt conscious of possessing brilliant talents, 
 the law would be my choice. Then I might hope to 
 arrive at an eminence which would be gratifying to my 
 feelings. I should then hope to be a public character, 
 respected and admired, — but unless I was convinced I 
 possessed the talents which would distinguish me as a 
 speaker I would be anything rather than a lawyer ; — 
 from the dry sameness of such employments as the busi- 
 ness of an office all my feelings would revolt, but to be 
 an eloquent speaker would be the delight of my heart. 
 I thank Heaven I was bom a woman. I have now only 
 patiently to wait till some clever fellow shall take a fancy 
 to me and place me in a situation, I am determined to 
 make the best of it, let it be what it will. We ladies, 
 you know, possess that " sweet pliability of temper " 
 that disposes us to enjoy any situation, and we must 
 have no choice in these things till we find what is to be 
 our destiny, then we must consider it the best in the 
 world. But remember, I desire to be thankful I am not 
 a man. I should not be content with moderate abili- 
 ties — nay, I should not be content with mediocrity in 
 any thing, but as a woman I am equal to the generality 
 of my sex, and I do not feel that great desire of fame I 
 think I should if I was a man. Should you hereafter 
 become an inhabitant of Boyford I make no doubt you 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 103 
 
 will be very happy, because you will weigh all the ad- 
 vantages and disadvantages. Yet I do not think you 
 qualified for the laborious life farmers generally lead, 
 and it requires a little fortune to live an independent 
 farmer without labor. Rebecca would do charmingly, I 
 know you are imagining her the partner of all your joys 
 and cares, — of all your harmony and content, when you 
 charm yourself with your description of rural happiness. 
 With her you imagined you could quit the world and 
 almost live happy in a desert. So may it be, — I know 
 none but a lover could paint the sweets of retirement 
 with such enthusiasm. 'Tis my turn now to rail a little, 
 — the world also has linked you to a certain person, as 
 firmly — nay, more so than it ever did me ; however I 
 will not press so closely on this subject. I shall not ex- 
 pect that candid confession I made you, — as your feel- 
 ings and mine are, I believe, entirely different on the 
 two subjects. I want to ask you a question which you 
 may possibly think improper, but if so, do not answer 
 it. — Is Mary 1 really engaged to Mr. Coffin ? I hear so 
 from so many persons and in so decided a manner I 
 cannot doubt. I would ask her, but in these things 
 there is so much deception, there is no finding out, — 
 but however, I think I should never deny such a thing 
 when I once was engaged, — however, enough of this. 
 I am now in Portland, shall return to-morrow to Scarbor- 
 ough where I shall be very happy to see you and Mary, 
 so I depend on your bringing her over very soon. 
 
 1 Mary King Porter (at this time twenty years of age) married Na- 
 than Coffin. 
 
104 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Adieu — dinner is ready and I have nothing to say worth 
 losing it for, write me often — I shall be at home alone 
 these two months to come, — remember you have it in 
 your power to amuse and gratify. Eliza. 
 
 I hardly know what to say to you, Cousin, you have 
 attacked my system with a kind of fury that has entirely 
 obscured your judgment, and instead of being convinced 
 of its impracticability, you appear to fear its justness. 
 You tell me of some excellent effects of my system, but 
 pardon me for thinking they are dictated by prejudice 
 rather than reason. I feel fully convinced in my own 
 mind that no such effects could be produced. You ask 
 if this plan of education will render one a more dutiful 
 child, a more affectionate wife, &c, &c, surely it will, — 
 those virtues which now are merely practised from the 
 momentary impulse of the heart, will then be adhered to 
 from principle, a sense of duty, and a mind sufficiently 
 strengthened not to yield implicitly to every impulse, 
 will give a degree of uniformity, of stability to the fe- 
 male character, which it evidently at present does not 
 possess. From having no fixed guide for our conduct 
 we have acquired a reputation for caprice, which we 
 justly deserve. I can hardly believe you serious when 
 you say that " the enlargement of the mind will inevi- 
 tably produce superciliousness and a desire of ascend- 
 ancy/' — I should much sooner expect it from an ig- 
 norant, uncultivated mind. We cannot enlarge and 
 improve our minds without perceiving our weakness, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 105 
 
 and wisdom is always modest and unassuming, — on 
 the contrary a mind that has never been exerted knows 
 not its deficiencies and presumes much more on its 
 powers than it otherwise would. You beg me to drop 
 this crazy scheme and say no more about enlarging the 
 mind, as it is disagreeable, and you are too much preju- 
 diced ever to listen with composure to me when I write 
 on the subject. I quit it forever, nor will I again shock 
 your ear with a plan which you think has nothing for its 
 foundation either just or durable, which a girlish imagi- 
 nation gave birth to, and a presumptuous folly cher- 
 ished. I fear I have rather injured the cause than 
 otherwise, and what I have said may have more firmly 
 established those sentiments in you which I wished to 
 destroy. Be it as it may, I believe it is a cause that has 
 been more injured by its friends than its enemies, I 
 am sorry that I have said so much, yet I said no more 
 than I really thought, and still think, just and true. I 
 beg you to say no more to me on the subject as I shall 
 know 'twill be only a form of politeness which I will 
 dispense with. You undoubtedly think I am acting out 
 of my sphere in attempting to discuss this subject, and 
 my presumption probably gave rise to that idea, which 
 you expressed in your last, that however unqualified a 
 woman might be she was always equipt for the discus- 
 sion of any subject and overwhelmed her hearers with 
 her "clack." On what subjects shall I write you ? I 
 shall either fatigue and disgust you with female trifles, 
 or shock you by stepping beyond the limits you have 
 prescribed. As I cannot pursue a medium I fear I 
 
io6 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 shall be obliged to relinquish the hope of pleasing — of 
 course of writing. Good night, I am sleepy and stupid. 
 Morning. O, how I hate this warm weather, it deprives 
 me of the power of using any exertion, it clogs my ideas, 
 and I ask no greater felicity than the pleasure of doing 
 nothing. I intended to amuse you with some of the tri- 
 fles of the day, but I shall scarcely do them justice this 
 morning. Friday night we had a ball, — the hall was 
 decorated with much taste. 'Twas filled up for the 
 masons. At the head of the room there was a most 
 romantic little bovver, four large pillars formed of green 
 and interspersed with flowers, supported a kind of can- 
 opy which was arched in front, with this inscription — 
 " Here Peace and Silence reign," filled with a parcel of 
 girls whining sentiment, and silly fellows spouting love, 
 it produced a most laughable scene. The deities to 
 whom it was dedicated withdrew from the sacred re- 
 treat, which was so profaned, and noise and folly reigned 
 supreme, — so sweet a place, — so fine an opportunity 
 for making speeches — 'twas irresistible, even you 
 would have caught a spark of inspiration from the sur- 
 rounding glories, — and felt a degree of emulation at 
 the flashes of genius that blazed from every quarter. 
 Invention was on the rack, the stores of memory were 
 exhausted and folly blushed to be so outdone. Mr. 
 Symmes sat down to overwhelm me with a torrent of 
 eloquence, yet his compassionate heart often prompted 
 him to hesitate that I might recover myself. Such 
 stores of learning did he display, such mines of wisdom 
 did he open to my view, that I gazed with astonishment 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 107 
 
 and awe and scarce believed " That one small head 
 could carry all he knew." Mr. Kinsman with a counte- 
 nance that beamed with benevolence and compassion 
 gazed on all around, while a benign smile played round 
 his mouth and dimpled his polished cheek, the laughing 
 loves peeped from his eyes and aimed their never-failing 
 darts — rash girl — too, too near hast thou approached 
 this divinity — the poisoned dart still rankles in thy 
 heart, — "The lingering pang of hopeless love unpitied 
 I endure," and feel a wound within my heart which 
 death alone can cure. Monday night — You will easily 
 perceive that I am obliged to write when and where I 
 can, I have not quite so much leisure as when at Scar- 
 borough, and though in the very place to hear news, I 
 have no faculty of relating what I hear in a manner that 
 could interest you. Last evening I spent in talking 
 scandal (for which God forgive me) but was too tempt- 
 ing an occasion to be resisted. I wish you were ac- 
 quainted with some of the Portland ladies, I would then 
 tell you many things that might amuse. But I dare not 
 introduce you to them, lest I should entirely mistake 
 their character, and that when personally acquainted 
 with them you would be confirmed in your opinion of 
 my wanting penetration in studying characters. Yes- 
 terday I spent with Martha, I wish you were acquainted 
 with her, she is truly an original. I never saw one that 
 bore any resemblance to her. She despises flattery and 
 is even above praise, beautiful without vanity, possess- 
 ing a refined understanding without pedantry, the most 
 exquisite sensibility connected with all the great and 
 
108 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 noble qualities of the mind. She knows that no woman 
 in America ever was more admired, she has received 
 every attention which could be paid and yet is exactly 
 as before she left Portland. The same condescension, 
 the same elegance and unaffected simplicity of manners, 
 the same independent and noble sentiments. Perhaps I 
 am blinded to her faults, yet I think she deserves all I 
 say of her, nay more, for she " outstrips all praise and 
 makes it halt behind her." They have determined to 
 go to England, in two months at farthest they will leave 
 America, not to return for 2 years, — two years ! how 
 many, many events will have taken place. Perhaps ere 
 that I shall rest in the tomb of my fathers forgotten and 
 unknown ! ! Perhaps oppressed with care and borne 
 down with misfortune, I shall have lost all relish for life 
 — all hopes of pleasure may have ceased to exist and 
 the grave of time closed over them forever. I grow 
 gloomy, I wish I could write anything, but I have never 
 felt a relish for writing since I have been in Portland, — 
 at home it supplies the place of society, but here I need 
 no such substitute. Eliza. 
 
 Write by the post if you have no other opportunity, 
 the players will commence acting next Wednesday. 
 
 I believe it is the 28th. 
 
 Mr. Moses Porter, Bidcleford. 
 
 This letter is the last one written by Miss Southgate 
 to her cousin Moses Porter. The following one from 
 Dr. Southgate to his brother-in-law, Rufus King, who 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 109 
 
 was then living in England, tells of the untimely death 
 of his nephew, and its sad cause, July 26th, 1802. 
 
 Our brother and sister Porter of Biddeford have 
 lost their eldest son Moses. He dyed (sic) about 
 fifteen days since of the yellow fever. He had a ship 
 arrived from the West Indies. On her passage the 
 cook boy dyed suddenly — the rest of the crew were 
 none of them sick, but of those persons who went on 
 board, five or six were taken with the yellow fever in 
 about four days — none of whom lived more than four 
 or five days. Moses is much lamented by his family 
 and acquaintance — this month would have completed 
 his law education. His talents, generous and amiable 
 disposition formed a pleasing prospect etc. etc. Mrs. 
 Porter's health is better, better than I ever expected 
 she would have enjoyed tho' she is now only a feeble 
 woman. R. Southgate. 
 
 Journal. 
 
 Tuesday, July 6th, 1802. 
 
 Arrived in Salem, met Mrs. Derby at the door who 
 received us joyfully. At tea-time saw the children, fine 
 boys, very fond of Ellen and are managed by their 
 Father with great judgment. How few understand the 
 true art of managing children, and how often is the im- 
 portant task of forming young minds left to the discre- 
 tion of servants who caress or reprove as the impulse 
 of the moment compels them. Here are we convinced 
 of the great necessity that Mothers, or all ladies should 
 
no A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 have cultivated minds, as the first rudiments of educa- 
 tion are always received from them, and at that early- 
 period of life when the mind is open to every new im- 
 pression and ready to receive the seeds which must 
 form the future principles of the character. At that 
 time how important is it to be judicious in your con- 
 duct towards them ! In the evening Mr. Hasket Derby 
 came in on his return from New York ; he is a fine, 
 majestic-looking man, tho' he strikes you rather heavy 
 and unwieldy on his first appearance ; he says little, 
 yet does not appear absent, — has travelled much, and 
 in his manners has an easy unassuming politeness that 
 is not the acquirement of a day. — Wednesday morning 
 had an agreeable tete-a-tete with Ellen, talked over all 
 our affairs : in the afternoon rode out to Hersey Der- 
 by's a farm, about 3 miles from Salem ; a most delight- 
 ful place! The gardens superior to any I have ever 
 seen of the kind ; cherries in perfection ! We really 
 feasted ! There are 3 divisions in the gardens, and you 
 pass from the lower one to the upper thro' several 
 
 1 E. Hasket Derby, Jr., was born in Salem in 1766, and died in London- 
 derry, H. N., in 1826. Mr. Derby married, in 1797, Miss Lucy Brown. 
 He was the son of E. Hasket Derby, who married Elizabeth Crown- 
 inshield, a leading merchant of Salem, and founder of the East India 
 trade ; known in the annals of Salem as " King Derby." Mr. Derby, the 
 father, had four sons, who married and had families. They were E. Has- 
 ket, Jr., just mentioned ; John, who married Miss Barton and secondly 
 Miss Eleanor Coffin ; E. Hersey, who married Miss Hannah Brown 
 Fitch ; and Richard C, who married Miss Martha Coffin. The father 
 of E. Hasket Derby, Sen., was Richard Derby, merchant, a delegate to the 
 Provincial Congress in 1774-5. 
 
Mr. E. B jjt. 28, !794 
 
 a miniature in possession of Dr Hask 
 
OF THE 
 
 { UNIVERSITY 
 s^L califorHVk 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. in 
 
 arches rising one above the other. From the lower 
 gate you have a fine perspective view of the whole 
 range, rising gradually until the sight is terminated by 
 a hermitage. The summer house in the center has an 
 arch thro' it with 3 doors on each side which open into 
 little apartments, and one of them opens to a staircase 
 by which you ascend into a square room the whole size 
 of the building ; it has a fine airy appearance and com- 
 mands a view of the whole garden ; two large chestnut 
 trees on each side almost shade it from the view when 
 seen from the sides ; the air from the windows is al- 
 ways pure and cool, and the eye wanders with delight 
 and admiration over the extensive landscape below, so 
 beautifully variegated with the charms of nature. Im- 
 agination luxuriates with delight, and as it plays o'er the 
 beauties of an opening flower, imperceptibly wanders 
 to the first principles of nature, its wonderful and sur- 
 prising operation ; its harmony and beauty. The room 
 is ornamented with some Chinese figures and seems 
 calculated for serenity and peace. 'Tis like the pavil- 
 ion of Caroline, and I almost looked around me for the 
 music of the Guitar and books ; but I heard not the 
 tramplings of Lindorfs horse, nor did I sing to hear 
 the echo of his voice, — " Listen to love, and thou 
 shalt know indifference or bless the foe ; " certain it 
 is, however, I thought of Caroline the moment I en- 
 tered. We descended, and passing thro' the arch, 
 proceeded to the hermitage, which terminated the 
 garden. It was scarcely perceptible at a distance. A 
 
ii2 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 large weeping-willow swept the roof with its branches 
 and bespoke the melancholy inhabitant. We caught a 
 view of the little hut as we advanced thro' the open- 
 ing of the trees; it was covered with bark, — a small 
 low door, slightly latched, immediately opened at our 
 touch. A venerable old man was seated in the centre 
 with a prayer-book in one hand, while the other sup- 
 ported his cheek, and rested on an old table, which, 
 like the hermit, seemed moulding to decay ; a broken 
 pitcher, a plate and tea-pot sat before him, and his tea- 
 kettle sat by the chimney ; a tattered coverlit was 
 spread over a bed of straw, which tho' hard might be 
 softened by resignation and content. I left him im- 
 pressed with veneration and fear which the mystery of 
 his situation seemed to create. We returned to the 
 house, which was neat and handsome, and from thence 
 visited the Greenhouse, where we saw oranges and 
 lemons in perfection, — in one orange tree there were 
 green ones, ripe ones and blossoms. Every plant and 
 shrub which was beautiful and rare was collected here, 
 and I looked around with astonishment and delight ; at 
 the upper end of the garden there was a beautiful 
 arbour formed of a mound of turf, which we ascended 
 by several steps formed likewise of turf, and 'twas sur- 
 rounded by a thick row of poplar trees which branched 
 out quite to the bottom and so close together that you 
 could not see through, — 'twas a most charming place, 
 and I know not how long we should have remained to 
 admire if they had not summoned us to tea. We re- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 113 
 
 turned home, and Mr. Hasket Derby asked if we should 
 not like to walk over to his house and see the garden, 
 — we readily consented, as I had heard much of the 
 house. The evening was calm and delightful, the moon 
 shone in its greatest splendor. We entered the house, 
 and the door opened into a spacious entry ; on each side 
 were large white marble images. We passed on by doors 
 on each side opening into the drawing-room, dining- 
 room, parlor, etc., etc., and at the farther part of the 
 entry a door opened into a large, magnificent oval room ; 
 and another door opposite the one we entered was 
 thrown open and gave us a full view of the garden be- 
 low. The moon shone with uncommon splendor. The 
 large marble vases, the images, the mirrors to corre- 
 spond with the windows, gave it so uniform and finished 
 an appearance, that I could not think it possible I 
 viewed objects that were real, every thing appeared like 
 enchantment, — the stillness of the hour, the imperfect 
 light of the moon, the novelty of the scene, filled my 
 mind with sensations I never felt before. I could not 
 realize every thing and expected every moment that the 
 wand of the fairy would sweep all from before my eyes 
 and leave me to stare and wonder what it meant. You 
 can scarcely conceive any thing more superb. We 
 descended into the garden, which is laid out with ex- 
 quisite taste, an airy irregularity seems to characterize 
 the whole. At the foot of the garden there was a sum- 
 mer house, and a row of tall poplar trees which hid 
 every thing beyond from the sight, and formed a kind 
 
ii4 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 of walk. I arrived there and to my astonishment found 
 thro' the opening of the trees that there was a beautiful 
 terrace the whole width of the garden ; 'twas twenty- 
 feet from the street, and gravelled on the top, with a 
 white balustrade round ; 'twas almost level, and the 
 poplar trees so close that we could only occasionally 
 catch a glimpse of the house. The moon shone full 
 upon it, and I really think this side is the most beauti- 
 ful, tho' 'tis the back one. A large dome swells quite 
 to the chamber-windows and is railed round on top and 
 forms a delightful walk, — the magnificent pillars which 
 support it fill the mind with pleasure. We returned 
 into the house ; and on passing the mirrors I involun- 
 tarily started back at seeing so much company in the 
 other room. We entered the drawing-room which is 
 superb, furnished with blue and wood color. There was 
 the Grand Piano, the most charming Instrument I ever 
 heard. Mr. and Mrs. Derby, Mr. Hasket D., Frank 
 Coffin and myself were the party, and I was requested to 
 play, and took my seat at the Instrument, and had just 
 begun playing, when a slight noise in the entry made 
 me turn my head. A gentleman entered and was intro- 
 duced as Mr. Grey ; made a most graceful bow, took his 
 seat, and I resumed my playing. We rose to depart, 
 and Mr. G. accompanied us home. I was delighted with 
 his conversation, which was sensible, unassuming, and 
 agreeable. I scarcely saw his face, as there was no 
 light. 
 
