― [page break] ―Fro: Str: Thursd: Morn.
So, says my Domestic Physician, you must not incoun
ter this sharp breeze. Sore throats are dangerous & the
state of your’s requires caution. I will do the out o’door
business, myself.
It goes much against the grain, but I suppose I
must comply with this well meant prohibition. I think
it a needless one, but can’t persuade him that it is so
And so, must defer the pleasure of seeing features & hearing
a voice which can never be seen & heard too often & too much
Since I cannot talk to my friend—I must—I believe—
write, & give it her when we meet; Yet why write?
I can hardly tell. This is a sort of conversation, a substi
ute for something better. My impatience has been restrained
thus long, & now, the direct gratification being not possible
my thoughts must overflow, in some way.
If I were with her, I could only look & listen; for my
impertinent Maladie, has made talking, for the present,
a painful task.
And now what shall I say to my _____. By what name
shall I call her? No name is too tender & too sacred for
my feelings; but let me carefully confine myself to the limits
she prescribes, & call her—My beloved sister & best friend.
Let me thank her for the pure delight which her conversa
=tions on our last two interviews, afforded me; The first is
delightful in remembrance, because it proved that she has a
generous interest in my welfare; that there is a noble & gene
rous heart to whom my weal or woe; my life or death is of
some weight in the scale of her happiness.
― [page break] ―The second interview was no less precious by adding new
hues & lineaments to the portrait which, beyond all others,
I desire closely to scrutinize & perfectly to know; & because these
lines & colours were all graceful & attractive.
Yet there was a jarring sting: a cloudy spot. It was when
you shut up close all your sentiments upon “The Cave of
fancy” not for want of sentiments, but because no one like you
Susan was present to receive them.
Deep was my humiliation & keen my disappointment, when
I compared this confession with one made not long before. How
soon were lost the rights of one who had been admitted to
share your affection even with that darling Sue.
You have not then, & far am I from wondering that you have
not, that unlimited reliance on the candour & affection of your
new, as you have upon those of your ‸ old friend. My hope
& consolation is that, one day, you will admit me into full
copartnership with Sue. You will admit, ‸ me, will you not,? when
I am worthy of the favour: & shall I not, in time, prove my
self worthy? I will: So believes; so vows;
― [page break] ―Sat. Aft.
Little thought I that Saturday would come without
the opportunity of a single half=hour’s visit
So it is, however, & I almost fear that the Wish too
see you must not be gratified till Monday. So says my
unseasonable indisposition, of which, no consequence
has been more regretted by me than of losing your society
thus long. I cannot talk; cannot read; & can only
write—thus much—
― [page break] ―Eliza Linn.~
Walnut Street.