A. BURR.
THEODOSIA TO JOSEPH ALSTON.
New-York, September 30, 1802.
Another mail has arrived, but to your Theo. it has brought only unhappiness. It is now a week since I received your last letter. You are ill. You have been imprudent, and all my fears are fulfilled. Without any one near you to feel for you, to attend to you, to watch every change and share every pain. Your wife only could do that. It is her whose soul clings to yours, and vibrates but in harmony with it; whose happiness, whose every emotion, more than entirely dependant on yours, are exchanged for them. It is she only who forgets herself in you, and who, in gratifying your wishes or alleviating your pain, serves the interest nearest her heart. I know you have friends with you; but, when you lose your vivacity, and your society is robbed of its usual charms, they will find your chamber dull, and leave it for some more amusing place. They cannot, like your little Theo., hang over you in your sleep, and, with a beating heart, listen to every groan and tremble at every noise. Your son, too, were we with you, would charm away your cares. His smiles could not fail to sooth any pain. They possess a magic which you cannot conceive till you see him. Would we were with you, my beloved. I am miserable about you. Adieu. Heaven bless my husband, and I am happy.
THEODOSIA.
THEODOSIA TO JOSEPH ALSTON.
New-York, October 30, 1802.
I have just received yours of the 21st. You already know the result of my confinement in bed. It certainly relieved me for some time, which proves how easily that cure would have succeeded at first. I have now abandoned all hope of recovery. I do not say it in a moment of depression, but with all my reason about me. I am endeavouring to resign myself with cheerfulness; and you also, my husband, must summon up your fortitude to bear with a sick wife the rest of her life. At present, my general health is very good; indeed, my appearance so perfectly announces it, that physicians smile at the idea of my being an invalid. The great misfortune of this complaint is, that one may vegetate forty years in a sort of middle state between life and death, without the enjoyment of one or the rest of the other.
You will now see your boy in a few days, and you will really be very much pleased with him. He is a sweet little rascal. If Heaven grant him but to live, I shall never repent what he has cost me. Adieu.