 Thursday at home all day. In the evening walked 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 115 
 
 in the garden. The evening was uncommonly fine. 
 The moon shines brighter in Salem than anywhere 
 else ; here too is an elegant garden, full of fruit trees, 
 the walks kept as nice as possible, and shaded on 
 each side by plum trees ; very handsome summer house 
 where we sat an hour or two. Rambled in the garden all 
 the evening, which was the finest I ever saw, so very 
 light, that, as Shakespeare says, " 'twas but the daylight 
 sick, only a little paler." There is something in a fine 
 moonlight evening exquisitely soothing to the soul. I 
 have felt as if I could melt away with the exquisite en- 
 thusiasm of my sensations. We were called into the 
 house and found Mrs. West, a sister of Mrs. Derby's ; but 
 more of her by-and-bye. Friday Dr. Coffin arrived, and 
 Dr. Lathrop and Hasket Derby dined with us and set 
 out for Boston. 
 
 The following letter, written by Martha Coffin, Eliza's 
 most intimate friend, and descriptive of a visit that she 
 paid to Salem, will be found of interest. 
 
 June 29, 1800. 
 
 My dear Ellen : 
 
 I have never told you all about my visit to Salem. 
 I passed my time as you may imagine very charmingly, 
 and had I your pen or your talent at description I 
 would endeavor to give you some ideas of the house, 
 the gardens, and the farm ; but it is Impossible. 
 
n6 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 The Hermitage more than answered my expectations. 
 It is everything which we see described in novels, and 
 which I thought was not to be found in reality. 
 
 The garden beyond description beautiful, does indeed 
 exceed anything of the kind I ever saw. Ten thousand 
 different kinds of flowers from all quarters of the globe. 
 Fruit of every kind in abundance. A delightful Sum- 
 mer house in the middle of the garden, furnished quite 
 in the rural style ; and from the chamber where they 
 sometimes drink tea is the most beautiful prospect you 
 can imagine. M. Coffin. 
 
 Salem, July 14, 1802. 
 
 Dear Mother : 
 
 I have just received my trunk with the letter and 
 key. I perceive you have not received my letter by 
 Mr. Jewett. Fear not, my dear Mother, tho' gay and 
 volatile in my disposition, I feel that I shall return 
 home with the same sentiments with which I left it. 
 True, I was in the midst of gaiety and splendor such as 
 I never before witnessed, yet a something within whis- 
 pers true happiness resides not here, — in this family 
 all is calm contentment and peaceful pleasure. Mr. 
 Derby is everything his best friends can wish him, and 
 the whole family consider him as every thing good and 
 benevolent; he truly is so, and appears one of the finest 
 men I ever knew. How is Uncle Porter's family ? I 
 

 AKTOTYHE, E. BlEHSIAr.il 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 117 
 
 cannot even now reconcile myself to the idea of leaving 
 them so unexpectedly and so immediately, yet I know- 
 not how it could be avoided. I am in the midst of 
 amusements and pleasure, they drive all melancholy 
 reflection from my mind, but when alone, my feelings 
 warmly pay a tribute to the merit of our departed 
 Moses ; yet I cannot, — do not realize, everything con- 
 tributes to make me think it a delusion, a mere dream ; 
 how is it possible I can realize it ? Yet sometimes I 
 feel it is, it must be true. How soon do we reconcile 
 ourselves to the loss of the dearest friends ; what would 
 most distract us in anticipation we meet with calmness 
 when it approaches ; strange, unaccountable. I surely 
 loved Moses with sincerity. I knew of no person so 
 distantly connected whom I felt so interested in, — yet 
 he is dead, — he is gone, and I can speak of it without 
 emotion, and I am called. Adieu, I will write soon. 
 
 Eliza. 
 
 Journal. 
 
 Saturday, July n, 1802. 
 
 We rode out, Ellen and myself, with the three boys, 
 in a hack. Went to Danners — Parson Wadsworth's, to 
 see Mrs. Rickman's children ; took them in to ride ; 
 came down by the mills and went across to Hasket 
 Derby's farm, — all the cherries gone, — rambled about 
 the gardens an hour and returned home, — charming 
 ride; the country round Salem is delightful, altho' 'tis 
 situated rather in a plain, 'tis surrounded with beautiful 
 
n8 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 hills, handsome trees, ponds, brooks, etc. We got 
 home at dusk and found Mr. Coffin just returned from 
 Boston. Mrs. Hasket Derby sent a great basket of 
 cherries and her compliments, she would come over in 
 the morning. I wished very much to see her, she had 
 been gone 5 weeks to the Springs. I had heard Martha 
 say much of her and wished much that to-morrow could 
 come. 
 
 Next morning — Sunday — went to Meeting. Mr. 
 Dana of Marblehead preached ; very devout, unaffected 
 young man ; saw not a soul I had ever seen before, ex- 
 cepting Mr. Grey; thought I should not have known 
 him as I scarcely saw his face before. Found Mrs. Has- 
 ket Derby on my return, was disappointed in her 
 personal appearance ; instead of finding the elegant, 
 majestic, beautiful creature my imagination had pic- 
 tured, I beheld a little, short, plump woman dressed in 
 black, a coarse complexion and anxious eyes, yet I had 
 not been in her company an hour without confessing to 
 myself she was the most agreeable, fascinating woman 
 I ever saw. She continually pleases and delights you ; 
 she appears to live for others, nor ever bestows a 
 thought upon herself, yet so perfectly unconscious of 
 it, that it seems inherent in her disposition, and to flow 
 without any effort. She planned parties of amusement 
 as I was a stranger, and we fixed upon Friday for a 
 fishing party to Nahant ; sent to Boston for some to 
 meet us. Monday a small party at Mrs. Derby's came 
 to tea. I rode in the chaise with Mr. Grey. Mrs. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 119 
 
 Grey and a Mr. White, an Englishman, in her carriage. 
 Mr. Coffin and Miss Grey in another chaise, — Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hasket Derby. We walked on a hill near the 
 house, where we had the most extensive prospect I 
 ever saw — the whole world seemed spread before us 
 covered with the richly variegated carpet of nature. 
 We returned home in the evening w T ith a fine moon, 
 and all went to Mr. Grey's to spend the evening. Most 
 charming time ; treated with great attention by Mrs. 
 Grey, who is, in my opinion, a fine woman, domestic, 
 fond of her children, and never so happy as in contrib- 
 uting to their amusement, and possesses fine sense, 
 animated, unceremonious, and agreeable. — Tuesday, 
 Doct. and Mrs. Coffin and Mrs. Sumner came down 
 from Boston ; dined together, and all went to Hasket 
 Derby's farm in the afternoon. Mrs. Grey and Miss 
 Bishop of the party; glad to see Miss Bishop — one of 
 my old school-mates. Had a most charming ride ; went 
 in the carriage with Mrs. Grey. All returned to Mr. 
 John Derby's and spent the evening. William Grey 
 and his father came in the evening ; walked in the gar- 
 den. — Wednesday, large party of gentlemen to dine 
 with Doct. Coffin. In the afternoon all went to Mrs. 
 Grey's ; danced in the evening. Miss Bishop plays and 
 sings charmingly. Thursday, Doct. and Mrs. Coffin 
 went home, and in the afternoon went to Mrs. Hasket 
 Derby's with a party; every thing elegant and pleasant. 
 Friday to Nahant, fishing — Mr. and Mrs. Hasket 
 Derby, Mr. and Mrs. John Derby, Mr. and Mrs. Hersey 
 
120 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Derby, Miss Bishop, Mr. Grey, Mr. Coffin, and myself, 
 Miss Heller, Mr. Prince, who looks very much like 
 Horatio, and several others. Met there some smart 
 Boston beaux, — Mr. Amory Parkman, Turner, etc., etc. 
 Spent a most charming day ; caught but few fish, and 
 very warm, yet pleasant notwithstanding — set out for 
 home just as the sun was setting. I returned in the 
 chaise with William Grey, Frank with Miss Bishop, — 
 rode 2 miles on the beach, the tide down, sun just set- 
 ting; 'twas charming and delightful. Saturday went 
 out to Hersey Derby's farm to tea, went to the bathing 
 house, summer house — and saw the Rumford 1 kitchen 
 — elegant place, beautiful children, — rainy afternoon, 
 we could not enjoy the pleasures of the country so well. 
 Sunday — went to meeting and to tea with Mrs. Hasket 
 
 1 The Rumford kitchen or Roaster was invented by Benjamin Thomp- 
 son (Count Rumford), a native of Salem. Mr. Thompson, after passing 
 through various phases of existence, went to Bavaria, where by his powers 
 of pleasing and wonderful inventive faculties he attracted the attention of 
 the king, and by him was created Count Rumford. One of Count Rum- 
 ford's particular studies was the laws which govern heat and cold, and to 
 him we are indebted for great improvement in our chimneys, fireplaces, 
 and kitchen ranges. Before his time all cooking was done over an open 
 wood fire. In the " Life of Count Rumford," by Ellis, page 240, we find 
 the following : " The Roaster, if not the first, was the most simple, in- 
 genious, and effective apparatus of the kind which, by its arrangement of 
 flues for conveying hot air around the food in the oven as well as by econ- 
 omizing fuel, allowed of the preparation of many articles by one fire, and 
 greatly facilitated the labors and added to the comfort of the cook. 
 They were especially popular in Salem, where many of the flourishing 
 citizens had occasion to recall over their dinners the ' apprentice boy in 
 Mr. Appleton's shop.' " 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 121 
 
 Derby ; met company from Boston, — two beaux, Mr. 
 Lee and Mr. Davis. Monday — a party of young ladies 
 at Mrs. Grey's ; danced in the evening, went home at 
 eleven, spent half an hour at Hasket Derby's on my 
 way ; Ellen was there. Tuesday — rode out with Mrs. 
 Grey after dinner, returned and drank tea with Mrs. 
 Lambert, found company at Ellen's on my return — Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hasket Derby, Hersey Derby and wife, Mr. 
 Prince and wife, — Patty Derby that was — looks like old 
 Madame Milliken 1 very much. Mr. and Mrs. Hasket 
 Derby wish me to go to the Springs with them ; know 
 not what to do. Ellen says go by all means, never will 
 have such another opportunity ; she thinks my Father 
 and Mother would not object if I had time to write 
 them, which would be impossible, they go to-morrow — 
 what shall I do ? I must go over after breakfast, I will 
 consult Mrs. J. Derby. I would not go for the world if 
 I' thought my Father or Mother would not be pleased. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Derby go alone in their carriage. I must 
 think of it. 
 
 1 Mme. Milliken, probably the daughter of John Ayer. She was the 
 wife of John Milliken of Boston. 
 
122 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Wednesday, Salem, July, 1802. 
 
 What will you say, my Dear Mother, when you find I 
 am gone with Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby to the Sara- 
 toga Springs ? But I hasten to explain all. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Derby were going in their carriage alone. Mrs. 
 Derby says she never travelled without some lady, and 
 urged my accompanying her. I thought 'twas only a 
 compliment and treated it as such, but when I found she 
 seriously wished it and her husband joined his influence, 
 I began to think how it would do. I consulted Ellen 
 and Mr. Derby, and they both thought I ought not to 
 refuse an opportunity of seeing the country which per- 
 haps may never again occur — a better one surely can 
 never occur. To go with Mr. and Mrs. Derby is surely 
 an advantage I can never hope to meet with again. Be- 
 lieve me, nothing would have induced me to think of 
 going with them unless they had been very urgent. 
 Ellen and Mr. Derby both say they doubt not you would 
 approve the plan if you were here to consult. If I did 
 not think so myself nothing would induce me to go — 
 still I regret not having it in my power to wait an 
 answer from you, but to-morrow afternoon we must set 
 out. Ellen has lent me everything necessary for my 
 journey, — indeed I can never repay her. She is the 
 most generous being I ever saw. She has nothing in 
 the house but is at my service, — all her handsome 
 dresses she wishes me to carry, indeed everything that 
 I can possibly want she has supplied me with. I am 
 glad that I shall not be compelled to purchase anything 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 123 
 
 that would be unnecessary after my return. I think I 
 shall borrow some money of her, as it is impossible I 
 can receive any from home, and if I do not need it, I 
 need not spend it. You may assure yourself I shall re- 
 member to economise as much as possible. It seems as 
 if Ellen and Mrs. Derby tried which should most oblige 
 me. As I never determined to go till this morning, 
 Mrs. Derby said 'twas impossible to make any new 
 clothes, nay unnecessary, and insisted I should take any 
 thing of hers I should want, but Ellen would not admit 
 of that. I know not the route we shall take, but Mrs. 
 Derby says we shall probably go or return thro' Leices- 
 ter. 1 I shall be gratified very much at an opportunity of 
 seeing our relations there. Ellen promises to write. I 
 never was treated with more attention in my life. El- 
 len heaps me with favors, and now I have thought of 
 this journey, she thinks she can't do enough. I intend 
 keeping a particular journal while I am gone, which you 
 shall all peruse on my return. We shall probably be 
 gone four or five weeks, as it is two or three hundred 
 miles from here. When you write me direct your letters 
 to Salem and Mr. Derby will forward them as he will 
 know where we are. Has Octavia returned ? tell her I 
 shall leave my Salem journal to be sent to her the first 
 opportunity. If I go thro' Newport I shall endeavor to 
 find out Miss Crary and Miss Clarke, and wish I had a 
 letter from her. 
 
 And now, my dear Mother, assure me you approve of 
 
 x Dr. Southgate's family resided at Leicester. 
 
124 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 my going and I shall have nothing to trouble me. My 
 Father, I think, would not object to it if I could know 
 his opinion. Mr. Grey (Wm. Grey) says he is sure he 
 would not disapprove of it, if he knew in what good pro- 
 tection I was. By-the-bye, I have received every at- 
 tention from Mr. Grey's family, and Mrs. Grey is a 
 remarkably fine woman. I rode out with her yesterday 
 afternoon, and she sent for me to go to Wexham pond 
 with her this afternoon ; called to excuse myself and tell 
 her of my projected journey; she regretted it as I was to 
 have gone to Medford with her the next week, and she 
 had planned several parties for me which would be frus- 
 trated ; but she acknowledged I was perfectly right to go, 
 and if 'twas her daughter she should be much gratified 
 at the opportunity. Mr. and Mrs. Derby say I must tell 
 you they will take good care of me and they shall take 
 the full protection of me. Write me soon, or request 
 my Father or Octavia ; but pray if you disapprove, do 
 not tell me till I return, 'twill be too late to alter or re- 
 tract, and I should be wretched if I thought you disap- 
 proved my going, — do write, or ask my Father, I shall 
 feel uneasy. My love to all friends, and believe me, with 
 great affection, Your Eliza. 
 
 Francestown (New Hampshire), 
 July 26, 1802. 
 
 My dear Father : 
 
 My letter in which I informed you of my intended 
 journey, my motives for it, etc., you will receive before 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 125 
 
 this, I therefore think it unnecessary to say any more, 
 but rest with full confidence on the indulgent heart of 
 an affectionate Father, who I trust knows my heart too 
 well to think me capable of acting in opposition to what 
 I know to be his wishes. We left Salem on Thursday 
 evening and slept at Ten hills in Charleston, break- 
 fasted in Webrion, 1 and dined in Betavia. 2 We had a 
 fine view of the celebrated Middlesex canal, which in 
 future ages must do honor to our country, — such mon- 
 uments of industry and perseverance raise our opinion 
 of our countrymen ; it will be 25 miles in length when 
 completed, running from Deckel 3 to Medford river, — 
 the river of Concord supplies it with water, boats pass 
 every day, and parties of pleasure are always sailing on 
 it. In my journal I have been more particular, here I 
 say but little as we are in a miserable tavern and the 
 horses almost ready. I cannot tell you the route we are 
 going, — Mr. Derby's motive is to see the most pleasant 
 part of the country that he has not seen before. From 
 Bilusia we came through Chelmsford, Inigsborough 
 where old Irving lived and Miss Pitts, now Mrs. Brimby, 
 the heiress of his fortune has a most elegant tasty coun- 
 try house on the banks of the Merrimack — which forms 
 a most beautiful scene in front of the house and gives a 
 full view of the river in each direction, — more of this 
 in my journal. We are on a new turnpike road, from 
 Amherst to Dartmouth. We shall go up to Dartmouth 
 College as 'tis wholly a jaunt of pleasure, and Mr. Derby 
 
 1 Woburn. 2 Billerica. 8 Dracut. 
 
126 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 is determined to be in no haste, to enquire everything 
 worth seeing and not to mind 6 or 7 miles from a direct 
 road, — they are very attentive to me and have gone a 
 mile from the direct road to show me something they 
 had seen before. Mr. Derby has been such a traveller 
 that he is now one of the most useful travelling compan- 
 ions in the world ; his wife is the most engaging, unaf- 
 fected, family woman in the world, and instead of feel- 
 ing myself a burden to them, they make me feel of the 
 utmost consequence. We passed thro' several pretty vil- 
 lages on coming here — tho' it is almost a new country, 
 scarcely cleared up, — excepting a small village every 6 
 or 7 miles ; the most hilly, mountainous, woody country 
 I ever was in, — here as I look round me I see nothing 
 but enormous high hills, covered with trees and almost 
 mingling with the clouds. One of them in particular — 
 Francestown * is about 12 miles from Amherst, a num- 
 ber of pleasant houses and a very elegant meeting- 
 house, — how different from our part of the country! — 
 here, if there is but one handsome house in town there 
 will be a meeting house. I have passed but one on my 
 journey, in these new back places, but what was painted 
 and a steeple ! From Dartmouth we go down to 
 Northampton and then to Lebanon Springs, then to 
 Ballstown and Saratoga, and return by the way of New 
 Haven, Hartford, etc. I shall have a fine opportunity 
 of seeing the country on Connecticut River. Mr. 
 Derby does not know the route he shall go, but shall 
 
 1 Francestown, named so after Gov. Wentworth's wife. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 127 
 
 depend on what he hears ; we shall go thro' a part of 
 the States of Vermont, Connecticut, and New York, so 
 that in our tour we shall be in 5 different States. I 
 shall write very often, and wish you, my Dear Father, to 
 write me by the return of the mail, and direct to Pitts- 
 field in Massachusetts, — or to Mr. John Derby in Sa- 
 lem. If we go thro' Leicester I shall find out our rela- 
 tions. Tell Octavia and Horatio I shall write them 
 soon, but as I keep a particular journal which they shall 
 all see, 'tis not so material. I hear the carriage — love 
 to all. Eliza. 
 
