The Southgates gave their children the best education to be had in those times. They were first sent to school in Scarborough; but, later, were placed—to be “finished,” as the old phrase was—at boarding-schools near Boston. When she was fourteen years old, Eliza was sent to a school at Medford, and a letter written from that place gives a rather uncomfortable notion of her surroundings. In these few childish lines, however, the character of the woman is plainly prefigured—her observation, her power of clear, terse statement, her playful humor, her cheerful submission to duty, and her affection for her parents, making her willing to put up with whatever was disagreeable rather than give them uneasiness. However, Dr. Southgate, as a physician, could see that a school where the pupils slept, four beds in a small chamber and two in a bed, was not the place for a growing girl, and he therefore took his daughter away and put her at the school at Medford, kept by Mrs. Rowson. This, for its time, was an excellent school, and Miss Southgate remained there until the day came when “studies” were to be thrown aside, and “life” was to begin. She seems by her letters to have been very happy while under Mrs. Rowson’s care—the varied and somewhat romantic life led by that lady perhaps fitted her, better than would have been thought, to be the guide and friend of a girl of Eliza Southgate’s peculiar character.[1] Her life after she left school is so fully described in her letters that there is no need of following it in detail. She tells her own story far better than another could do it, and much that would inevitably be dull and commonplace narrated in plain prose, sparkles with life under the swift pen of this lively girl. She tells of her visit to Saratoga, with her friends Mr. and Mrs. Hasket Derby; and no school-girl of our time, writing from Paris or London, could describe the wonders of her tour with greater ecstasy. She sees this new corner of the world with the miracle-working eye of youth, and accepts everything with youth’s unquestioning heart. Previous letters had described Salem in terms equally ecstatic, and after her account of the country-seat of the Derbys, there could be nothing left to say of Versailles or St. Cloud. But what then? Was not this a fine old country-house, with its formal garden, its provincial but still solid stateliness, and, above all, with its hearty, cheerful hospitality? It was our heroine’s first glimpse of the gay world of fashion of her time, and she enjoyed it to the full.