University of Virginia Library

LETTER CXXXI.

This is the 27th day since my arrival here; and, in all that
time, I have not heard a syllable from you. My anxiety on
this subject would be less, had I heard from you within the
last fortnight of my stay in New York; but, since the 17th of
November, when your letter of the 7th came to hand, I have
not received a line from you. Let me earnestly entreat you,
my best friend, not to leave me again in this state of suspense;
and should you be sick, and nobody have the humanity to inform
me of it, unsolicited—let me beg of you to request some
neighbour to write me, if it be but one line, to tell me how
you are. In your next, let me know the dates of the letters
which you have received from me, since I sent Jupiter home.
In looking over yours I can find but three: Oct. 6 and 16, and
Nov. 7. During that period, I have written to you (besides
my letters from Amelia and Richmond) from Baltimore, on
the 18th of October; from this place, on the 19th; and from
New York, always once a week, often twice, and sometimes
thrice, from the 21st of October to the 26th of November, inclusive.
Since I came to Philadelphia, I have written twice.
I am thus particular, because you most generally omit to notice
the receipt of my letters, as well as some of the topics on
which they treat.

I ate my Christmas dinner, yesterday, with Mr. C., and
spent the evening with Dr. and Mrs. G. At both places you
were the subject of conversation; and they all flattered me by

discovering a likeness between us. The Doctor and his lady
seem to be most cordially attached to you; so do the C—s,
and C—s, and G—s. I came home in high spirits, confident
of a letter from you, this morning—yesterday being
Sunday, we did not send to the post-office—and, in the hilarity
of this hope, I sat in my chamber, with Mr. P., until
twelve. This morning, at breakfast, the carrier arrived with
a huge packet, but "nothing for me;" and my heart has sunk
as low as the mercury, this bitter cold day. From Tudor,
since he left me, I have received three scanty pages of wide
and straggling lines, each. I sometimes ask myself, "What
can be the matter? I have written and talked to my boys
too much. They hardly deign a word, or a line, in reply.
Had I been more reserved, they would have been less uncommunicative."
Then, again, I say, "What man ever had
a better son than my Theodore? one more dutiful, more affectionate,
more manly, and independent? Poor fellow; he
is tired of drudging for me, and for himself, too; besides, the
rascally post-masters—do I know their tricks?—or, perhaps,
he may be sick." This thought is cruel; for I must wait a
change in the weather before R. can travel.

Nothing but the want of letters from home could have prevented
this being the happiest month of the last fifteen years
of my life.

Adieu! write me long, garrulous letters.