 Ballston Springs, August 22, 1802. 
 
 My Dearest Mother : 
 
 I feel at this moment as if I could fly ! so far from 
 home, received no letters, yet at Albany I expect to 
 find them, let me at least hope what 'twill delight me so 
 much to realize. I sometimes almost fear to receive a 
 letter from home, — yet my indulgent Parents will par- 
 don the liberty I took in coming this journey, as I trust 
 they are convinced by my past life, that I would not for 
 the universe act in opposition to what I knew they ap- 
 proved. I am convinced when you know Mr. and Mrs. 
 Derby you will feel that I was both secure and honored 
 in their protection. I cannot tell you half I owe them, 
 never in my life was I treated with more affectionate 
 attention. They appear as much interested in all I do 
 as if I were their daughter. You know my heart, my 
 
128 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 dearest Mother, you know it never was insensible to the 
 smallest favor, what then must be its sensation when it 
 is thus overpowered by affectionate kindness. I long 
 to convince them how much I feel, but words are inade- 
 quate. My Father has seen Mr. D., I wish he would 
 write to him, I think it would be no more than just to 
 thank him for the care he has taken of his daughter. It 
 seems as if he had a right to expect something of the kind. 
 They are the finest couple I know of, so different from 
 what I expected to find them. I thought Mr. Derby a 
 gay gallant man like Mr. Davis, but he is a plain, noble- 
 hearted, sincere, generous man, — talks very little and 
 one of the pleasantest dispositions in the world. In 
 Mrs. Derby I thought to find a gay woman of fashion, 
 but not a soul that ever knew her could help loving her. 
 I never saw a person so universally beloved. We have 
 been here at Ballston a fortnight to-morrow. It has 
 been one continued scene of idleness and dissipation — 
 have a ball every other night, ride, walk, stroll about the 
 piazzas, dress, — indeed we do nothing that seems like 
 improvement. But still I think there is no place where 
 one may study the different characters and dispositions 
 to greater advantage. You meet here the most genteel 
 people from every part of our country, — ceremony is 
 thrown off and you are acquainted very soon. You may 
 select those you please for intimates, and among so 
 many you certainly will find some agreeable, amiable 
 companions. For a week we sat down at the table ev- 
 ery day with 60 or 70 persons, to-day we were all speak- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 129 
 
 ing of the latter being very thin because we had only 
 40. There are as many more at the other boarding 
 house, continually going and coming, and now there is 
 scarcely 10 persons here that were here when we came. 
 We went last week to Lake George, about 40 miles from 
 here, — made up a party and went on Tuesday, break- 
 fasted at Saratoga, where the Springs formerly most 
 celebrated were, and dined about 14 miles this side the 
 lake, at the most beautiful place I ever saw. Perhaps 
 you have heard of Glens-Falls ; they are said to ex- 
 ceed in beauty the Falls of Niagara — tho' in sublimity 
 must fall far short. I never imagined anything so pic- 
 turesque, sublime and beautiful as the scenery around 
 this enchanting place. The rocks on the shores have 
 exactly the appearance of elegant, magnificent ruins, 
 they are entirely of slate, and seem piled in regular 
 forms with shrubs and grass growing in between. I 
 looked around me for an hour and I every moment dis- 
 covered something new to admire, — nothing could ex- 
 ceed the beautiful variety of the scenery. I left this 
 elegant place with painful regret. About sunset we 
 came in view of the Lake, it is a most beautiful sheet of 
 water, Morse says 36 miles long and from one to 7 
 broad, full of beautiful Islands, 365 in all and of every 
 size and shape. It is surrounded by very high hills and 
 mountains rising one above the other in majestic gran- 
 deur. In the morning we went out to fish, sailed about 
 4 miles on the lake to a little Island where we went on 
 shore, — nothing could exceed the beautiful grandeur of 
 
130 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 the prospect ; we anchored off, — I found it very charm- 
 ing fishing, the water so perfectly transparent that we 
 could see the fish swimming around the dock. Our 
 first intention was to sail down the lake to Lake Cham- 
 plain and visit the ruins of the fortifications at Ticonde- 
 roga, but some of our party dissuaded us from it. We 
 saw the ruins of Fort George and the bloody pond — 
 where so many poor wretches were thrown. We stopt 
 on our return at the field where Burgoyne surrendered 
 his army ; it is now covered with corn and nothing to 
 distinguish it from the surrounding fields ; we returned 
 by a different route, for 10 miles we rode directly on the 
 banks of the Hudson river, nothing could be more de- 
 lightful, our road wound with the river which was beau- 
 tifully overhung with trees ; we returned here Thursday 
 night, found them dancing. I joined, and the next 
 night we had a ball at the other house ; there again I 
 danced till 12 o'clock and the next morning got up quite 
 sick, — to-day I am finely again and have made a reso- 
 lution not to dance again whilst I stay here. This all 
 think I can't keep, but they shall see I can. Col. Boyd 
 came here last week but went away while we were gone 
 to Lake George — to Canada I believe. He says you 
 had not heard of my coming when he left Portland, so 
 he could tell me nothing new. We shall probably leave 
 here on Tuesday or Wednesday, stay at Albany a few 
 days and go to Lebanon again, perhaps to Williamston 
 Commencement. We are engaged to spend the day at 
 Mr. Ransalaers, the former L Governor, and one at Mr. 
 
OF THK 
 
 "UNIVERSITY 
 
 £f CALIFOR^ 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 131 
 
 Ransalaers — his brother, who is Mayor of the City. I 
 know not how long 'twill be before we return to Salem, 
 but I really begin to think of home with a great deal of 
 anxiety. Tell Octavia I never go into the Ball room to 
 dance without wishing for her ; how delighted should I 
 be if Horatio and Octavia were here with me ! How 
 charming will it be when I get home again ! Believe 
 me, my Dear Mother, I shall love home more than ever. 
 I long to sit me down by the instrument some evening 
 after the business of the day is over, with you, my 
 Father, and all round me, or to hear Octavia sing and 
 play. This scene of dissipation may please for a while 
 by its novelty, but it soon satiates — no regular employ- 
 ment, I have never been in the habit of spending my 
 time in idleness ; and they say here that the Southern la- 
 dies seem more at home here than the Northern ladies 
 and do not appear to think industry necessary to happi- 
 ness. I hope to find many letters at Albany. I have 
 kept a regular journal which will assist my memory in 
 relating my adventures, when I return home again. I 
 wrote Horatio last week and told him to send the letter 
 home for you to read. I look forward to returning with 
 the greatest pleasure. I suppose you are fixed upon a 
 house and will move by the time I return, let me know 
 as I am anxious to hear about it. Give my best love to 
 all my friends and tell Octavia I have more to say to 
 her than I can gabble in a month. Oh I long to get 
 home again. I find no time to write, if I lock myself in 
 my chamber I have so many knocks at the door — Miss 
 
132 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Southgate go and walk — go down to the spring — some- 
 body wants you below, — so many interruptions, 'tis al- 
 most impossible. After I retire for the night I am so 
 tired and sleepy and my chamber is so hot, I cannot 
 write ; 'tis Sunday to-day (tho' all days are alike here) 
 and I have determined I would write home. I wonder 
 how it was possible for Martha to write so much, — I 
 hear of her from all the Southern people, they all speak 
 in raptures. Give my love to Mrs. Coffin and kiss all 
 the children — Mamy particularly, what would I give to 
 hear her open my door and run in this moment. Mrs. 
 Derby says I get low-spirited when I write home, the 
 only way is to think as little of it as possible whilst I am 
 so far off. I shall write again from Albany, where I 
 hope to find letters. 
 
 Ever your affectionate Eliza. 
 
 To the care of Robert Southgate, 
 Scarborough, 
 
 (District of Maine.) 
 
 Albany, August 8, 1802. 
 
 Thus far, my dear Ellen, have we proceeded without 
 any thing to mortify or disappoint us ; I wrote you the 
 night I arrived at Lebanon, the next morning the bell 
 rang and we all assembled to breakfast ; there were about 
 thirty ladies, much dressed, looking very handsome, it 
 seemed more like a ball room than a breakfasting room. 
 We were the last that came in, and all eyes were fixed 
 upon us. Lady Nesbert and the Allston family from 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 133 
 
 Carolina were opposite. This daughter of Col. Burr is 
 a little, smart - looking woman, very learned they say, 
 understands the dead languages — not pedantic, rather 
 reserved — Lady Nesbert, 1 a most interesting woman, 
 full black eyes with a wild melancholy expression and a 
 voice so sweet and plaintive, you would think it melan- 
 choly music. I never heard her speak a dozen times 
 since I have been here and rarely ever smile. Old Mrs. 
 Allston, the mother, is a sour-looking woman, nothing 
 affable or condescending. Miss Allston, they say, is 
 a romp, though her mother restrains her so much you 
 would not suspect it. Old Mr. Allston 2 is affable and 
 agreeable. We had likewise there a Mr. Constable 3 of 
 N. Y. ; has lived in great style, — very much the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Miss from N. Y. whom I mentioned in my last 
 
 is a truly fashionable City Belle. She is a fortune, but 
 I believe not of family. The Gentleman she calls her 
 father and whose name she takes 'tis said was hired by a 
 British officer, her real father, to marry the mother and 
 adopt the daughter, and a very large sum was given him. 
 He appears an abandoned old rake, pale and sallow. Oh ! 
 he is a horrid-looking object, in a deep consumption I 
 imagine ; she is very attentive. But, good heavens ! 
 
 1 Lady Nesbert, wife of Sir John Nesbert, celebrated for a race ridden 
 against John Randolph in 17 19. 
 
 2 Joseph Allston, of South Carolina, had married, February 2, 1801, 
 Theodosia Burr, only daughter of Aaron Burr. 
 
 3 This was Mr. William Constable, who married, February 26, 1810, Miss 
 Mary Elizabeth McVickar, daughter of John McVickar, Esq. 
 
134 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Ellen, I had no idea of a fashionable girl before — one 
 that devotes her whole attention to fashion. I have 
 much to tell you when I return, about the Miss Ashleys' 
 french style of dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ransselear 1 left 
 Lebanon the day before we did with Mr. and Miss Wes- 
 telo, 2 Mr. Welsh, 3 the Miss Stevensons, and Miss Liv- 
 ingston the Albany Belle, — all belong to Albany. Mr. 
 and Miss Westelo, Miss Beakman, and Mr. Ransselear, 
 who is Mayor of the City, called last evening and we all 
 went to walk — went into Miss Westelo's and spent a 
 charming hour; all returned with us, and we engaged to 
 go to meeting with Mr. and Miss Westelo and take tea 
 at the Mayor's this afternoon. Mr. Westelo is going to 
 Balston in company with us and a Mr. Kane 4 of N. Y. 
 whom we met at the Coffee House — very genteel man. 
 Another little lawyer from Litchfield, who came in from 
 Lebanon with us, is likewise, on Monday ; so we shall 
 
 1 The Patroon Stephen Van Rensselaer had lately married his second 
 wife, Cornelia Patterson. Miss Southgate spelt the name as it was then 
 usually pronounced. 
 
 2 Rensselaer Westerlo and his sister Catherine Westerlo, who afterwards 
 married Mr. Woodworth. Their mother was Catherine Livingston, oldest 
 daughter of Philip, commonly known as the "Signer," he having been one 
 of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Miss Livingston had 
 first married Stephen Van Rensselaer, Patroon of the Manor, and by him 
 had had three children : Stephen, who succeeded his father ; Philip, mayor 
 of the city of Albany ; and a daughter. Mrs. Van Rensselaer remarried 
 Dominie Westerlo. 
 
 8 Walsh (?). 
 
 4 Oliver Kane, a merchant of New York. He married, at Providence, 
 Rhode Island, May 22, 1803, Miss Ann Eliza Clarke, daughter of John 
 Innes Clarke. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 135 
 
 have a very pleasant party. Mr. Kane says I shall meet 
 one of their genteelest N. Y. beaux at Balston, Mr. 
 Bowne. I wonder if it is the same I have heard you men- 
 tion. I shall find out. About eleven o'clock, or rather 
 twelve, I was surprised by some delightful music, a num- 
 ber of instruments, and most elegantly playing " Rise ! 
 Cynthia! rise! " I jumped up and by the light of the 
 moon saw five gentlemen under the window. To Mr. 
 Westelo I suppose we are indebted. " Washington 
 March," "Blue Bells of Scotland," "Taste Life's glad 
 moments," " Boston March," and many other charming 
 tunes — played most delightfully. I have heard no 
 music since I left Salem till this, and I was really 
 charmed. The bell will ring soon and I must finish this 
 after meeting. — Sunday afternoon. The dinner was 
 brought on the table just as the bell rang for meeting, 
 so that we were obliged to stay at home this afternoon, 
 and tell Mr. Westelo and his sister, who called again for 
 me, as Mrs. Derby did not go out, that I would go to 
 Mrs. Ranselear's after meeting. In the morning, Mr. 
 Derby and myself went to the New Dutch Church with 
 Mr. and Miss Westelo and sat with them next pew to the 
 Patroon's, whom you saw in Salem with his beautiful wife. 
 After meeting, Mr. Westelo came with the Patroon 
 and his wife to see us. She is really beautiful, dressed 
 very plain ; cotton cambric morning gown, white sarsnet 
 cloak, hair plain, and black veil thrown carelessly over 
 her head. They urged our dining there to-morrow, but 
 Mr. Derby is determined to set out in the morning for 
 
136 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Balston — the waters, all tell him, will be of great service 
 — when we return we shall go and see them. A great 
 number of elegant gentlemen are here in this house, 
 many from N. Y., some going to the springs. Your 
 Boston Mr. Amory and Mr. Lee would look rusty long 
 side them. Hush, not a word ! — Mr. Kane of N. Y., 
 whose sister married Robert Morris, is here, will set out 
 for the springs in company with us, Mr. Westelo and 
 some others. We shall go to Lake George and probably 
 make a party from Balston. Mrs. Derby has insisted on 
 my wearing the sarsnet dress to-day as we shall drink 
 tea at the Mayor's, where the Patroon and wife will 
 probably be. I am every moment reminded of your 
 affectionate kindness, which I hope never to be insen- 
 sible to. 
 
 You wrote Mamma, I suppose. I have not received a 
 line from anybody ; shall depend on finding letters at 
 Pittsfield or Lebanon ; do write me everything. I have 
 so much to tell you that I cannot write. Mrs. Derby, I 
 cannot tell you how much I owe her. She treats me 
 with so much affection, and she says she believes Mr. 
 Derby feels as much interest in me as if I were his daugh- 
 ter — wishes everything I wear should be becoming, and 
 indeed they both treat me with all the attention and 
 affection my most sanguine expectation could desire. I 
 do not wish to be treated with more affection ; think then, 
 dear Ellen ! how sensibly I must feel it, how gratifying 
 to my feelings. I can never forget the obligation I owe 
 to you and them. My best love to your husband ; tell 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 137 
 
 him when I return I shall have a whole world of news 
 for him. I long to hear from you, do write soon. At 
 Balston I will write again. Many people will be talking 
 about my going this journey; many will censure me 
 perhaps ; if you, dear Ellen, should hear any of their ill- 
 natured remarks you could not do me a greater favor 
 than to vindicate my conduct. I have never for one mo- 
 ment since I left Salem regretted I came. The affec- 
 tionate attention of Mr. and Mrs. Derby delights my 
 very heart, 'twas more than I had a right to expect. I 
 have received much delight in this tour, seen much ele- 
 gant company, variety of character and manners. I am 
 sensible it will be a source of great improvement, as well 
 as pleasure. I shall have seen that style and splendor, 
 which has so many magic charms when viewed at a dis- 
 tance, divested of its false place, we find it mingled with 
 as many pains as any other situation in life, nay, more 
 poignant pain. I feel that I shall not be at all injured 
 by this life ; though I enjoy myself highly and mingle 
 with these people with much delight, I shall return happy 
 and content. Mr. Derby is quite unwell, has taken 
 nothing but milk since we left Salem, his stomach re- 
 fuses everything else. I have strong hopes that the 
 Balston waters will have a good effect. Everyone tells 
 him so. A gentleman just from Balston says there is a 
 great deal of company at the Springs, dance every other 
 night. If the waters agree with Mr. Derby we shall 
 stay a week or ten days. I have written home a num- 
 ber of times, which together with my journal take up all 
 
138 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 my leisure time, and that is stolen from the hrs. devoted 
 to sleep. I would give anything for one line from you 
 this moment. How delighted I shall be when I return ! 
 Any news from Martha ? If any letter arrives for me 
 send it on to Pittsfield. How charming it would be if 
 we were all together going to the Springs ! I have not 
 time to write anything about Albany fine society — I 
 believe full of Dutch houses. Adieu, love to all friends. 
 
 Mrs. Eleanor Coffin. ELIZA. 
 
