Just arrived at the city of Washington, this 12th day of January, A. D. 18O2. I have only time, before closing of the mail, "to send you these few lines, hoping they may find you in good health, as I am at this present time," &c.
A form of salutation to be found in a public letter of Julius Cesar, and in one of Cicero's familiar epistles.
Your letters which greet me here are of the 2d and 20th of December only; only two. Why, I expected to find a dozen, and some of them down to within three or four days of this date. Having a hundred letters before me unread, I must defer writing to you for the present. Adieu.
A. BURR
TO THEODOSIA.
Washington, January 16, 1802.
Your letter of the 20th December (the venison letter) is still the last, though the Carolinians here have so late as the 3d and 4th of January, of which I am a little jealous. It is quite unlucky that you have been out of Charleston when your things arrived. How cook and maid will dispose of themselves for the interim, I know not. Mighty meek and humble we are grown. You really expect to do the honours of your house equal to, &c. I know better. It will be one of the most cheerful and amiable houses in the United States. I am gratified that you do not start with splendour; to descend with dignity is rare.
Pray make no definitive arrangements against the mountains. My heart is set on running over them with Mr. Alston in the spring. Why may not Papa Alston be weaned as well as Papa Burr? My movements must depend on the adjournment of Congress. Some say we shall adjourn the middle of April, and some the middle of June. As yet, I know nothing of the matter; for, during the few days I have been here, I have been enveloped in ceremonies. I am pleasantly lodged near the capitol. Eustis opposite to me. Law and Iruko my nearest neighbours.
Good venison is not to be had at this season, and to send indifferent any thing (except a wife) from New-York would be treason. Yet, on this important subject, venison meaning, I have written to New-York. You need not expect it, for I repeat that the best cannot now be had.
You must walk a great deal. It is the only exercise you can take with safety and advantage, and, being in Charleston, I fear you will neglect it. I do entreat you to get a very stout pair of over shoes, or short boots, to draw on over your shoes. But shoes to come up to the ankle bone, with one button to keep them on, will be best; thick enough, however, to turn water. The weather has not yet required this precaution, but very soon it will, and I pray you to write me that you are so provided: without them you will not, cannot walk, and without exercise you will suffer in the month of May. To be at ease on this subject, you must learn to walk without your husband—alone—or, if you must be in form, with ten negroes at your heels. Your husband will often be occupied at the hours you would desire to walk, and you must not gener him: oh, never. Adieu.