University of Virginia Library

LUCIA CULPEPER TO MARIA MEYNELL.

My dear Maria,—How I wish you were here to
help me enjoy all the fine things I see from morning till
night. You know I have no friends in this place, and
among all our party I can find no confidante but Henney,
who wonders ten times more than I do. My good
uncle, though a kind, generous, old soul, you know has
a habit of finding fault with every thing, and always exalting
the past at the expense of the present, which to
young people, to whom the present time is every thing,
is quite odd. Graves is as grave as his name, and is

all the time taken up with state prisons, alms houses,
houses of refuge, and all sorts of institutions for making
people wiser and better; or as my uncle will have
it, idle and profligate. As for Stephen, he wont let me
admire any thing in peace. The moment I do so, he
comes upon me with a comparison with something in
Paris, Rome or London, which goes near to accuse me
of a total want of taste. If you believe him, there is
nothing worth seeing here, but what comes from abroad.
I am sure he'll never like me well enough to fulfil my
uncle's wishes, and that is my great comfort. For
alas! Maria, I fear he has no heart; and judging from
what comes out of it, but little head. I dont want a
man to be always crying or talking sentiment, or forever
acting the sage; but a heartless fool is the bane of
womankind. You know Stephen's father saved my
uncle's life at the battle of the Eutaw Springs, and that
my uncle has long made up his mind to make him my
lord and master, and leave us his whole fortune, with
the exception of a legacy to poor Graves. The older
I grow, the more I dislike this plan. But I would not
thwart my dear, kind, generous uncle—father;—if any
thing less than my future happiness is at stake. He
calls Stephen, puppy, jackanapes and dandy, ten times
a day. But I can see his heart is still set upon the match.
So true is it, that it is almost impossible for old people
to give up a long cherished and favourite plan. But I
have made up my mind in the solitude of the mountains
to meet what may come—come what will.

My head is now full of finery, and all my senses in a
whirl. I wish you could see me. My hat is so large

that there is no bandbox on the face of the earth, big
enough to accommodate it; and yet you will be surprised
to hear that it is neither fit for summer or winter,
rain or sunshine. It will neither keep off one or the
other, and so plagues me when I go into the street, that
I hardly know which way to turn myself. Every puff
of wind nearly oversets me. There are forty-two yards
of trimmings, and sixty feathers to it. My dress is a
full match for my hat. It took twenty three yards of
silk, five yards of satin, besides, “bobbin, ben bobbin,
and ben bobbinet,”—I dont know what else to call
it—beyond all counting. You must think I have grown
very much. I am so beflounced, that my uncle laughs at
me whenever I come where he is, and declares, that a fine
lady, costs more to fit her out now a days, than a ship
of the line. What between hat and flounces, &c. a lady
has a time of it when the wind blows, and the dust is
flying in clouds, as it does in Broadway all day long.
I encountered a puff, at the corner of one of the streets,
and there I stood, holding my hat with one hand, and
my cardinal cloak, which has fifty-six yards of various
commodities in it, with the other. I thought I should
have gone up like a balloon; and stood stark still until
I came near being run over by a great hog, which
was scampering away from some mischievous boys.
At last a sailor took compassion on me, and set me
down at the door of a store. As he went away, I heard
him say to his companion: “D—n my eyes, Bill,
what a press of canvass the girls carry now a days.”

O its delightful to travel, Maria! We had such a
delightful sail in the steam boat, though we were all

sick; and such a delightful party, if they only had been
well. Only think of sailing without sails, and not
caring which way the wind blows; and going eight
miles an hour let what would happen. It was quite
charming; but for all this I was glad when it was over,
and we came into still water. Coming into the Narrows,
as they are called, was like entering a Paradise.
On one side is Long Island, with its low shores, studded
with pretty houses, and foliage of various kinds,
mixed up with the dark cedars. On the other, Staten
Island, with its high bluff, crowned by the telegraph
and signal poles; and beyond, the great fort that put
me in mind of the old castles which Stephen talks
about. We kept close to the Long Island shore, along
which we glided, before wind and tide with the swiftness
of wings. Every moment some new beauty opened
to our view. The little islands of the bay crowned
with castles; the river beyond terminated by the lofty
ledge of perpendicular rocks, called the palisades;
and lastly, the queen of the west, the beautiful city, with
its Battery and hundred spires, all coming one after the
other in succession, and at last all combined in one
beautiful whole, threw me almost into raptures, and entirely
cured my sea sickness. Add to this, the ships,
vessels and boats, of all sizes, from the seventy-four to
the little thing darting about, like a feather, with a single
person in it; and the grand opening of the East River,
with Brooklyn and the charming scenery beyond, and
you can form some little idea of my surprise and delight.
Signior Maccaroni, as my uncle calls him, looked at it
with perfect nonchalance. The bay was nothing to
the bay of Naples; and the castle, less than nothing,
compared with Castel Nuovo. Thank heaven, I had not
been abroad to spoil my relish. Even my uncle enjoyed
it, and spoke more kindly to me than during the
whole passage. He was very sick, and called himself
an old fool fifty times a day. I believe half the time he
meant “young fool,” that is me, for persuading him to
the voyage. Graves' eyes sparkled, but as usual he
said nothing. He only gave me a look, which said as
plainly as a thousand words, “how beautiful!” but
whether he meant me or dame nature, is more than I
can tell.

The moment we touched the wharf, there was an
irruption of the Goths and Vandals, as my uncle called
the hackney coachmen, and the porters, who risked their
necks in jumping aboard. “Carriage, sir,”—“Baggage,
sir,”—“City Hotel sir,”—“Mansion House,”—“Mrs.
Mann's,”—were reiterated a thousand times; and I
thought half a dozen of them would have fought for our
trunks, they disputed and swore so terribly. Stephen
declared it was worse than London; and Graves said
it put him in mind of the contest between the Greeks
and Trojans for the body of poor Patroclus. My uncle
called them hard names, and flourished his stick, but it
would not do. When we got to the hotel I thought we
had mistaken some palace for a public house. Such
mirrors—such curtains—such carpets—such sophas—
such chairs! I was almost afraid to sit down upon
them. Even Stephen looked his approbation, and repeated
over and over again: “Upon my soul, clever—
quite clever—very clever indeed, upon my soul.” My

uncle says, all this finery comes out of the cotton plantations
and rice swamps; and that the negroes of the
south, work like horses, that their masters may spend
their money like asses in the north.

Poor Henney does nothing but stand stock still with
her mouth and eyes wide open, and is of no more use
to me than a statue. She is in every body's way—and
in her own way too I believe. I took her with me the
other day to a milliner's, to bring home some of my
finery. She stopt at every window, with such evident
tokens of delight, that she attracted the attention of the
boys, and came very near being mobbed. I missed
her, and was obliged to turn back—where I found her
in ecstacies with a picture of Madame Hutin dancing
before a droll figure, in a fur cap and spectacles. Juba
is keeping a journal I believe, for you know that my uncle,
while he abuses the practice with his tongue, assents
to it in his heart, and humours his slaves more
perhaps than a professed philanthropist would do in his
situation. I should like to see Juba's lucubrations.

I begin to be weary—so good night, my dear Maria.
I will write again soon.