 Salem, September 9, 1802. 
 My Dearest Mother : 
 
 Once more I am safe in Salem and my first thoughts 
 turn toward home. I arrived last night. The atten- 
 tion I have received from Mr. and Mrs. Derby has 
 been of a kind that I shall look forward with delight to 
 a time when I may be able to return it as I wish. I 
 am in perfect health and spirits and have enjoyed the 
 journey more than I can express to you. I don't know 
 that I have had an unpleasant hour since I have been 
 gone, and what is still more pleasing, I look back on 
 every scene without regret or pain. At Leicester I 
 went to Uncle Southgate's, and Cousin William helped 
 me into the carriage when I left the tavern the next 
 morning. We did not return thro' North-Hampton, 
 and I consequently missed seeing Aunt Dickenson. I 
 regret it extremely, but Mr. Derby was in such haste 
 to return, that he left us at Worcester and took the 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 139 
 
 stage. I therefore could not say a word of Hadley. I 
 found two letters from Octavia on my return here ; felt 
 really grieved at Eliza Wait's death ; she must feel it 
 sensibly as they were such intimate friends, yet time 
 blunts the sharp pangs of affection, and when I return 
 she will feel that happiness has only fled for a while to 
 make its return more delightful. I have received more 
 attentions at the Springs than in my whole life before, 
 I know not why it was, but I went under every ad- 
 vantage. Mr. Derby is so well known and respected, 
 and they are such charming people and treated me 
 with so much affection, it could not be otherwise ! 
 Among the many gentlemen I have become acquainted 
 and who have been attentive, one I believe is serious. 
 I know not, my dearest Mother, how to introduce this 
 subject, yet as I fear you may hear it from others and 
 feel anxious for my welfare, I consider it a duty to tell 
 you all. At Albany, on our way to Ballston, we put 
 up at the same house with a Mr. Bowne from New 
 York ; he went on to the Springs the same day we did, 
 and from that time was particularly attentive to me ; he 
 was always of our parties to ride, went to Lake George 
 in company with us, and came on to Lebanon when we 
 did, — for 4 weeks I saw him every day and probably 
 had a better opportunity of knowing him than if I had 
 seen him as a common acquaintance in town for years. 
 I felt cautious of encouraging his attentions, tho' I 
 did not wish to discourage it, — there were so many 
 New Yorkers at the Springs who knew him perfectly 
 
140 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 that I easily learnt his character and reputation ; he 
 is a man of business, uniform in his conduct and very 
 much respected ; all this we knew from report. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Derby were very much pleased with him, 
 but conducted towards me with peculiar delicacy, left 
 me entirely to myself, as on a subject of so much 
 importance they scarcely dared give an opinion. I 
 left myself in a situation truly embarrassing. At such 
 a distance from all my friends, — my Father and 
 Mother a perfect stranger to the person, — and pre- 
 possessed in his favor as much as so short an acquaint- 
 ance would sanction, — his conduct was such as I shall 
 ever reflect on with the greatest pleasure, — open, can- 
 did, generous, and delicate. He is a man in whom I 
 could place the most unbounded confidence, nothing 
 rash or impetuous in his disposition, but weighs ma- 
 turely every circumstance ; he knew I was not at lib- 
 erty to encourage his addresses without the approba- 
 tion of my Parents, and appeared as solicitous that I 
 should act with strict propriety as one of my most dis- 
 interested friends. He advised me like a friend and 
 would not have suffered me to do anything improper. 
 He only required I would not discourage his addresses 
 till he had an opportunity of making known to my Par- 
 ents his character and wishes — this I promised and 
 went so far as to tell him I approved him as far as I 
 knew him, but the decision must rest with my Parents, 
 their wishes were my law. He insisted upon coming 
 on immediately : that I absolutely refused to consent to. 
 
Mr WALTER BOWNE 
 From a n.iniature by J. ion of W. B, Lawrence 
 
 ARroi vpe 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 141 
 
 But all my persuasion to wait till winter had no effect ; 
 the first of October he will come. I could not prevent it 
 without a positive refusal ; this I felt no disposition to 
 give. And now, my dearest Mother, I submit myself 
 wholly to the wishes of my Father and you, convinced 
 that my happiness is your warmest wish, and to pro- 
 mote it has ever been your study. That I feel deeply 
 interested in Mr. Bowne I candidly acknowledge, and 
 from the knowledge I have of his heart and character I 
 think him better calculated to promote my happiness 
 than any person I have yet seen ; he is a firm, steady, 
 serious man, nothing light or trifling in his character, 
 and I have every reason to think he has well weighed 
 his sentiments towards me, — nothing rash or prema- 
 ture. I have referred him wholly to you, and you, my 
 dearest Parents, must decide. Octavia mentioned noth- 
 ing about moving, but I am extremely anxious to know 
 how soon we go into Portland and what house we shall 
 have. Write me immediately on the subject, and let me 
 know if you approve my conduct. Mr. Bowne wishes 
 me to remain here until he comes on and then let him 
 carry me home: this I objected to, but will depend on 
 your advice. I shall be obliged to stay a few weeks 
 longer, — Harriet Howards expects me a week in Cam- 
 bridge, Mrs. Sumner a week in Boston, and Mrs. 
 Hasket Derby another week. I am now with Ellen and 
 shall stay till Mrs. Cofhn comes up, then according to 
 promise go to Mrs. Lucy Derby's. I feel extremely 
 anxious to hear you have moved into town, and shall 
 
i4 2 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 most probably be here until then; write me imme- 
 diately. If you wish any furniture, Mrs. Sumner will 
 assist me in purchasing whatever you wish. I men- 
 tioned in my letter, when I set out on this journey I 
 borrowed 15 dollars of Ellen; I wish you to send it to 
 me immediately after receiving this, if you have not 
 already sent it. I shall likewise stand in need of a lit- 
 tle, as I have unavoidably incurred many expenses in 
 this journey which I should not otherwise have done. 
 Mr. Derby has loaded me with obligations, all my ex- 
 penses he defrayed as if I was his daughter, and in such 
 a manner as endears him more than I can express. 
 You cannot imagine how interested they both are in 
 the subject I have been writing you upon, — my nearest 
 friends cannot feel more, they have witnessed the whole 
 progress, and if you knew them, would be convinced 
 they would not have let me act improperly, they both 
 approve my conduct. I wish my Father would write 
 to Mr. Derby and know what he says of Mr. B.'s char- 
 acter. I don't know but 'tis a subject too delicate to 
 give his opinion, but I can conceive that my Father 
 might request it without any impropriety ; and do, my 
 Dear Mother, beg him to say any thing in his power to 
 convince him that we all feel sensibly their great atten- 
 tion to me. You know not how anxious I feel for my 
 Father to write him something of that kind, not that 
 they appear to expect it, but on the contrary insist that 
 they have been more obliged than I have, and really 
 seem to think so ; but this rather strengthens than les- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 143 
 
 sens the obligation, nothing should have induced me to 
 receive such from people who felt they were conferring 
 favors. I long to hear when we move into Portland, 
 do write me. My best love to Horatio and Octavia, and 
 tell them I shall write as soon as possible. I found a 
 large packet of 5 sheets from Martha, dated Paris, June 
 28th ; tells me every thing, speaks almost in raptures of 
 Buonaparte, says Uncle Rufus has a little son 1 about 
 12 years old at school there, one of the finest boys she 
 ever saw. I find most of the Southern people whom we 
 met at the Springs, think Uncle Rufus stands as good 
 a chance of being President as any one spoken of. I 
 have listened for hours to his praises when not one 
 knew how much I was interested ; it was known from 
 Mrs. Derby I was his niece, and it really gave me great 
 consequence. I thought of Mrs. Dewitt and laughed. 
 Judge Sedgwick told me had letters from him as late as 
 June, and that he was determined on returning in the 
 Spring. I long to hear from home. My love to all my 
 friends, and believe me, with every sentiment of duty 
 and affection, Your daughter Eliza. 
 
 Martha sent me a most elegant Indispensable, white 
 lutestring spangled with silver, and a beautiful bracelet 
 for the arm made of her hair ; she is too good — to love 
 me as she says, more than ever. 
 
 y 1 James G. King. 
 
144 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Portland, Nov. — Friday, — 1802. 
 
 Mr. Davis is going on to Boston and will have a 
 letter for you. I am delighted to hear that Mamma is 
 better. I send you some of Miss Homer's wedding 
 cake; married on Monday. You say Rufus Emerson 
 has returned and tells them a great many stories ; when 
 you write next tell me what he says, and where he 
 heard, and all about it, for everything interests me. Mr. 
 Bowne has not arrived, I am out of all patience, cannot 
 imagine what detains him, — 4 weeks to-morrow since 
 he took Mr. Codman's letter. These Quakers are gov- 
 erned by such a slow spirit — I wish the deuce had 
 them. I shall be really uneasy if he don't come soon. 
 I want some money, my last dollar I gave Horatio to buy 
 Mamma's oranges. I have written to Mrs. Derby to buy 
 me a winter gown ; in her last she says she has bought 
 it but does not mention the price. I wish the money to 
 send to her soon as I hear ; a little likewise for occa- 
 sional expenses, 'tis not pleasant to be without. I have 
 been in but one party since Mamma's sickness ; shall 
 certainly not go out more than I can possibly avoid. 
 Mrs. Derby is quite out at Mr. B.'s not coming. I'll 
 not be so ungenerous as to condemn him without giving 
 an opportunity of vindicating himself, some circum- 
 stances I know not of may detain him. All our friends 
 are well. Send me the money as soon as possible ; and 
 don't forget to tell particularly what Rufus says, whom 
 he saw, what they told him, and when he heard all. In 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 145 
 
 some cases trifles acquire importance — mole hills be- 
 come mountains. Adieu. Eliza. 
 Love to Mamma, and tell her I am out of all patience. 
 
 Miss Octavia Southgate. 
 
 Boston, May 30, 1803. 
 
 Here we are, my dear Octavia, at Mrs. Carter's Board- 
 ing House, and tho' we have endeavored to keep our- 
 selves as much out of the way as possible, a great many 
 people have called to pay their respects to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bowne. The first person we met driving thro' Salem 
 was Mr. Lee just coming in town ; he bowed very low 
 and pass'd. We went to a public house and had not been 
 there 3 minutes before Mr. Lee came in determined to 
 be the first to call on us ; he shook hands very cordially, 
 congratulated us, and went with us up to Ellen's. We 
 promised to drive with Ellen, and went to see Mrs. H. 
 Derby ; spent a charming hour and returned to Ellen's, 
 dined, and all went to Lucy Derby's to tea, Mr. Lee and 
 a dozen others. Mr. Bowne and myself called on Mrs. 
 Grey, and after a very pleasant day returned to Ellen's 
 and stayed the night, and the next morning, which was 
 Wednesday, came into Boston, — 'twas election day and 
 all the world was in motion. I could not bear to come 
 to Mrs. Carter's, but Mr. Bowne thought he ought to. 
 Mr. Lee got to Boston as soon as we did and came im- 
 mediately to see us and offer his services; he has been 
 here again this morning and is going to ride into the 
 country with us to show us some fine seats. Doctor 
 
146 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Boice, Mr. Davis, Mr. Cabot, Charles Bradbury, Tom 
 Coffin and a dozen other gentlemen, whose names I 
 have forgot, and who came with the Miss Lowells and 
 Miss Russells. We have prevented all invitations on, 
 by constantly saying we were going out of town imme- 
 diately. Mr. Lee insisted, when I expressed a wish to 
 see Miss Wyre, on letting her know I was in town, — he 
 went and she came immediately back. I was very glad 
 to see her and she appeared so herself at seeing me. 
 Some ladies and gentlemen came in; and after they were 
 gone, Alicia, Mr. B. and myself went a-shopping; — the 
 fashions for bonnets, Octavia, are very ugly; Alicia had 
 a large, white glazed cambric one made without paste- 
 board. But I have not told you how Gen. Knox 1 found 
 us out at Newburyport. We always kept by ourselves, 
 but in passing the entry Gen'l Knox, who had just come 
 in the stage, met Mr. B. and asked where he was from 
 — (Mr. Bowne kept here with Mrs. Carter when Gen'l 
 Knox was here last winter) ; he told him from the East- 
 ward. — Alone ? — no. — Who is with you ? — Mrs. Bowne. 
 So plump a question he could not evade, so the General 
 insisted on being introduced to the bride. I was walk- 
 
 1 General Henry Knox was a general in the American army during 
 the Revolution. He entered it at the beginning of the war as a captain of 
 the Boston Grenadiers. He was the first Secretary of War of the United 
 States. He married the daughter of Secretary Flucker. General and 
 Mrs. Knox grew to be enormously stout and were perhaps the largest 
 couple in the city of New York at the time when Washington was inau- 
 gurated as first President of the United States. General Knox's home 
 was at Thomaston, Maine. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 147 
 
 ing the room and reading, perfectly unsuspicious, when 
 the opening of the door and Mr. Bowne's voice — "Gen'l 
 Knox, my love," quite roused me ; he came up, took my 
 hand very gracefully, pres't it to his lips and begged leave 
 to congratulate me on the event that had lately taken 
 place. After a few minutes' conversation — " And 
 pray, sir," said he, turning to Mr. Bowne — "when did 
 this happy event take place ? " I felt my face glow, but 
 Mr. Bowne, always delicate and collected, said — "'Tis 
 not a fortnight since, Sir." The stage drove to the door, 
 and after hoping to see us at Mrs. Carter's he took his 
 leave, and this morning — (he was out all day yesterday) 
 — I found him waiting in the breakfast room to see me. 
 He introduced me to General Pinckney 1 and his family 
 from Carolina, — Gen'l Pinckney, they say, is to be our 
 next President. " Mr. Bowne" said Gen'l Knox to Gen. 
 P., " has done us the honor to come to the District of 
 Maine for a bud to transplant in New York." He was 
 very polite and said " he must find us out in New York." 
 Only think, I never thought of the wedding-cake when I 
 was at Salem. You would laugh to hear " Mrs. Bowne " 
 and " Miss Southgate " all in a breath — " How do you 
 do, Miss Southgate ? " — "I beg pardon, Mrs. Bowne? 
 and do it on purpose I believe ; when I hear an old ac- 
 quaintance call me " Mrs. Bowne " it really makes me 
 stare at first, it sounds so very odd. Mr. B. will be in, 
 
 1 General Pinckney of South Carolina had served in the American 
 army. He had two daughters, one of whom married Col. Francis K. 
 Huger. 
 
148 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 in a moment — and if I don't seal my letter, he will in- 
 sist on seeing it, so love to all. I depend on finding 
 letters at New Haven. I have a thousand things to 
 say, — (some ladies enquire for Mrs. Bowne, so says the 
 servant, — I'll tell you who they are when I come up,) 
 — Mrs. Bartlett and Alicia; they insist on our taking tea 
 and spending the evening ; we promised if we did not 
 leave town after dinner that we would. Adieu, adieu. 
 Mr. Bowne sends a great deal of love. 
 
 Your affectionate sister, 
 
 Eliza Bowne. 
 
 New Haven, June 1, 1803. 
 
 Your letter, my dear Octavia, was the first thing to 
 welcome me on my arrival at this City. I cannot de- 
 scribe to you my sensations when it came. I can rarely 
 think of home without more pain than pleasure, and yet 
 if there is a being on earth perfectly blest 'tis your sister 
 Eliza. How infinitely more happy than when I left you. 
 You cannot imagine how delightful has been our journey. 
 We have stop't at every pleasant place, enjoyed all the 
 beauties of the Spring in the richest and most luxuriant 
 country I ever saw. I wrote you last from Boston. — 
 The afternoon following Mr. Lee called to accompany us 
 a few miles out of town ; he had requested Mr. Lyman's 
 permission to go out to his seat in Waltham that Mr. 
 Bowne and myself might have an opportunity to see it, 
 as it is the most beautiful place round Boston. We set 
 
.■■■■* 
 
OF THB 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 149 
 
 out about 4 o'clock — had a most charming ride. Mr. 
 Lee was remarkably sociable, attentive and polite, both 
 to Mr. Bowne and myself. He talks just as sociably, 
 and called me "Miss Southgate " and "Mrs. B." all in a 
 breath as fast as he could talk. I have no time to tell 
 you of this elegant place of Mr. Lyman's, great taste in 
 laying out the grounds. It surpasses everything of the 
 kind I ever saw; beautiful serpentine river or brook 
 thickly planted with trees, and elegant swans swimming 
 about — you can't imagine — 'twas almost like enchant- 
 ment. After Mr. Lee had gathered me a bouquet large 
 enough to supply a ballroom — of the most elegant and 
 rare flowers, — full blown roses — buds — everything 
 beautiful, we jumped into the carriage, he shook us cor- 
 dially by the hand, wished us every happiness, and hoped 
 to see us in New York ere long. Sunday morning we 
 got to Springfield, stayed the day, it recalled so many 
 pleasing sensations. When we parted there — how 
 different were our feelings — our happiness was aug- 
 mented by the contrast. From Springfield to Hartford 
 was charming ; much pleased with Hartford, stayed a 
 day and night there. From Hartford to New Haven 
 is the most elegant ride you can possibly imagine, — a 
 fine turnpike about 30 miles, and such a picturesque, 
 rich, luxuriant country, such variety and beauty — oh 
 'twas charming ! Mr. Bowne is waiting for me this full 
 hour to walk in the Mall, — What shall I do, he hurries 
 so ? Well, I never saw a place so charming as New 
 Haven ; we have been all over it, — visited the College, 
 
150 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 everything, and I give it the preference to any place I 
 know of — a particular description I defer. I have no 
 time to say a word of your letter ; write me immediately 
 on receiving this to New York, where we shall be on 
 Saturday. Mr. Bowne's best love with mine to all the 
 family. Adieu — I have ten thousand things more to 
 say but can't. Write me immediately. 
 
 Ever your affectionate 
 
 Eliza Bowne. 
 
 New York, June 6, 1803. 
 
