The trunk and other articles above referred to were subsequently transmitted to Colonel Burr. Among the private papers of Theodosia there are some fragments and scraps of much interest. In the summer of 1805 she was dangerously ill, and she appears, from the following letter, to have been greatly depressed in mind.
FROM THEODOSIA TO JOSEPH ALSTON.
August 6, 1805.
Whether it is the effect of extreme debility and disordered nerves, or whether it is really presentiment, the existence of which I have been often told of, and always doubted, I cannot tell; but something whispers me that my end approaches. In vain I reason with myself; in vain I occupy my mind, and seek to fix my attention on other subjects ; there is about me that dreadful heaviness and sinking of the heart, that awful foreboding, of which it is impossible to divest myself. Perhaps I am now standing on the brink of eternity; and, ere I plunge in the fearful abyss, I have some few requests to make.
I wish your sisters (one of them, it is immaterial which) would select from my clothes certain things which they will easily perceive belonged to my mother. These, with whatever lace they find in a large trunk in a garret-room of the Oaks house, added to a little satinwood box (the largest, and having a lock and key), and a black satin embroidered box, with a pincushion; all these things I wish they would put together in one trunk, and send them to Frederic, with the enclosed letter. I prefer him, because Bartow's wife would have little respect for what, however trifling it may appear, I nevertheless deem sacred.
I beg Sister Maria will accept of my watch-ring. She will find a locket which she gave me, containing the hair of her mother; she had better take it. If the lace in my wardrobe at the Oaks will be of any use to Charlotte, I beg she will take it, or any thing else she wishes. My heart is with those dear amiable sisters, to give them something worth preserving in recollection of me; but they know that a warm friendship is all I have to give.
Return to mamma the eagle she gave me. Should an opportunity to Catharine Brown ever occur, send her a pearl necklace, a small diamond ring, a little pair of coral tablets, which are among my trinkets at the Oaks. I pray you, my dear husband, send Bartow's daughter some present for me, and to himself and Frederic a lock of my hair. Return Natalie the little desk she gave me, accompanied by assurances of my affectionate recollection, and a ring of my hair. Remember me to Sally, who is truly amiable, and whom I sincerely esteem.
I beg, also, you will write immediately to New-York, for warding some money for the comfortable support of Peggy until my father can provide for her. Do not permit grief at the loss of me to render you forgetful of this, for the poor creature may expire of want in the mean time. I beg this may be attended to without delay.
To you, my beloved, I leave our child; the child of my bosom, who was once a part of myself, and from whom I shall shortly be separated by the cold grave. You love him now; henceforth love him for me also. And oh, my husband, attend to this last prayer of a doting mother. Never, never listen to what any other person tells you of him. Be yourself his judge on all occasions. He has faults; see them, and correct them yourself. Desist not an instant from your endeavours to secure his confidence. It is a work which requires as much uniformity of conduct as warmth of affection towards him. I know, my beloved, that you can perceive what is right on this subject as on every other. But recollect, these are the last words I can ever utter. It will tranquillize my last moments to have disburdened myself of them.
I fear you will scarcely be able to read this scrawl, but I feel hurried and agitated. Death is not welcome to me. I confess it is ever dreaded. You have made me too fond of life. Adieu, then, thou kind, thou tender husband. Adieu, friend of my heart. May Heaven prosper you, and may we meet hereafter. Adieu; perhaps we may never see each other again in this world. You are away, I wished to hold you fast, and prevented you from going this morning. But He who is wisdom itself ordains events; we must submit to them. Least of all should I murmur. I, on whom so many blessings have been showered—whose days have been numbered by bounties—who have had such a husband, such a child, and such a father. Oh pardon me, my God, if I regret leaving these. I resign myself. Adieu, once more, and for the last time, my beloved. Speak of me often to our son. Let him love the memory of his mother, and let him know how he was loved by her. Your wife, your fond wife,