A. BURR.
TO THEODOSIA.
New-York, December 16, 1802.
Your letter of the 26th November came yesterday, that of the 25th the day preceding. You see, therefore, that twenty-one days had elapsed from the time of your arrival to the receipt of your first letter. This is not by way of reproach, for it is an unpleasant truth that, for the last six or eight weeks, the Charleston mail has been twenty days on the way. Had it not been for the intelligence by water of your safe arrival, we should have concluded that you and Kate [1] were now dancing with Amphitrite. How jealous her majesty would have been at the presence of two such rivals.
The day after you left us, though the weather was mild, not even a frost, the leaves of the trees about the house began to fall, and in three days they were as bare as in midwinter, though you may recollect that you left them in perfect verdure. This, I am sure, was sympathy and regret. I shall respect these trees for their sensibility. It was in harmony with my feelings; for, truly, all was dreary.
Yes, I enter into all your little vexations; but while I write, and long before, they probably have passed away, and are succeeded by new ones. Kate will help you to laugh them off. Kiss her for me. Not a word, not a line from your husband since the 30th of October. We ought, nay, we must, every day add something to our experience, and usually at some cost.
I expect to leave this in about a week. Henceforth, therefore, address me at Washington. On my arrival there we will begin to talk of our spring and summer plans. You did well, very well to give up the Columbia project. I really wish you had given the pair of horses in your own name. In all such cases, that which is most grateful to you will be so to me. Butter shall be sent. The card plate must be altered.
Maybe I may write you from Philadelphia; not again from this city, unless I should receive from you something very pretty. Vanderlyn projects to visit Charleston, but I am sure he will not. He is run down with applications for portraits, all of which, without discrimination, he refuses. He is greatly occupied in finishing his Niagara views, which, —indeed, will do him honour. They will be four in number, and he thinks of having them engraved in France. You hear the roaring of the cataract when you look at them. Kiss the dear little boy. Adieu, ma belle.