 I sit down to catch a moment to tell you all I have to 
 before another interruption. I have so much to say, 
 where shall I begin — my head is most turned, and yet 
 I am very happy; I am enraptured with New York. You 
 cannot imagine anything half so beautiful as Broadway, 
 and I am sure you would say I was more romantic than 
 ever if I should attempt to describe the Battery, — the 
 elegant water prospect, — you can have no idea how re- 
 freshing in a warm evening. The gardens we have not 
 yet visited ; indeed we have so many delightful things 
 'twill take me forever; and my husband declares he 
 takes as much pleasure in showing them to me as I do 
 in seeing them ; you would believe it if you saw him. 
 Did I tell you anything of Brother John ? handsome 
 young man, great literary taste ; he is one of the family ; 
 nothing of the appearance of a Quaker. Mrs. King, 
 another sister, they all say looks like me. Mrs. Murray, 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 who is very sick now, has a daughter, a charming, lively 
 girl, about 19, and the little witch introduced me in a 
 laughing way last night to some of her friends as Aunt 
 Eliza. I protest against that ; her brother Robert 17 
 years old too ; I positively must declare off from being 
 Aunt to them. Caroline and I went a shopping yester- 
 day, and 'tis a fact that the little white satin quaker bon- 
 nets, cap-crowns, are the most fashionable that are worn 
 — lined with pink or blue or white ; but I'll not have 
 one, for if any of my old acquaintance should meet me 
 in the street they would laugh, I would if I were them. 
 I mean to send sister Boyd a quaker cap, the first tasty 
 one I see ; Caroline's are too plain, but she has promised 
 to get me a more fashionable pattern. "Tis the fashion. 
 I see nothing new or pretty, — large sheer muslin shawls 
 put on as Sally Weeks wears hers are much worn, they 
 show the form thro' and look pretty; silk nabobs, 
 plaided, colored and white, are much worn, very short 
 waists, hair very plain. Maria Denning has been to see 
 me, I was very happy, — several spring acquaintance. 
 Expect Eliza Watts and Jane every moment, they did 
 not know where I was to be found. Last night we were 
 at the play — " The way to get married." Mr. Hodgkin- 
 son x in Tangent is inimitable. Mrs. Johnson a sweet, 
 
 1 Hodgkinson made his first appearance in New York as Vapid. He 
 was born in Manchester, England, 1767; his father was an innkeeper named 
 Meadowcraft. Young Meadowcraft ran away from home, took the 
 name of Hodgkinson, and joined the stage. His wife, to whom he was 
 married on his arrival in America, by Bishop Moore, was Miss Brett of 
 
152 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 interesting actress in Julia, and Jefferson, 1 a great comic 
 player, were all that were particularly pleasing ; house 
 was very thin so late in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Cod- 
 man 2 came to see me. I should have known her in a 
 moment from her resemblance to Ellen and the family, 
 — appeared very happy to see me, — Mr. Codman was 
 happy, Mrs. Codman would now have somebody to call 
 her friend, etc., etc. Maria Denning told me Uncle 
 Rufus [King] was expected every day ; we have such 
 contradictory accounts, we hardly know what to believe. 
 As to housekeeping, we don't begin to talk anything 
 of it yet. Mr. Bowne says not till October, however 
 you shall hear all our plans. I anticipate so much hap- 
 piness ; I am sure if any body ought to I may. My 
 heart is full sometimes when I think how much more 
 blest I am than most of the world. At this moment 
 there is not a single circumstance presents itself to my 
 mind that I feel unpleasant to reflect on: the sweet tran- 
 quillity of my feelings — so different from any thing I 
 ever before felt — such a confidence — my every feeling 
 reciprocated and every wish anticipated. — I write to 
 
 the Bath Theatre. She died in New York of consumption, September, 
 1803. Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkinson received $100 a week for their ser- 
 vices, which was the highest amount yet paid to any two performers in 
 America. 
 
 1 This Joseph Jefferson was the grandfather of the present Joseph 
 Jefferson. 
 
 2 Mr. and Mrs. William Codman. Mrs. Codman was a Miss Coffin. 
 William Codman had at that time an insurance office at No. 28 South 
 Street, New York. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 153 
 
 you what would appear singular to any other. — You 
 can easily imagine my feelings. — I see Mr. B. now 
 where he is universally known and respected, and every 
 hour see some new proof how much he is honored and 
 esteemed here; the most gratifying to the heart you 
 
 /can imagine, cannot but make an impression on mine. 
 We talk of you when we get to housekeeping, how de- 
 lightful 'twill be — what a sweet domestic circle ! — 1 
 must leave you ; Caty says — " Mrs. Walter (for so the 
 servants call me to distinguish), a gentleman below 
 wishes to see you." Adieu. Who can this said gentle- 
 man be ? 
 
 Mr. Rodman was below, whom I saw at the Springs, 
 and for these two hours there has been so many calling 
 I thought I should never get up to finish my letter. 
 Mrs. Henderson, 1 whom I mentioned to you as one of 
 the most elegant women in New York, and Maria Den- 
 ning, her sister, came in soon after. Engaged to Mrs. 
 Henderson's for Friday. 
 
 Thursday Morning : — I have been to two of the 
 Gardens, Columbia, 2 near the Battery, a most romantic 
 beautiful place ; 'tis enclosed in a circular form and lit- 
 tle rooms and boxes all around, with tables and chairs, 
 these full of company ; the trees all interspersed with 
 lamps twinkling thro' the branches ; in the centre a 
 
 1 Mrs. Henderson and Miss Denning were daughters of William Den- 
 ning, a well-known New York merchant. 
 
 2 Columbia Gardens were on the corner of Broadway and Prince 
 Street. 
 
154 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 pretty little building with a fountain playing continually, 
 the rays of the lamps on the drops of water gave it a 
 cool sparkling appearance that was delightful. This 
 little building, which has a kind of canopy and pillars 
 all round the garden, had festoons of colored lamps 
 that at a distance looked like large brilliant stars seen 
 thro' the branches, and placed all round are marble 
 busts, beautiful little figures of Diana, Cupid, Venus, 
 by the glimmering of the lamps, which are partly con- 
 cealed by the foliage, give you an idea of enchant- 
 ment. Here we strolled among the trees and every 
 moment meet some walking from the thick shade un- 
 expectedly, and come upon us before we heard a sound, 
 'twas delightful ! We passed a box that. Miss Watts 
 was in ; she called us, and we went in and had a charm- 
 ing, refreshing glass of ice cream, which has chilled me 
 ever since. They have a fine orchestra and have con- 
 certs here sometimes. I can conceive of nothing more 
 charming than this must be. 
 
 We went on to the Battery : this is a large promenade 
 by the shore of the North River ; very extensive rows 
 and clusters of trees in every part, and a large walk 
 along the shore, almost over the water, gives you such 
 a fresh, delightful air, that every evening in summer it 
 is crowded with company. Here too they have music 
 playing on the water in boats of a moonlight night. 
 Last night we went to a garden 1 a little out of town, 
 
 1 Mt. Vernon Gardens, afterwards called Contois's Gardens, were on 
 the northwest corner of Broadway and Leonard Street. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 155 
 
 Mount Vernon garden, — this too is surrounded by- 
 boxes of the same kind, with a walk on top of them. 
 You can see the gardens all below; but 'tis a summer 
 playhouse — pit and boxes, stage and all, but open on 
 top ; from this there are doors opening into the garden, 
 which is similar to Columbia Garden, lamps among the 
 trees, large mineral fountain, delightful swings, two at 
 a time, — I was in raptures as you may imagine, and if 
 I had not grown sober before I came to this wonderful 
 place 'twould have turned my head. But I have filled 
 my letter and not told you half — of the Park — the 
 public buildings, — I have so much to tell you, and of 
 those that have called on me — I have no room to say- 
 half. Yesterday Mrs. Henderson came again to see me 
 and brought two of my Aunt King's most intimate 
 friends to introduce — Mrs. Delafield 1 and Miss Lucy- 
 Bull. Mr. and Mrs. Delafield are Uncle and Aunt's 
 very intimate friends, she is called the most elegant 
 woman in New York. I was delighted with her and 
 very much gratified at Mrs. Henderson's attention in 
 coming again on purpose to introduce them, they were 
 so attentive, so polite, and Mrs. Delafield said so many 
 things of Aunt King, how delighted they would be to 
 
 1 Mrs. Delafield was a Miss Hallett. She married, December nth, 
 1784, Mr. John Delafield, an Englishman, who had arrived in New York 
 in 1783. They had twelve children. Among them were Major Joseph 
 Delafield, who married Miss Livingston ; Mr. Rufus Delafield married 
 Miss Bard ; Dr. Edward Delafield married Miss Floyd ; Henry Delafield 
 married Miss.Munson. 
 
156 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 find me settled near them, how much I should love 
 them and everything of the kind, that was very gratify- 
 ing to me. Miss Denning has been to see me 3 or 4 
 times ; several invitations to tea, but we declined as our 
 family friends were visiting us this week. This morn- 
 ing we go to make calls. I have got a list of names 
 that most frightens me. All our brothers and sisters 
 say — " Why, Eliza does not seem at all like a stranger 
 to us," — indeed I feel as easy and happy among them 
 as possible, which astonishes me, as I have been so 
 unaccustomed to Quakers, but their manners are so 
 affectionate and soft, you cannot help it. Mrs. King 
 (sister) is a beauty — She would be very handsome in a 
 different dress ; she looks so much like Alicia Wyer, you 
 would love her, — just such full sweet blue eyes, charm- 
 ing complexion and sweet expression, and her little 
 quaker cap gives her such an innocent, simple appear- 
 ance, I imagine Alicia with a quaker dress — and you 
 will see her exactly. Adieu. I am expecting to hear 
 from you every day. Mr. Bowne is out, would send a 
 great deal of love if he were here. Kiss dear little 
 Mary and all the children. I never go by a toy shop, 
 or confectionery, without longing to have them here. 
 Love to all. Our best love to my Father and Mother, 
 Horatio, Isabella and all. I mean to write as soon as 
 I am settled a little. Adieu. 
 
 Miss Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 157 
 
 New York, June 18, 1803. 
 
 I am just going to set off for Long Island and there- 
 fore promise but a short letter. I have a mantua maker 
 here making you a gown which I hope to have finished 
 to send by Mrs. Rodman. The fashions are remarkably 
 plain, sleeves much longer than ours, and half hand- 
 kerchiefs are universally worn. At Mrs. Henderson's 
 party there was but one lady except myself without a 
 handkerchief, — dressed as plain as possible, the most 
 fashionable women the plainest. I have got you a 
 pretty India spotted muslin, — 'tis fashionable here. 
 My husband sends a great deal of love, says we shall 
 be travelling about all Summer, settle down soberly in 
 October, and depend on seeing you as soon as we are 
 at housekeeping. Sister Caroline has made Sister Boyd 
 a tasty quaker cap, which I shall send with the gown. 
 How could you mistake what I said of Caroline so 
 much ? Far from being " stiff and rigid" she is most 
 affectionate, attentive and obliging, — nothing was more 
 foreign to my thoughts, and you must have taken your 
 idea from what I said of her dress, which, you may 
 depend upon it, with quakers is no criterion to judge 
 by. I never was more disappointed in my life — to find 
 such a stiff, forbidding external covered so much affabil- 
 ity and sweetness. 
 
 You must give my love to Miranda. I wish I had 
 time to write to her, Horatio, my Mother and all, but I 
 expect the carriage every moment. Tell Horatio he 
 
158 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 must write to me. At present my letters to you must 
 answer for all, till I am more settled. Mrs. Codman 
 has promised to call at our house and tell you all about 
 me. Malbone 1 has just finished my picture; I have 
 done sitting ; he was not willing I should see it, as 'tis 
 unfinished. When you return 'twill be done, then I'll 
 tell you whether 'tis like. I have told you in a former 
 letter we shall go to Bethlehem, Philadelphia, and per- 
 haps to the Springs. My trunk arrived safe. I shall 
 send a little ring to Cousin Mary Porter ; 'tis not the 
 kind I wanted, but I had not time to have one made to 
 send by Mrs. C. Is mine with sister Mary's hair done ? 
 Send it to her by the first opportunity. Adieu. Best 
 love to all friends, and all the children. Tell mamma 
 I mean to write her as soon as I have leisure, that I am 
 very, very happy, that Uncle Rufus has not arrived, tho' 
 every day expected, and that I look to the time when 
 we shall see her and my Father in New York. Mr. 
 Bowne and myself both will be delighted. Give my 
 best love to Lucia, 2 Zilpah and John, and ask the latter 
 
 1 Malbone, a celebrated miniature painter. He was born at Newport, 
 Rhode Island, and when very young showed great taste for painting. He 
 travelled about the then known portions of the United States, painting 
 portraits of people in Charleston, Boston, Philadelphia, New York, etc., 
 many of which are now in existence. His price for painting a head 
 was $50. He died of consumption in Savannah, May 7, 1807, in the 
 thirty-second year of his age. 
 
 2 Lucia, Zilpah, and John were the children of Genl. Peleg Wadsworth. 
 Zilpah afterwards married Stephen Longfellow, and was the mother of 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Genl. Wadsworth lived at Hiram, on the 
 Saco River. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 159 
 
 if he has discovered on whom my mantle rested. Tell 
 Zilpah we pass her friend Mrs. Bogert's house every 
 day, and never without thinking of her. The City air 
 has not stolen my country bloom yet, for every one says 
 — "I need not ask you how you do, Mrs. Bowne, you 
 look in such fine health." Dr. Moore 1 would not inocu- 
 late me for the Small Pox, after examining my arm, as 
 he was sure from what I told him I had had the Kine 
 Pox well, and he would insure me against the Small 
 Pox. But Mr. Bowne seems to wish I should be inocu- 
 lated, tho' I care nothing about it now. Adieu. My best 
 love to Aunt Porter and Nancy, Mary Porter and all 
 the other friends. We are going to Flushing to see our 
 cousins before we return ; you know how Mary laughed 
 about the name. Yesterday we were at Belvidere, the 
 most beautiful place, the finest view in the world, the 
 greatest variety. I never shall have done. Kiss dear 
 little Mary ; I think of her every time I see a sweet 
 little sight. Your affectionate sister 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 P. S. Remember and put an S in my name to dis- 
 tinguish ; there are 2 or 3 Eliza Bownes in the family. 
 
 1 Dr. William Moore was a celebrated physician of New York. He 
 married Miss Sarah Fish and had by her a numerous family. Among 
 them being Nathaniel Moore, President of Columbia College, and Dr. 
 Samuel Moore, also a favorite physician. 
 
160 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 New York, June 30, 1803. 
 
 Uncle Rufus l 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 2 (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, 3 and immedi- 
 ately after Mr. Henderson 4 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 ; 
 
 1 He was returning from his mission in London, where he had been 
 Minister to the Court of St. James from the United States. 
 
 2 Nicholas Low, a merchant in New York. Among his descendants 
 are Mrs. Eugene Schuyler and the wife of M. Waddington, at present 
 ambassador to the Court of St. James from France. 
 
 3 Mr. Watson was at this time a widower with one son, James Watson. 
 This son became a great beau in New York society, but died unmarried 
 and insane. 
 
 4 William Henderson, who had married Sarah Denning. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 161 
 
 think what a mixture of sensations ! I'll tell you all about 
 it. I returned from Long Island this morning: delight- 
 ful 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 differ- 
 ent ; '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 mtist 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 1 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 exer- 
 tions. — 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 
 
 1 George III of England. 
 
1 62 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 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. 
 
 Yours affectionately, Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 io o'clock, evening. 
 
 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 de- 
 lighted with him. Looks very like Mr. Pai-ker 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. E. S. B. 
 
 Miss Southgate, Portland. 
 
 New York, July 4, 1803. 
 
 Dear Mother: 
 
 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' ar- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 163 
 
 rival and our calling on them the evening after. Sun- 
 day 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 Ruf us says 
 I remind him of Martha very much ; he inquired partic- 
 ularly 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. 
 
 July 8. 
 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 sum- 
 mer 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 amia- 
 ble 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 
 
1 64 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 often think of with grateful sensations. Mr. Bowne's sit- 
 uation 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, simi- 
 lar 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 pleas- 
 ure 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 house- 
 keeping, 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 Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 165 
 
 a dress made to wear to Mrs. Delafield's to dine on Sun- 
 day ; they have a most superb country seat on Long Is- 
 land, opposite Hell-Gate; — he is Uncle Rufus' most in- 
 timate 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 Ma- 
 ria. 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 amuse- 
 ments ; 'tis impossible to be at once reconciled to quit- 
 ting all one's friends. I thought a great deal of the 
 children. I never thought I loved them so much; I 
 
1 66 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. 
 Your affectionate daughter 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 P. S. All the family desire to be remembered partic- 
 ularly. Mr. B. is out to dine. 
 
 Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough, District of Maine. 
 
 New York, July 14. 
 
 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 
 
4,V;" 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 167 
 
 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. When- 
 ever 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. Dela- 
 field'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 de- 
 lighted with our visit, so much ease, elegance and hos- 
 pitality. I am very glad you liked your gown. Long 
 sleeves are very much worn, made like mitts ; cross- 
 wise, 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 hav- 
 ing 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 
 
1 68 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 the family was such and I was fearful she might not 
 hear of my being in town and should not see her ; ac- 
 cordingly 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, en- 
 quired 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 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 169 
 
 200 of the most respectable citizens of New York at- 
 tended. Mr. Bowne says, tho' he has been at many en- 
 tertainments 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 Fed- 
 eralists 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; 
 
170 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 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 Hus- 
 band all about our charming frolics. Does not Mr. 
 Davis talk anything of coming to New York ? Louise 
 is quite a belle I suppose. 
 
 Miss Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 171 
 
 New York, July 23, 1803. 
 
 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 be- 
 cause 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. 
 
 Yours, E. S. B. 
 
 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 
 
172 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. 
 
 Miss Octavia Southgate. ELIZA S. BoWNE. 
 
 Bethlehem, August 9, 1803. 
 
