We were in hopes Uncle and Aunt would come here with us, but Uncle said he must go _East_ if anywhere, but he wanted to be at rest a few months, now he was settled. Mrs. Codman told me she saw you all; we called a moment to see her. Mrs. Sumner has a son too. Poor Mrs. Davis, how much sickness she has! On our return from Long Branch we went to _Passaic Falls_ with a Baltimore family; had a charming little jaunt about 20 miles from New York. The falls—the rocks—the whole scenery partakes more of the sublime—almost terrific—than Glens Falls, but not so beautiful. I am much delighted to hear of Mr. Boyd’s arrival; Sister must be very happy. Martha is coming this month; the fever would prevent her coming to New York—I am sorry. Love to Mrs. Coffin. My mother is quite well, Mrs. Codman tells me. Horatio,—Miranda, there’s half a dozen wild girls here that would romp to beat her—they are as old as you, but sad romps. We shall stay here about a week, then go to _Lebanon_, where I wish you to direct a letter to me immediately on the receipt of this. I want to hear much, so does Mr. Bowne. He teases me to death to write home that we may hear from you. We depend on your coming on this winter. When we shall be to housekeeping Heaven knows; not even a napkin made, just getting a woman to work,—fixed the things already, when the fever came and we all left the city; so here I am—perfectly unprepared as possible. Adieu. Tell Horatio he has more time than I have, he ought to write me immediately to Lebanon. Lebanon has been quite deserted. Poor Hannah Hamilton’s Mamma died three or four weeks since. The servants at the other house where I kept last summer, wished me joy,—heard Miss Southgate was married to Mr. Bowne. Oh, I have not told you!—saw the tree Major Andre was taken under, and the house where _Arnold_ fled from, left his wife and family,—indeed, ’tis the very house Maria lives in. We staid two nights there and promised to go and see them on our return; charming place, such fruit, ’tis delicious. In the Jerseys,—don’t laugh at travellers’ stories,—but we really rode over the peaches in the road; we always kept our case full, William brought us some off the finest trees that hung over the road. Peaches and cream!—they laugh and say Boston people cry out, “’tis _so_ good!” Well, what have I not wrote about? A little of everything but sentiment; a dash of that to complete. I am most tired of jaunting; the mind becomes satiated with variety and description and pants for a little respite of domestic tranquillity. I’ve done; I have most forgot how to write sentiment. I have had no time to think since I was married. I don’t expect to, this 2 or 3 months, so good-bye. ELIZA S. BOWNE. Miss Octavia Southgate. Lebanon Springs, Sept. 24, 1803.