Dearest of Friends,--My habitation, how disconsolate it looks! my table,
I sit down to it, but cannot swallow my food! Oh, why was I born with so
much sensibility, and why, possessing it, have I so often been called to
struggle with it? I wish to see you again. Were I sure you would not be
gone, I could not withstand the temptation of coming to town, though my
heart would suffer over again the cruel torture of separation.
What a cordial to my dejected spirits were the few lines last night
received! And does your heart forebode that we shall again be happy? My
hopes and fears rise alternately. I cannot resign more than I do, unless
life itself were called for. My dear sons, I cannot think of them
without a tear. Little do they know the feelings of a mother's heart.
May they be good and useful as their father! Then will they in some
measure reward the anxiety of a mother. My tenderest love to them.
Remember me also to Mr. Thaxter, whose civilities and kindness I shall
miss.
God Almighty bless and protect my dearest friend, and, in his own time,
restore him to the affectionate bosom of