 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 * is 
 at length gratified. You can scarcely imagine any 
 
 1 Bethlehem. This is a place originally settled by a religious sect 
 called Moravians. They were famous for their schools, — one for boys 
 kept by the Brothers, and a girls' school kept by the Sisters. Young 
 ladies were sent to Bethlehem from New York, Philadelphia, and distant 
 parts of the country, to receive their education at this place. In a letter 
 from John Adams to his daughter, dated Monday, Feb. 10th, 1823, he 
 speaks of it : "I have seen a remarkable institution for the education of 
 young ladies at Bethlehem. About 120 of them live under the same roof. 
 They sleep all together in the same garret. I saw 120 beds in two long 
 rows in the same room. The beds and bedclothes were all of excellent 
 quality and extraordinary neat. How should you like to live in such a 
 nunnery ? " 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 173 
 
 thing more novel and delightful than every thing about 
 here, so entirely different from any place in New Eng- 
 land. Indeed, in travelling thro' the State of Pennsyl- 
 vania, 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 like- 
 wise, but in Pennsylvania the villages look so many 
 clusters of jails, and the public buildings like the Bas- 
 tile, 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 clar- 
 ionets, bassoon, and an Instrument I never heard before, 
 
174 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 made up the Band; they all seemed animated and inter- 
 ested. It was delightful to see these men, who are accus- 
 tomed 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 men- 
 tioned 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 waist- 
 coat, 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 dif- 
 ferent schoolrooms — some misses of 16, — their teach- 
 ers 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' 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 175 
 
 house we were conducted round by a fine lady-like 
 woman, who answered our questions with great intelli- 
 gence and affability. I think there were 130 in this 
 house ; their apartments were perfectly neat, — the Dor- 
 mitory 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 surround- 
 ing — '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 Philadel- 
 phia to-day, but it rains. We shall spend a few days 
 there and go to Long Branch. If the alarm of the fever 1 
 
 1 The yellow fever having broken out in New York, the city was de- 
 serted by all who could leave it. Even the business was transacted in the 
 
176 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 
 
 neighboring village of Greenwich, which is now incorporated in the city 
 itself and its boundaries lost in the surrounding streets. The following 
 advertisements have been copied from the " Evening Post," Thursday, 
 Aug. 25, 1803, as being of interest, as the advertisers were not only well- 
 known New Yorkers, but personal friends of Mrs. Bowne : — 
 
 Woolsey & Rogers' Counting House is removed to No. 28 Courtlandt 
 Street. 
 
 Removal. William Codman has removed his Counting House to the 
 N. E. corner room in the 2nd Story of the City Hotel, Broadway. 
 
 John G. Bogart, Attorney at law & Notary Public, has Removed his 
 office to the House of Judge Livingston, No. 37 Broadway, near the Cus- 
 tom House. 
 
 John Murray & Sons have removed their Counting House to Mr. 
 Murray's country seat on the Harlem Road, 31-2 miles from town. 
 
 [This was at Murray Hill, about the corner of 37th Street and Fifth. 
 Avenue.] 
 
 The Editor being obliged to be absent from town a few days, the dis- 
 cussions respecting yellow fever will, of course, be suspended for a little 
 time. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 177 
 
 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 win- 
 ter 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 1 arrived? I want much to hear. 
 Love to Sister 2 and the children. Adieu. 
 Affectionately, 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 Mrs. Southgate, Scarborough. 
 
 Ballston Springs, Sept. 4, 1803. 
 Once more do I write you from the Springs, where I 
 enjoyed so many delightful moments last year. We re- 
 call so many charming things to our recollection by this 
 visit to the Springs that 'tis of all places the most pleas- 
 ant for us to visit. A description of the place, amuse- 
 ments, 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 accommo- 
 
 1 Mr. Boyd, Mrs. Bowne's brother-in-law, had been in England for 
 some months and was now expected to return to his home. 
 
 2 Mrs. Boyd, Isabella Southgate. 
 
178 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 dations, but in that respect were agreeably disappointed. 
 They dance much as usual ; a fine ball to-morrow even- 
 ing. 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 fam- 
 ily 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} " Nancy Dawson}' — our envoy 
 to France — you remember ! Gen. Smith of Baltimore 
 and family, who it was said would succeed Uncle Ru- 
 fus ; Mr. Harper and wife — the fine speaker in Con- 
 gress ; 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 High- 
 lands ! 2 I thought to my soul I should never hold out 
 
 1 Beau Dawson, Mr. J. Dawson of Virginia. He had been sent out by 
 President Jefferson in April, 1801, as bearer of the Treaty or Convention 
 between France and the United States as ratified by the latter. The 
 ship in which he sailed was wrecked and the Treaty lost, although the 
 envoy was saved. Another treaty was drawn up and dispatched as soon 
 as possible, but there was great annoyance at the delay. 
 
 2 Highlands. The hills about West Point on the Hudson are so 
 called. The road from Peekskill to Garrison's over the hill called 
 
A Girts Life Eighty Years Ago. 179 
 
 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 sub- 
 lime 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 Hud- 
 son. 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 
 
 " Anthony's Nose " is particularly steep and stony. The Beverly Farm, 
 which was owned by Mr. William Denning, lay in the midst of these hills. 
 The house is still standing and is almost unaltered. 
 
180 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. Sum- 
 ner has a son too. Poor Mrs. Davis, how much sick- 
 ness 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 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 181 
 
 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 Bos- 
 ton 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. 
 
 Miss Octavia Southgate. ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
 Lebanon Springs, Sept. 24, 1803. 
 
 Your letter, my dear Octavia, has set my head to plan- 
 ning 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 
 
1 82 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 her- 
 self to be settled at home. I am most tired of roving ; 
 it begins to grow cold, and I long for a comfortable fire- 
 side 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 de- 
 lightful 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. I, — 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 chil- 
 dren, The Children of the Abbey, and Caroline of Lich- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 183 
 
 field 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 re- 
 quested him to send it by the first vessel. As you 
 have n'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 n. 
 You alarm me about Ellen ; pray enquire particularly 
 and tell me all ; go to see yourself, and tell her I can 
 imagine no reason why I have never received a line 
 from her since I have been in New York, — nor Lucy 
 Derby, neither Mrs. Coffin. I wrote to, but it seems 
 she did not receive my letter ; love to her and all 
 Portland friends. I am expecting every day to hear 
 Martha has arrived. My best love to Sister Boyd and 
 husband. I wrote a line of congratulation to her, but 
 that too is in the package. Adieu. I shall soon see 
 you, and then we will talk what I have not time to 
 write. My husband's best love. 
 
 Yours, Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
1 84 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 New York, October 23, 1803. 
 
 I have waited till my patience is quite exhausted. 
 What can have kept you so long in Boston ? Mr. 
 Bowne has been at the Stage Office a dozen times, and 
 I have staid at home every forenoon this week to re- 
 ceive 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 semps- 
 tresses, 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 martied gentlemen come on lately, 
 which if you had known of, would have been proper. 
 Perhaps Mr. Davis may hear of some one. At any rate 
 come as soon as possible, for I am very impatient to see 
 you. My best love to Louisa ; tell her I should be much 
 delighted to see her in New York this winter, and my 
 Husband frequently says he should like to have Mr. 
 Davis' family near us in New York. I am sure I should 
 with all my heart. Say everything to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Davis for me that bespeaks esteem. 
 
 Adieu. Yours always, 
 
 Miss Octavia Southgate. ELIZA S. BOWNE. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 185 
 
 Bloomingdale, Nov. 2, 1803. 1 
 
 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 re- 
 ceive you at any time, at housekeeping or not. We go 
 in town next Monday, every body is moving in ; for the 
 last 3 days there has been no death, and for 5 no new 
 cases. If, unfortunately, Mr. Wood should have gone 
 and you not accepted of his protection, come the very 
 next opportunity without consulting me or waiting a 
 moment. I hope to get to housekeeping very soon. We 
 have just returned from Uncle's, where we had been to 
 meet Mr. and Mrs. Paine (Mrs. Doble) from Boston ; 
 she is less beautiful than I expected, — charming little 
 daughter. I am more and more delighted with Aunt 
 King, she is so unaffected, easy and ladylike. Margaret 
 and Mr. Duncan married ? I expect to hear still 
 stranger things from Portland — now Ellen Foster is 
 married. I suppose she is, tho' I have not heard. I am 
 hourly and impatiently expecting to hear from Martha. 
 How unfortunate ! What would I give to be nearer ! 
 Adieu : 'tis late ; come as soon as possible. Give my love 
 to all friends. 
 
 Yours affectionately, Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 1 To Miranda Southgate, or, more likely, to Octavia. (M. K. L.) 
 
186 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 New York, Dec. 24, 1803. 1 
 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 Eliza received a letter yesterday from you, where you 
 say you have not received a letter from either of us a 
 long time. I am really surprised at it, as I wrote you 
 very frequently from Boston, and am determined to let 
 you have a letter now every fortnight to let you know 
 what we are doing and whether I am happy. I begin 
 to feel quite at home and certainly never was happier in 
 my life. It is true I sometimes sigh for home, but it is 
 generally when I am in a crowd that I am most there 
 in imagination. But when I am here and none but our 
 own family, I have not a single wish ungratified. I am 
 much more pleased with New York on every account 
 than with Boston. As a City it is much superior, the 
 situation is every way as delightful as possible. The 
 inhabitants to me are much more pleasing, more ease, 
 more sociability and elegance, yet not so ostentatious, — 
 they dress with remarkable simplicity ; and I think I 
 could spend the winter here and not expend half the 
 money that I must unavoidably do in Boston. There 
 every one dresses, and a person would look singular not 
 to conform ; but here there is such a variety, and the 
 most genteel people dress so plain that one never appears 
 singular. To-morrow is Christmas and we dine at 
 Uncles ; he is a charming man, looks amazingly like you, 
 so much so that I admire to look at him. She is a very 
 
 1 From Octavia Southgate to Mrs. Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 187 
 
 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 ap- 
 pear to be very glad to see me, and I really feel some- 
 times as though I was at home ; how I long to see you all ! 
 How is Arixene and Mary ? How I want to see them ! 
 How is Papa this winter ? Ah ! if you were all here ! 
 But next spring we shall all be with you. I am afraid 
 you are solitary — if you are, do, my Dear Mother, tell 
 me, find any opportunity, and I'll be with you as soon as 
 you say, — depend on it, I shall never get so attached 
 either to the inhabitants or the gaieties of New York, 
 as to feel reluctant to return home ; even in my happiest 
 hours I think of the time with extreme pleasure. This 
 family is the only thing that would root me to the spot, 
 and there is a charm in that which nothing but home 
 can equal. I have promised Eliza a page for you, so I 
 suppose I must close. Give my best love to Father and 
 the children, and believe me your affectionate child, 
 
 OCTAVIA SOUTHGATE. 
 
 Octavia has reserved me a page in her letter which I 
 
1 88 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 trouble- 
 some ; the house we have taken does not altogether 
 please us, but at any time but May 'tis extremely diffi- 
 cult to get a house. In the Spring we shall be able to 
 suit ourselves. Mr. Bowne wishes to build and is try- 
 ing 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 As- 
 sembly ; 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 in- 
 quire 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 
 
A Girls Life Eighty Years Ago. 189 
 
 of seeing you next Autumn — Heaven grant I may not 
 be disappointed! Remember me with my best love to 
 my Father and all the family. Adieu ; write me soon, 
 and believe me 
 
 Your affectionate Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 Mrs. Robert Southgate. 
 
 New York, March. 
 
 Dear Miranda : 
 
 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 
 
190 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 artifi- 
 cial flowers and many little things of that kind. Do 
 you ever attempt painting? — 'tis a charming accomplish- 
 ment, 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' par- 
 ticularly remembered. 
 
 Adieu ; remember me to any of my friends who en- 
 quire, and believe me 
 
 Your affectionate sister, Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 Miranda Southgate. 
 
/OF 
 r IVE 
 
 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 191 
 
 Rockaway, August 24, 1804. 
 
 Dear Girls : 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve 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 ren- 
 dered my visit doubly pleasant. 'Twas the season for 
 peaches, we feasted finely. I shall attend to your mem- 
 orandums 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. Yours ever, 
 
 E. S. Bowne. 
 
192 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 [New York, November 9th, 1804 (?).] 
 
 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 1 spent last evening with us; I think 
 he improves fast; he told me a deal of news. Miss 
 Farquar and Mr. Jepson 2 were married last night, Miss 
 Blackwell and Mr. Forbes, and one or two others. 
 Rhinelander says half the girls in town are to be mar- 
 ried before Spring. Maria Denning for one ; and the 
 
 1 Mr. Newbold and Mr. Philip Rhinelander were well-known New 
 Yorkers. The latter married, December 22, 1814, Miss Mary Colden 
 Hoffman. 
 
 2 Mr. Jephson was an Englishman who had lately arrived in New 
 York. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 193 
 
 world says Amelia and James Gillispie will certainly 
 make a match, — that I was surprised at. Miss Bunner 1 
 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, 2 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 yester- 
 day, 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 morn- 
 ing, but it was stormy. The few days I was in Boston 
 I was constantly engaged. We dined at Sheriff Allen's 
 
 1 John Duer married Miss Anne Bunner October 19, 1804, and his 
 brother, William Duer, soon after married Maria Denning. Mr. Rhine- 
 lander engaged the two Miss Duers to the wrong men. Fanny married 
 Beverly Robinson, and Sally married, March 10, 1805, John Witherspoon 
 Smith, and died July 10, 1887, in the one hundred and first year of her 
 age. 
 
 2 Mrs. Kane's "charming little girl "became Mrs. James King of Al- 
 bany, and the mother of many well-known New Yorkers. 
 
194 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 with a very large party, — Lady Temple, 1 Mrs. Win- 
 throp 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. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 New York, July 30, 1804. 
 
 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 
 
 1 Lady Temple was the daughter of Governor Bowdoin, and had mar- 
 ried Sir John Temple. Their daughter, afterwards Mrs. Winthrop, was 
 the mother of the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop. She was long the reigning 
 belle in Boston. 
 
<S) — 
 
 O m 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 195 
 
 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 vay 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 
 
196 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 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 affec- 
 tionately 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. 
 
 July 31- 
 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. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 O. SOUTHGATE. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 197 
 
 June 3, 1805. 
 
 Dear Octavia : 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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-mor- 
 row, — E. Watts and Susan go with us, — John Wads- 
 worth. 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. 
 
 Your affectionate E. S. Bowne. 
 
 P. S. Remember I don't call this a letter, so no lec- 
 tures on that head. 
 
198 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Jamaica, October 6, 1805. 
 
 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 mel- 
 ancholy 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 be- 
 ing. 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 win- 
 ter 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 sub- 
 ject 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 lodg- 
 
A Girl's Life^ Eighty Years Ago. 199 
 
 ings in Jamaica, where we shall probably remain until 
 'tis safe removing to the City. Uncle and Aunt, — Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bogert, 1 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 2 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 Green- 
 wich, 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 De- 
 marara, 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 3 and Harriet Clarke 4 were talked of as a match 
 
 1 Mr. and Mrs. Bogert were intimate friends of Mr. and Mrs. Rufus 
 King's, and they occupied adjoining places at Jamaica. 
 
 2 Mrs. Heyward was Mr. and Mrs. Rogers' daughter. She married Mr. 
 Heyward of South Carolina. Miss Heyward married Mr. Cutting of New 
 York, and was the mother of Messrs. William, Heyward, and Brockholst 
 Cutting. 
 
 3 Wolsey Rogers married, Thursday evening, December i, 1807, Miss 
 Susan Bayard. 
 
 4 Harriet Clarke, a daughter of John Innes Clarke of Providence, and 
 sister of Mrs. Kane. 
 
200 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 at the Springs. Mrs. Kane * 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 Living- 
 stone's 2 — Mr. Kane's sister — at Red Hook, until able 
 to resume her journey home, which will probably be in 
 November. Mrs. Fish 3 has a daughter; great joy on 
 the occasion. Give my love to Cousin Pauline, 4 and 
 tell her I congratulate her on the birth of her son. 
 What do Mary 5 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 visit- 
 
 1 Mrs. Oliver Kane had married, at Providence, R. I., May 22, 1803, 
 Mr. Oliver Kane, merchant of this city. Her children were Mrs. King 
 of Albany, Mrs. William Russel, Mrs. Nicholsen, John, De Lancey, and 
 Miss Lydia Kane. 
 
 2 Mrs. Gilbert R. Livingston (Martha Kane), a sister of Oliver Kane. 
 Her children were Mrs. Henry Beekman, Mrs. Codwise, Mrs. Constable, 
 the Rev. Gilbert R. Livingston, and James Kane Livingston. 
 
 8 Mrs. Fish (Miss Elizabeth Stuyvesant) had married, April 30, 1803, 
 Colonel Nicholas Fish. This daughter was Mrs. Daniel le Roy. The Hon. 
 Hamilton Fish and Mrs. Richard Morris were also children of Colonel 
 Fish's. 
 
 4 Pauline Porter, daughter of Paulina King and Dr. Aaron Porter of 
 Portland, had married Edward Beecher. 
 
 5 Mary King Porter, her sister, married Nathaniel Coffin of Saco. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 201 
 
 ing 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 ac- 
 quaintances 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, 1 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 ser- 
 vice in that way, for I assure you 'twill gratify me. Tell 
 Horatio 1 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 '11 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. Yours, E. B. 
 
 1 Horatio Southgate married his first wife, Nabby McLellan, September 
 29, 1805. Mrs. Bowne is here alluding to her sister Octavia's engagement 
 to William Browne. 
 
202 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 New York, Nov. 10, 1805. 
 
 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 sea- 
 son, that 'tis impossible any one can come to see you. 
 However, I hope to come early in the summer, if noth- 
 ing happens to prevent, and spend 3 or 4 months. I 
 shall have so many new relations that 'twill be neces- 
 sary to come often to keep an account. Robert Murray x 
 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 sheet- 
 ing and diaper by him ; he sails the last of the week; 
 the other things you wish we will send as many as can 
 
 1 Robert Murray, Mr. Bowne's nephew. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 203 
 
 be procured before the vessel sails, but 'twill be impos- 
 sible 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 convey- 
 ance. 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 cal- 
 culated 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 Mam- 
 ma'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 Scar- 
 borough ; 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 be- 
 cause I don't go shopping that I am confined to the 
 house. On the contrary, I am much better than could 
 
204 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve but the health of his purse is one-half his concern 
 
 — a fine excuse. Mrs. Bogert is in expectation of see- 
 ing 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 anxi- 
 ety — 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. 
 
 Adieu. Yours ever, 
 
 E. S. Bowne. 
 
 Miss Octavia Southgate. 
 
 November 14, 1805. 
 
 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 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 205 
 
 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 cur- 
 tains. 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 respect- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 piece Irish sheeting, 48 yards, at 5 
 1 piece Irish sheeting, 55 yards, at 6/6 
 6 yards Fine Linen, at 7/6 . . . 
 12 Damask Napkins, at 8 . . . . 
 
 1 piece fine Diaper 27 yards, at 5/6 
 
 2 Breakfast Cloths, at 14 . . . . 
 1 plated Castor best kind, .... 
 
 1 plated Cake Basket silver rims . 
 
 2 Pearl tea-pots, 2.25 ; 1 Trunk, 2.50 
 
 $30.00 
 
 44.69 
 
 5.62 
 
 12.00 
 
 18.56 
 
 3-5° 
 12.00 
 18.00 
 
 4-75 
 
 $149.12 
 
206 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 
 
 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 table- 
 cloths 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. 
 Yours ever, E. S. Bowne. 
 
