Dr. L informs me
you have written twice to me. One of the letters is lost. Will you
speedily supply the deficiency? If you can spare an hour from
business, retirement, or love, let me entreat you to devote it to your
friend. I cannot tell you how much I long to hear from you. Adieu.
Yours sincerely,
W. POPHAM.
To Mrs. Prevost.
Albany, December 23d, 1781.
My dear Theodosia is now happy by the arrival of Carlos. This was not
wishing you a happy Christmas, but actually making it so. Let all our
compliments be henceforth practical. The language of the world sounds
fulsome to tastes refined by the sweets of affection.
I see mingle in the transports of the evening the frantic little
Bartow. [2] Too eager to embrace the bliss he has in prospect;
frustrating his own purposes by inconsiderate haste; misplacing every
thing, and undoing what he meant to do. It will only confuse you.
Nothing better can be done than to tie him, in order to expedite his
own business. That you might not be cheerful alone, I have obeyed the
orders of your heart (for you cannot, even at this distance, conceal
them) by a determination to take a social, friendly supper with Van
Rensselaer.
You wrote me too much by Dom. I hope it was not from a fear that I
should be dissatisfied with less. It is, I confess, rather singular to
find fault with the quantity, when matter and manner are so
delightful. You must, however, deal less in sentiments and more in
ideas.
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