Believe me always your friend,
Louisa Verplanck.
I also append a letter received by Mr. Gouverneur from Mrs. William Kemble (Margaret Chatham Seth), which recalled many tender associations.
New York 11th April.
I need not tell you, my dear friend, how much we were all gratified by your kind remembrance of us, in the midst of your own anxiety and joy, to give us the first news of our dear Marian's safety. Give my very best love to her and a kiss to Miss Gouverneur with whom I hope to be better acquainted hereafter.
Mr. and Mrs. Nourse with our dear little Charlie left us yesterday for Washington. You will probably see them before you receive this. I feel assured that Marian is blessed in being with her mother who has every experience necessary for her. Therefore it is idle for me to give my advice but I must say, keep her quiet, not to be too smart or anxious to show her baby—at first—and she will be better able to do it afterwards. May God bless you all three and that this dear pledge committed to your charge be to you both every comfort and joy that your anxious hearts can wish. Please to give my best regards and wishes to Mrs. Campbell and her daughter from
your sincerely attached friend and cousin,
M. C. Kemble.
On the corner of Fourteenth and P Streets, and not far from our home, was the residence of Eliab Kingman, an intimate friend of Mr. Gouverneur's father. This locality, now such a business center, was decidedly rural, and Mr. Kingman's quaint and old-fashioned house was in the middle of a small farm. It was an oddly constructed dwelling and the interior was made unusually attractive by its wealth of curios, among which was a large collection of Indian relics. After his death I attended an auction held in the old home and I remember that these curiosities were purchased by Ben Perley Poore, the well-known journalist. Although many years his senior, my husband found Mr. Kingman and his home a source of great pleasure to him, and he formed an attachment for his father's early friend which lasted through life. The Kingman house was the rendezvous of both literary and political circles. William H. Seward was one of its frequent visitors and I once heard him wittily remark that it might appropriately be worshiped, as it resembled nothing "that is in the Heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or the water under the earth." For a number of years Mr. Kingman was a correspondent of The Baltimore Sun under the nom de plume of "Ion." His communications were entirely confined to political topics and he was such a skilled diplomatist that the adherents of either party, after perusing them, might easily recognize him as their own advocate. Thomas Seaton Donoho, of whom I shall speak presently, was a warm friend of Mr. Kingman and the constant recipient of his hospitality. Among his poems is a graceful sonnet entitled