 P. S. The bills are in Miranda's book in the trunk. 
 
 Jan. 14, 1806. 
 
 My dear Miranda : 
 
 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 man- 
 ner 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 
 
JAMES GORE KING 
 From a miniature in the possession of A. Gracie King, Esq. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 207 
 
 have certainly laughed. Frederic, 1 I suppose, is at 
 home, tho' Mr. A. could not tell me. John 2 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 at- 
 tends 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 3 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 notwith- 
 standing. If you can, send the things I left to Louisa 
 Davis in Boston. John and Charles would bring them 
 on to me. Walter 4 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 bim when I wrote ; he has not had a 
 
 1 Frederic Southgate, her youngest brother. 
 
 2 John, Charles, and James King, sons of Rufus King, Mrs. Bowne's 
 cousins. James was at that time at Harvard College. 
 
 8 Mrs. Gillespie (Amelia Denning). This daughter died when a very 
 young girl of a putrid sore throat. 
 
 4 Walter Bowne, Jr. Eldest child of Walter Bowne and Eliza South- 
 gate. 
 
208 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 day's sickness since I returned. I send him out walk- 
 ing 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 
 Phcebe 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 with- 
 out 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 1 is to be married in 
 April to Duncan Campbell ; all engaged since Wolsey 
 and Susan were married. Mary Watts 2 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 
 
 1 Kitty Bayard married Duncan Campbell. Her sister Susan had mar- 
 ried Woolsey Rogers, December i, 1807. 
 
 2 Mary, oldest daughter of Robert Watts and his wife Lady Mary Alex- 
 ander, married Dr. Romaine, who left her a widow after a few years of 
 married life. At the age of seventy-three Mrs. Romaine married her first 
 love, Peter Bertram Cruger, a widower with eight children. Miss Watts's 
 engagement to Dr. Romaine was a surprise to her friends, who knew of 
 her attachment to Mr. Cruger. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 209 
 
 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 cheer- 
 ful. Pappa you say has been sick but is quite recov- 
 ered. How is Mamma this winter, quite recovered her 
 health ? 
 
 Adieu. E. S. B. 
 
 Feb. 15. 
 
 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 1 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 lafge for a child 3 years 
 
 1 John Alsop King, oldest son of Rufus King and his wife Mary Alsop. 
 John A. King was twice governor of the State of New York. He married 
 in 1810 Mary Ray. Charles King, the second son of Rufus King, for some 
 time President of Columbia College, New York. He married twice : first, 
 Miss Gracie, and for his second wife Miss Low, the daughter of his fa- 
 ther's intimate friend Nicholas Low. 
 
210 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 old. How are all the family ? Octavia, I don't hear 
 from anybody ; you ought to write once a fortnight cer- 
 tainly. 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. 4 Yours ever, E. S. B. 
 
 To Mrs. Octavia Browne. 
 
 New York, March 30, 1806. 
 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 I am most impatiently looking for Miranda and hop- 
 ing, tho' I dare not place too much dependence on see- 
 ing my Father. I am better than when I wrote you 
 before, tho' still subject to these faint turns. I have be- 
 come 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 lan- 
 guid. 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 
 
CHARLES KING 
 From a miniature in the possession of his daughter, Mrs. Marti 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 211 
 
 depend upon my feelings at the time. I shall look out 
 the last of the week for Pappa and Miranda very seri- 
 ously. 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. E. S. B. 
 
 Mrs. Mary Southgate. 
 
 New York, April 27, 1806. 
 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 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 particu- 
 lars 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 
 
212 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 make some further remonstrances on the defenceless 
 state of the Port of New York, occasioned by an acci- 
 dent 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 man- 
 ner 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 col- 
 lected 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 ; 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 213 
 
 — I shall expect to hear to-morrow when he got to 
 Providence. Adieu, my dear Mother. 
 
 Ever your affectionate E. S. Bowne. 
 
 May 18. 
 
 By way of punishment, if it is any, I have denied my- 
 self 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 par- 
 ticulars ; you said nothing about Arixene. 
 
 Sunday, May 25, 1806. 
 
 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 know- 
 ing 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 pur- 
 pose for the occasion ; something singular, as it would 
 not be like Miss Laurelia. But what do you think — 
 
214 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Mr. Grellet has taken French leave of New York — 
 sailed for France about a fortnight ago, without any- 
 body'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 Ma- 
 dames that have founded their hopes on the fidelity of a 
 Frenchman. Poor Mrs. Ogden has another little petti- 
 coated 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 lit- 
 tle rogue, he is always in mischief ; I am just leaving off 
 his caps ; I want his hair to grow before his Grand- 
 mamma 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 ? 
 
 Yours ever, E. S. Bowne. 
 
 Miss Miranda Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 215 
 
 New York, Nov. 8, 1806. 
 
 My Dear Octavia : 
 
 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 re- 
 turned 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 Mac- 
 Comb ; 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 imme- 
 diately 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. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
216 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 My Dear Mother : 
 
 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 informa- 
 tion, 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. 
 
 Saturday, 18th. 
 
 Miranda : 
 
 Mrs. Derby has returned from Philadelphia, and in- 
 tends 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 consti- 
 tution has suffered an injury from this kind of life it 
 will never recover. She has absolutely refused all invi- 
 tations 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 ; l Miranda 
 
 1 Miss Fairlee was the daughter of Major Fairlee of the British army, 
 who was a noted wit. Many anecdotes are told of his odd sayings. One 
 of them was, that being on his death-bed he was told by his physician to 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 217 
 
 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. Kins- 
 man ; 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 1 wore 
 a long black velvet dress with Pearl ornaments, look- 
 ing elegantly. The next day I dined at Uncle Rufus 
 King's with company ; on Tuesday following, went 
 to a ball at Mrs. Stevens'; 2 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 3 to a 
 
 take yeast as medicine. "What for?" said the Major; "to make me 
 rise ? " Miss Fairlee married Cooper the actor. 
 
 1 The wife of the French General Moreau. They came to the United 
 States in 1805, but he returned to fight with the Allies, and was killed in 
 1813, some say by a bullet aimed by Napoleon himself. 
 
 2 Mrs. Stevens was Miss Rachel Coxe, of Philadelphia, and had mar- 
 ried Colonel Stevens, of Hoboken, New Jersey. 
 
 8 Miss Lyde married Jonathan Ogden. Among her children were Mrs. 
 Robert Goelet, Mrs. Dominick Lynch Lawrence, and Mrs. Joseph Ogden. 
 
218 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 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. JBogert'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. 
 
 Ever yours, E. S. Bowne. 
 
 New York, Dec. i, 1807. 
 
 You won't write a line I find without a punctual an- 
 swer, letter for letter. Could not you make any allow- 
 ance for domestic engagements, etc., etc., and write me 
 at present two for one, or were you afraid of the prece- 
 dent ; I might claim as a right hereafter what I owed 
 merely to your indulgence. I have anxiously wished to 
 hear again from little William Brown, for, notwithstand- 
 ing your flattering accounts of his returning health, I felt 
 so fully persuaded he would never recover that I could 
 not but think he would relapse again. How happy I 
 shall be to hear that my fears are groundless ! If you 
 have not written again before this reaches you, lose no 
 time but write at once. I do not write to Octavia till I 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 219 
 
 know whether she is in Boston or Portland. You must 
 make it a rule, Miranda, to write me once a fortnight 
 whether I answer or not. Charles King will tell you all 
 the news of the fashionable world. I have been in no 
 parties yet. The Theatre is quite the rage. I have 
 been several times, — you have no idea how much it is 
 improved, entirely altered, — looks light and gay, — a 
 perfect contrast to its former appearance. Cooper 
 draws crowded houses every night — I have been much 
 delighted. Mr. Wolsey Rogers' approaching nuptials 
 seem anticipated as the opening of the winter campaign ; 
 of course the event is much talked of, not a mantua- 
 maker in the city but will tell you some particulars of 
 the bride's wardrobe, — length of her train, etc., etc. ; — 
 a fine lady here, as Mustapha says, is estimated by the 
 length of her tail. If it was not for using a most homely 
 proverb, I would say "Every dog has his day." Here 
 was our friend John Murray and his bride last winter, 
 making all ring ; this winter quietly settled in Nassau 
 St., just what I call comfortable, (you have not seen this 
 new play about comfortable.) Poor Sterlitz, who has 
 no way to discover his taste or judgment but by finding 
 fault with everything, seems quite in a fuze (is there 
 such a word ?) that Mr. Murray prefers his own comfort 
 to dashing in high style. I suppose, Mrs. B. begins 
 to feel all the palpitations and trepidations of a doating 
 anxious mother in introducing her favorite daughter to 
 the world. The next winter is the all-important era for 
 the exhibition. Miss A., in my opinion, will make a 
 
220 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 little coquette — the bud seems expanding even now, — 
 that extreme simplicity, which her mother encouraged 
 by always talking of it before her, as if she was too 
 young to understand, is now changing for an affectation 
 of simplicity. I hope she will correct it ; time will con- 
 vince her that simplicity is only charming in inexperi- 
 enced youth, or rather the kind of simplicity which 
 she possesses. There is a simplicity which gives a soft- 
 ness, a tone (as a painter would say) to the whole char- 
 acter, but it springs uncontaminated from the guileless 
 purity of the mind ; all affectation of this serves but 
 as a tattered veil thro' which you constantly penetrate 
 to the original deformity — Where have I rambled ? 
 Poor Mrs. Greene is dangerously ill, her friends have 
 little hope of her recovery. On Saturday she was not 
 expected to live the day, — bled several quarts at the 
 lungs ; she is a favorite with all who know her, a most 
 valuable woman. On business : — Mamma told me 
 something about getting muslin for Arixene — a frock to 
 work, but I have forgotten whether she afterwards told 
 me to get it or not. I can get very pretty for 2 dollars 
 or 2 1-2 ; let me know. Tell Octavia I received the 
 little hat which Mr. Browne bo't for me in Boston, and 
 shall send the little tub and the rest of the money, as 
 soon as I know she is in Boston. Fashions : — Ladies 
 wear fawn-colored coats and bonnets of the same 
 trimmed with velvet trimming, same color with lappets, 
 cape and inner waistcoat. If I could find an opportu- 
 nity I should send you a bonnet and Mamma a cap. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 221 
 
 Adieu, — tell Arixene to write to me. James King 
 writes to Charles King he liked Arixene best of all the 
 Cousins. 
 To Miss Miranda Southgate. 
 
 New York, Dec. 13, 1807. 
 
 I have been waiting some time to hear you were in 
 Boston, but as I have not heard from any of the family 
 for some weeks I shall write you and direct to Portland. 
 I am rejoiced to hear that little William continues to 
 recover fast, for Mrs. Derby writes me still later than 
 Miranda that he is almost recovered. How happy you 
 must feel ! None but those who have suffered the anx- 
 iety can conceive the happiness of such a change. I 
 don't hear half often enough from you. Miranda writes 
 but seldom. Charles King told me last evening, in his 
 last letter from her she says she is going to spend part 
 of the winter in Boston with you, — from that Icon- 
 elude you intend going to housekeeping before Spring. 
 I have been making a plan for you to make me a visit 
 next Spring. I think there can be no objection to it; 
 your husband can make arrangements to leave Boston 
 for a month or a few weeks, I am sure. The accommo- 
 dations in the stage to Providence are so good, you can 
 go in half a day — take passage in a Packet and be in 
 New York in three days with ease. You can either 
 bring William with you, which I should wish you to, or 
 leave him if you prefer it. Indeed I can see no objec- 
 
 \3RAJ^ 
 
222 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 tion to the plan. Your friends in New York have made 
 particular enquiries respecting you. Mary Murray says 
 you have quite given her up, that she has not received 
 a line from you for some time — I don't remember how 
 long. I believe I told you Mrs. Ogden had lost her 
 youngest child, about 5 months old. Harriet Beam, 
 whom I believe you knew, died last week, — melan- 
 choly, so young. Mrs. Derby writes me her Father is 
 still far from strong and firm, tho' much better ; very 
 probable his constitution will never entirely recover this 
 shock. I am much obliged to Mr. Browne for purchasing 
 the little hat for Walter. It was not the kind I meant, 
 however, — those here are worn only by girls, square 
 crowns altogether for boys. Give my best love to Ho- 
 ratio and Nabby, Isabella and husband, Arixene — I 
 want to send her a pattern Jo work a frock in ; I have a 
 very pretty one, with but little work on. Adieu ; write 
 me very particularly about William. E. S. Bowne. 
 
 To Mrs. Wm, Browne (Octavia Southgate). 
 
 New York, Jan. 13, 1808. 
 
 I have been in daily expectation of hearing farther 
 from you, my dear Miranda. I received a letter from 
 Octavia by the same mail that brought me yours, inform- 
 ing me of the melancholy change in their prospects, 
 which I answered immediately and used every argument 
 I thought could console her at such a time. Her firm- 
 ness and resolution in relating the particulars, her rea- 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 223 
 
 soning on the subject, displayed the real superiority of 
 her mind. She has had severe trials ; the danger of her 
 child, and now this stroke ; I tremble when I think with 
 how much less firmness I should probably have acted 
 in the same trials. I am extremely anxious to hear all 
 the particulars of their failure, how Mr. Browne bears it, 
 where they will spend their winter. I wish with all my 
 heart Octavia and her child would come and stay with 
 me until Mr. Browne could arrange his affairs a little. 
 But I suppose 'twould be in vain to urge her to leave 
 her husband at this time. You mention that you were 
 in hopes Papa would secure Octavia's furniture for her. 
 I wish you would write me particularly if he did. Oc- 
 tavia writes me he attached all the personal property he 
 knew of at the time. Pappa too I fear will be quite a 
 sufferer by their failure. I hear Webster is gone, — he, 
 I think, had money of my Father's. Mr. Bowne has al- 
 ways thought he played rather a hazardous game in let- 
 ting out money in that way. I hope he is not materi- 
 ally injured, — he will, at any rate, have the consolation 
 to know that the education of his children is principally 
 accomplished ; he will always have enough to live with 
 comfort and ease, and as to leaving a great deal, I think 
 'tis very immaterial. I am glad to find his stock here 
 has produced a very good dividend this month. I hope 
 this won't depress his spirits any, — old people feel the 
 loss of property much more than younger ones. How- 
 ever, Papa's is nothing to mention at these times, as he 
 is not in debt, has a good farm, and will always have all 
 
224 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 the comforts of life ; indeed, I think 'twill have a good 
 effect. He has always been determined on leaving such 
 a sum untouched, and from that darling object has de- 
 prived himself of the comfort of a comfortable house for 
 many years past. Accident has interfered with the ful- 
 filment of his plan ; he will now enjoy what he has left 
 without thinking of leaving just so much ; his children 
 are, or soon will be grown up, and he ought to have no 
 other care but to enjoy what he has dearly earned, now 
 in his old age. I am sure all his children most heartily 
 wish it, if he should not leave a farthing for them. Old 
 Mr. Codwise has failed, a dreadful thing for so old a 
 man. Mr. Macomb [Ann and Robert's father] is gone 
 too ; all the Franklins too, and a great many others I 
 do not now recollect. Adieu ; write me immediately and 
 tell me every particular. My love to Arixene; is she at 
 Miss Martin's, for I have never heard ? 
 
 E. S. Bowne. 
 
 Miss Miranda Southgate. 
 
 Boston, December 21, 1808. 
 
 My best Friends : 
 
 In consequence of a letter from Mr. Bowne, received 
 this day, I have to inform you that instead of proceed- 
 ing to Scarborough, my next journey is to New York. 
 He writes me that by the advice of Mr. King they have 
 concluded it will be best for Eliza to go to Charleston, 
 South Carolina, in order to avoid the severity of our 
 winter ; that he is under the necessity of remaining in 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 225 
 
 New York till February himself, and that he wishes me 
 to return and go on with Eliza and Octavia as soon as I 
 can. As I have nothing of consequence to prevent me, 
 I shall leave this in a day or two for New York, and 
 shall be fully satisfied if I can render them the least ser- 
 vice by my attentions. With sentiments of the high- 
 est esteem and regard, 
 
 I am your obedient servant W. Browne. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate. 
 
 New York, Dec. 27, 1808. 
 
 You are anxious, my Dear Mother, to hear from my 
 own hand how I am. Octavia has told you all my com- 
 plaints : my cough is extremely obstinate, I have occa- 
 sionally a little fever, tho' quite irregular and sometimes 
 a week without any. I have a new Physician to attend 
 me ; he is a Frenchman of great celebrity, particularly 
 in Pulmonary complaints, and has been wonderfully suc- 
 cessful in the cure of coughs ; he keeps me on a milk 
 diet, but allows me to eat eggs and oysters. He does 
 not give any opiates ; Paregoric and Laudanum he en- 
 tirely disapproves of ; he gives no medicine but a decoc- 
 tion of Roots and Flowers ; — the Iceland Moss or Lichen 
 made in a tea he gives a great deal of, and for cough I 
 take a white Pectoral lotion he calls it, made princi- 
 pally of White Almonds, Gum Arabic, Gum Tragacanth 
 (or something like it), the Syrup of Muskmelon seeds. 
 He thinks I am much better already. I have no pain 
 
226 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 at all, and have not had any. My cough seems to be all 
 my disorder. He thinks he can cure that ; indeed he 
 speaks with perfect confidence, and says he has no doubt 
 as soon as I get to warmer weather, my cough will soon 
 leave me. Mr. Browne got here last night, and we shall 
 probably sail by Sunday at farthest. Octavia will write 
 particularly. You will hear from me, my Dear Mother, 
 often, — at present my mind seems so occupied; leaving 
 my children, preparing to go, and making arrangements 
 to shut up my house. 'Tis quite a trial to leave my lit- 
 tle ones ; I leave them at their Grandmother's. My lit- 
 tle Mary 1 has a wet-nurse ; she is a fine, lively child, and 
 thrives fast. Adieu, my Dear Mother; I did not think I 
 could have written half as much ; love to all my friends. 
 
 Eliza S. Bowne. 
 
 Charleston, South Carolina, Jan. i, 1809. 
 
