Yours most tenderly, J. Adams.
282. Abigail Adams.
23 December, 1782.
My dearest Friend,—I have omitted writing by the last opportunity to Holland, because I had but small faith in the designs of the owners or passengers; and I had just written you so largely, by a vessel bound to France, that I had nothing new to say. There are few occurrences in this northern climate, at this season of the year, to divert or entertain you; and, in the domestic way, should I draw you the picture of my heart, it would be what I hope you still would love, though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have ever maintained over it, leave not the smallest space unoccupied. I look back to the early days of our acquaintance and friendship, as to the days of love and innocence, and with an indescribable pleasure I have seen near a score of years roll over our heads, with an affection heightened and improved by time; nor have the dreary years of absence in the smallest degree effaced from my mind the image of the dear, untitled man to whom I gave my heart. I cannot sometimes refrain considering the honors with which he is invested as badges of my unhappiness. The unbounded confidence I have in your attachment to me and the dear pledges of our affection has soothed the solitary hour, and rendered your absence more supportable; for, had I loved you with the same affection, it must have been misery to have doubted. Yet a cruel world too often injures my feelings by wondering how a person possessed of domestic attachments can sacrifice them by absenting himself for years.
"If you had known," said a person to me the other day, "that Mr. Adams would have remained so long abroad, would you have consented that he should have gone?" I recollected myself a moment, and then spoke the real dictates of my heart: "If I had known, sir, that Mr. Adams could have effected what he has done, I would not only have submitted to the absence I have endured, painful as it has been, but I would not have opposed it, even though three years more should be added to the number (which Heaven avert!) I feel a pleasure in being able to sacrifice my selfish passions to the general good, and in imitating the example which has taught me to consider myself and family but as the small dust of the balance, when compared with the great community."
It is now, my dear friend, a long, long time since I had a line from you. The fate of Gibraltar leads me to fear that a peace is far distant, and that I shall not see you,—God only knows when. I shall say little about my former request; not that my desire is less, but, before this can reach you, 't is probable I may receive your opinion; if in favor of my coming to you, I shall have no occasion to urge it further; if against it, I would not embarrass you by again requesting it. I will endeavor to sit down and consider it as the portion allotted me. My dear sons are well. Their application and improvement go hand in hand. Our friends all desire to be remembered. The fleet of our allies expects to sail daily, but where destined we know not. A great harmony has subsisted between them and the Americans ever since their residence here. This letter is to go by the Iris, which sails with the fleet. I hope it will reach you in safety.
Adieu, my dear friend. Why is it that I hear so seldom from my dear John? But one letter have I ever received from him since he arrived in Petersburg. I wrote him by the last opportunity. Ever remember me, as I do you, with all the tenderness which it is possible for one object to feel for another, which no time can obliterate, no distance alter, but which is always the same in the bosom of
Portia.