 Our most esteemed Friends : 
 
 We have now been in the City a week. We find that 
 Eliza has gained a little strength since she arrived, and 
 that her cough is not quite so distressing as before we 
 left New York. She complains of no pain, but her fever 
 and night sweats continue to trouble her every other 
 day and night, as was the case before. She can walk 
 about her room with ease; and she rides when the 
 weather is fine, which she is much pleased with, and no 
 doubt it is of great service to her. The streets are en- 
 tirely of sand, as smooth as possible, no pavements, not 
 
 1 Mrs. John Lawrence. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 227 
 
 a stone to be seen, which renders it very easy riding for 
 her. It is as warm as our first of May, (if not the mid- 
 dle,) and when the weather is fair, the air is clear, very 
 mild and refreshing. The change is so great between 
 this and New York that I cannot help thinking it must 
 have a great and good effect on Eliza. I find as to my- 
 self that my cough is done away entirely, and I had a 
 little of it most all the time at home in winter. Octavia 
 has certainly grown fat, and our little Frederic is very 
 well indeed. Eliza eats hominy, rice and milk, eggs and 
 oysters cooked in various ways, vegetables too, which 
 we find in great perfection here; fruit is plenty of almost 
 every description. The oranges raised here are not 
 sweet but are very large. Their olives, grapes, and figs 
 are excellent. Their meats and fish are not so good as 
 ours. Their Poultry is fine ; a great plenty of Venison, 
 wild ducks, and small sea-fowl ; green peas we shall 
 have in about a month; so that, beside the change of cli- 
 mate, we have many of the luxuries of a Northern sum- 
 mer. Uncle King gave us letters to Gen. C. C. Pinck- 
 ney and his brother Major Thomas Pinckney, — both of 
 them being out of town at their plantation ; their sister, 
 Mrs. Hovey, received the letters and has been very at- 
 tentive and kind to us all. She is a widow, about 55 I 
 should judge, of the first respectability, and appears a 
 very pleasant, amiable and cheerful old lady. She 
 sends some nice things to Eliza almost every day. Her 
 daughters, Mrs. Rutledge, two Miss Pinckneys (daugh- 
 ters of the General), Mrs. Gilchrist and daughter, Mr. 
 
228 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 and Mrs. Mannigault, Mrs. Middleton, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Izard, 1 Mr. and Mrs. Dessault and Mr. Heyward make 
 an extensive acquaintance for us. They all seem very 
 kind and hospitable to us, plain and open in their man- 
 ners, and yet the most genteel and easy. Eliza has 
 seen only Mrs. Hovey, Mrs. Rutledge, and the two 
 Miss Pinckneys, but she thinks in a few days to be able 
 to receive short visits from a few of her friends, and 
 even thinks it may be of consequence to enliven her. 
 She rides whenever the weather is fine, and is very much 
 pleased with the appearance of everything growing in 
 the gardens here so like our June. We have had one 
 visit from a Physician only ; he thinks taking a little 
 blood from her would be of service, but she has not yet 
 consented. He approved of her diet and of the Iceland 
 Moss tea which was recommended at New York, and 
 which is said here to have had a great effect in remov- 
 ing complaints of the cough. Mrs. Mannigault told us 
 yesterday she found immediate relief from it after she 
 had been sick a long time. We expect Mr. Bowne in 
 the course of a fortnight, and then I expect to return 
 
 1 Ralph Izard and his wife, the granddaughter of Etienne de Land, a 
 Huguenot nobleman who came to this country in 1686. Mr. Izard had 
 been appointed Commissioner from Congress to the grand-duchy of 
 Tuscany, and had performed other important diplomatic services. He 
 was one of the first United States senators from South Carolina. Mrs. 
 Mannigault's husband was the grandson of Mr. and Mrs. Izard. She was 
 related to the Misses Watts of New York, and for their sake was particu- 
 larly attentive and kind to their friend Mrs. Bowne. Mr. and Mrs. Hey- 
 ward were the parents of the celebrated beauty Miss Elizabeth Heyward, 
 who married James Hamilton. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 229 
 
 toward Scarborough immediately. We hope to hear 
 from you in a few days ; not a word have we yet from 
 New York since we arrived. Our darling boy we think 
 we see every day playing about us, without thinking who 
 admires him at the distance of I ioo miles. 
 Our best wishes attend you always. 
 
 Affectionately, W. Browne. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Southgate. 
 
 Charleston, Jan. 28, 1809. 
 
 Dear Caroline, I send by Capt. Crowel a little pair of 
 shoes for Mary, a little Cuckoo toy for Walter, and a 
 tumbler of Orange Marmalade for Mother. I have had 
 only one letter from New York since I have been here, 
 and that from Mary Perkins, not one line from my hus- 
 band. I can tell you nothing flattering of my health : I 
 am very miserable ; at present I have a kind of inter- 
 mittent Fever ; this afternoon I shall take an emetic, 
 and hope a good effect How are my dear little ones ? 
 — I hope not too troublesome. Octavia is in fine 
 health and grows quite fat for her. Frederic has been 
 unusually troublesome. My dear little Walter ! — I 
 hardly trust myself to think of them, — precious chil- 
 dren — how they bind me to life ! Adieu. I have a 
 bad headache and low-spirited to-day. Eliza. 
 
 Caroline Bowne (with 2 small parcels), 
 No. 288 Pearl Street, 
 Blazing Star. New York. 
 
 This appears to be the last letter written by Mrs. 
 Bowne. (M. K. L.) 
 
230 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 From Mrs. William Browne to Mrs. King. 
 
 Charleston, February 2, 1809. 
 
 I have been waiting day after day, my Dear Aunt, in 
 the hope of having something pleasant to communicate 
 to you, but I do very much fear I shall now have noth- 
 ing, if ever, to say about our Dear Eliza but will give 
 you pain. I sat down to write to you without knowing 
 what to say. I have been so in the habit of dissembling 
 lately that I can hardly throw it off, for when I write 
 my Father and Mother everything is so glossed over, 
 'tis impossible to come at the truth. You know not 
 how I am affected, my Dear Aunt. I fear I am doing 
 wrong in deceiving them, for it is my firm opinion she 
 never will be well. Do advise me, tell me what I ought 
 to do. I think to you I may say the truth — I think 
 she has been growing sicker every hour since she left 
 New York. Her voyage had a singular effect upon her: 
 she suffered but little from seasickness, but every bad 
 symptom she had before seemed increased ; she coughed 
 a great deal and very hard, her fever and night sweats 
 were excessive. You may imagine she was much weak- 
 ened ; but I hoped this was a temporary thing, and a 
 few days of quiet and of rest would restore her ; but in- 
 stead of that, directly after our arrival a sort of inter- 
 mittent fever took place, she had a regular chill and 
 fever every day, she lost her strength very much, no 
 appetite at all. This last four or five days her disorder 
 wears another appearance. 'Tis now Thursday. On 
 Sunday Dr. Irvine ordered her to take Quashy in order 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago, 231 
 
 to prevent a chill; she took it according to his direction 
 — it brought on her fever at I o'clock in the morning, 
 and it never left her till 12 o'clock at night, it ab- 
 solutely raged all day. Since then she has had no night 
 sweats, no chill, but her cough and fever very much in- 
 creased. Her nerves are extremely disordered ; such a 
 tremor that to-day she cannot feed herself at all. She 
 is so weak and exhausted that she cannot walk alone. 
 'Tis now 11 o'clock — I am sitting by her side, and she 
 is still coughing and in such a hot fever she can bear 
 nothing to touch her. I have not asked her Physician's 
 opinion concerning her; 'tis unnecessary I feel, I know 
 what it must be. Yet is it not strange she keeps up 
 her spirits ? She is looking forward with the greatest 
 anxiety to warm weather. God grant it may not be 
 too late ! Dr. Irvine was the Physician Mrs. Hovey 
 recommended ; he is indisposed and has left his patients 
 in the care of Dr. Barrow. The exchange has pleased 
 us very much, for Dr. Barrow is considered quite as 
 skilful, and is extremely kind and fatherly in his man- 
 ners, indeed he reminds us so strongly of our Dear 
 Father that we already love him very much. 
 
 February 3. 
 
 Poor Eliza had a most distressing night last night. She 
 coughed so long that she was entirely exhausted ; her 
 fever was very high, and she has scarcely spoken a loud 
 word to-day. Her nerves are in a dreadful state. I in- 
 
232 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 quired of Dr. Barrow what he thought of her situation ; 
 he says he can say nothing encouraging. He said the 
 disorder had taken great hold upon her, and had shat- 
 tered her nerves in a terrible manner. He very much 
 fears a nervous fever, — that her pulse was very bad, as 
 nearly as he could count up to 150. Is it not very evi- 
 dent from his being so candid, my Dear Aunt, that he 
 has but little or no hope of her recovery ? And yet so 
 strongly do I sympathize in every feeling of hers, that 
 seeing her easier and more comfortable this evening 
 has renewed my hopes and put me quite in spirits. She 
 has been much better this afternoon and evening, less 
 fever, less tremor upon her nerves, and since she has 
 been in bed has had no bad coughing spell. The mail 
 went to the Northward to-day. I have so little time to 
 write that I have missed it. I will let you know to- 
 morrow how she is, and the next day is post-day again. 
 I know what a kind interest you and my uncle take 
 in our dear Eliza, and I know I cannot be too minute. 
 Our friends here are kinder than I can express to you. 
 It seems sometimes as though we were among our own 
 relations. They think of every little thing for Eliza's 
 comfort and convenience that I could myself. 
 
 Monday, February 6. 
 
 This morning Eliza was better, my Dear Aunt, than 
 she has been for a week past. Her voice has returned 
 and she appears stronger in every respect. Yesterday 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 233 
 
 and last night she had a little fever, this morning is de- 
 lightful and she is going to ride. You shall hear again 
 from us before long. I know Mrs. Bogert will need no 
 apology, I am sure, for my not writing. The repetition 
 of such symptoms are distressing to me beyond expres- 
 sion. Your affectionate niece O. S. Browne. 
 
 To Mrs. Bowne. 
 
 New York, Feb'y 4, 1809. 
 
 Your letter, my love, of the 13th and 14th has com- 
 forted me. You must keep up your spirits; you will 
 do well, Dr. Bergere says ; attacks similar to yours are 
 not of the dangerous kind that some think; he approves 
 of your taking the Lychen again. I have sent a bundle 
 from Mr. King by Capt. Slocum, who sails to-morrow. 
 I am distressed I cannot go with him, but so it is. It 
 is next to impossible I should leave here till about the 
 25th of this month. Mr. Jenkins, my assistant, is ab- 
 sent, and I cannot leave the office until he returns with- 
 out relinquishing it altogether, and I have most of my 
 houses to let this month, those I have lately built in- 
 cluded, and which are not finished, but I am determined 
 to leave here in all this month. I hope you have a 
 comfortable place now ; what abominable lodgings the 
 first were ! Don't mind the expense : get everything and 
 do everything you like, we can afford it. I wish my 
 presence in this place could as well be dispensed with, 
 but so it is. I think it right you should have a Physi- 
 
234 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 cian. I will bring the things you mention ; our children 
 are well. Ever, Walter Bowne. 
 
 The Ship — General Eaton — has not yet arrived, I 
 will write to Mr. Brown by this vessel if I have time ; if 
 not, by mail on Monday or Tuesday. 
 
 (With a bundle of Lychen for E. S. B.) 
 
 The following letter from Mr. Rufus King to his 
 nephew Horatio Southgate, will show how much alarm 
 was felt about Mrs. Bowne's health. 
 
 Dear Sir : New York, February 9, 1809. 
 
 I have to beg your excuse that I have so long delayed 
 my answer to your letter written I believe in November. 
 The Plants were a long time on their way, and did not 
 arrive till Christmas, when we had a few days of mild 
 weather, which enabled us to put them in the ground. 
 Mr. Mars is entitled to credit for the manner and care 
 with which the Plants were packed, and altho' they 
 were much longer out of the ground than they sh d have 
 been, I am in hopes that many of them were saved. 
 Inclosed I send you a Post-note (payable to your order) 
 on the Boston Branch Bank for 47 dollars, being the 
 amount of Mars's account, and I beg you to accept my 
 acknowledgments for the trouble you have given your- 
 self in this Business. Should there be an opportunity 
 direct from Portland to N. York in the Spring, any time 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 235 
 
 in Ap 1 or May would do (for that is the true season, 
 even on to the middle of June, to remove evergreens), 
 I wish Mars to send me a few more spruces, one mod- 
 erate sized Box, together with some of the small Ever- 
 green shrubs found in the woods and pastures, and 
 which I remember abounded in the Pasture of Knight's 
 Farm, and which we called laurel, or sheep poison. 
 Any other small plants may be added to fill up the Box. 
 
 We yesterday heard from Mrs. Bowne, who had re- 
 covered from the fatigue of her voyage, and thought 
 herself something better. I am in hopes that the soft 
 weather of an early spring will do more for her than 
 medicine could have effected in the rude weather of our 
 winter and spring. I ought not to conceal from you, 
 tho' I think you sh d not unnecessarily increase the anx- 
 iety of your mother, that I am not free from apprehen- 
 sions regarding your Sister's complaint ; it is so flatter- 
 ing and insidious, that I do not place the same Re- 
 liance upon favorable Reports w h in any other case I 
 sh d be inclined to do. I by no means think that she 
 has no chance of recovery. On the contrary, I have 
 the satisfaction to believe and expect that she will re- 
 gain her accustomed good health. Mrs. Browne's being 
 with her is a very important circumstance in a case in 
 which good nursing and careful attention is of so much 
 consequence. 
 
 With sincere Regards, I remain, D r Sir, 
 
 Y r obliged serv't, Rufus King. 
 
 Horatio Southgate, Esqr., Portland, Maine. 
 
236 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Charleston, February 21, 1809. 
 
 I will permit no one but myself to transmit to you 
 the dreadful intelligence this letter will convey to you, 
 my dear Parents. A good and merciful God will not 
 forsake you at this awful moment. Our dear Eliza is 
 freed from her earthly sufferings and I humbly trust 
 is now a blessed spirit in Heaven ! I offer you no 
 consolation; I commit you into the hands of a Good 
 God, who has supported me when my strength failed 
 me. She had her senses at intervals for the few days 
 last of her illness. She spoke of her approaching 
 change with great composure, said she had thought 
 much of it, that she trusted in God for future happi- 
 ness with great satisfaction and confidence ; wished her 
 time might come speedily that she might be relieved 
 from the pain of seeing her distressed friends. She 
 suffered with wonderful patience ; never murmured. 
 At the very last she looked the satisfaction she had not 
 the power to speak. At 2 o'clock yesterday afternoon 
 was this most afflicting scene. Octavia had great forti- 
 tude to sit by her when she could speak only with her 
 eyes. She knew us, and listened with apparent satis- 
 faction to a prayer I read only an hour before the sad 
 moment. It was a day of trial with us most severe. 
 With much affection and regard to all, 
 
 W. Browne. 
 
 Poor Mr. Bowne has not arrived. 
 
 To Mr. & Mrs. Southgate. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 237 
 
 Charleston, March 12, 1809. 
 
 I hope, my dear Miranda, this will be the last letter 
 you will receive from me at Charleston. Poor Mr. 
 Bowne arrived here on Thursday. Not a word had he 
 heard, and owing to his having left New York he had not 
 received a single very alarming letter. He was entirely 
 unprepared for the shock which awaited him ; never did 
 I pity any one so. He is indeed borne down with the 
 weight of his grief. But the violence I dreaded I see 
 nothing of. There is no judging from the effect little 
 troubles have upon people, how they will bear great 
 ones. I know it by myself — I see it in him. He is 
 more composed to-day, and we are making arrangements 
 to get away. He is much gratified that we waited here 
 for him, which we had some doubt about on account of 
 the great expense in these houses. The Minerva, a very 
 fine Packet, arrived from New York yesterday. We 
 shall return in her. She will go in the course of a week 
 or ten days. What a melancholy voyage ! But yet I 
 will not think so. I am going to my dear father and 
 mother, my kind sisters, — indeed, 'tis a delightful 
 thought. 
 
 Your sister, 
 
 O. Browne. 
 
238 A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 
 
 Among the letters which were so carefully preserved 
 by her daughter, Mrs. Lawrence, was found the follow- 
 ing extract from a daily paper : — 
 
 Died at Charleston, S. C, on the 19th ult, Mrs. Walter Bowne, consort 
 of Walter Bowne, Esq., of New York, and daughter of the Hon. Robert 
 Southgate, of Scarborough, Maine, aged 25 years. The Bereaved Husband 
 and infant children, the afflicted parents, Brethren and sisters, and the nu- 
 merous respectable friends and acquaintances by whom she was so justly 
 respected and beloved for her talents and virtues, will deeply mourn this 
 early signal triumph of the King of Terrors. But they will not " sorrow 
 as those without hope." Her immortal spirit, liberated from the body, is, 
 we trust, already admitted to a clear and perfect, an immediate and posi- 
 tive, a soul-transforming and eternal vision of God and the Redeemer. 
 Why the most endearing ties of nature should be dissolved almost as 
 soon as formed, why the dreadful law of mortality should be executed on 
 the most worthy and dearest objects of conjugal, parental, and social 
 love, in the moment of sanguine expectation of reciprocal enjoyment, is 
 among the dark and mysterious questions in the book of Providence. 
 The ways of God are inscrutable to man, " clouds and darkness are round 
 about him, yet righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his 
 throne." All afflictive events are readily resolved into the wisdom of 
 God. To his sovereign will, reason and religion, duty and interest re- 
 quire us to bow with reverence. What a dark and gloomy veil is spread 
 by the early death of our friends over our earthly enjoyments ! How ten- 
 derly are we hereby admonished not to expect satisfaction in this empty, 
 fluctuating, and transitory state ! How strongly urged to place our 
 affections on things above, to secure an immediate interest in those 
 sublime and durable pleasures which flow from the service and favor of 
 God and the prospect of complete and endless felicity in His presence. 
 
A Girl's Life Eighty Years Ago. 239 
 
 Inscription on the monument in Archdale Church- 
 yard, in Archdale Street, Charleston, S. C. : — 
 
 SACRED 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ELIZA S. BOWNE 
 
 Wife of Walter Bowne of New York, 
 Daughter of Robert Southgate Esqr., 
 of Scarborough, District of Maine, 
 who departed this life on the 19th 
 day of February, 1809, a g ec * 25 years. 
 
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