Friday, January 19, 2024

Daniel Webster to Peter. Harvey, Tuesday, September 10, 1850

Tuesday, two o'clock. September 10, 1850.

MY DEAR SIR,—You have heard how all things have gone, so far. I confess I feel relieved. Since the 7th of March, there has not been an hour in which I have not felt a "crushing" weight of anxiety and responsibility. I have gone to sleep at night, and waked in the morning with the same feeling of eating care. And I have set down to no breakfast or dinner to which I have brought an unconcerned and easy mind. It is over. My part is acted, and I am satisfied. The rest I leave to stronger bodies and fresher minds. My annual cold is now heavy upon me, weakening my body, and depressing my spirits. It has yet a fortnight to run; and perhaps will sink me lower than it did, when strong excitement enabled me to withstand it. I have lost a good deal of flesh, and you will think me thin and haggard. I have had little sleep, not four hours a night, on an average for the whole six months. Now I mean to grow stupid and lazy, and, if I can get rid of my catarrh, to eat and drink like an Alderman.

It is a day of rejoicing here, such as I never witnessed. The face of every thing seems changed. You would suppose nobody had ever thought of disunion. All say, they always meant to stand by the Union to the last.

Boston, ever true and glorious Boston, has helped us immensely. Mr. Eliot's triumphant election awakened entirely new hopes. Up to that period, they had no hopes of the North. I never knew an election, by its mere character of an election, on certain principles, produce half so much effect. He is quite a lion here. He is decided, straightforward, without any shadow of turning. It ran through the whole city, on Friday after the main vote had been taken, that Mr. Eliot said, "Now we have trodden Satan under our feet." I mention this, only to show with how much eagerness every thing is listened to, that a sound northern man says against abolitionism and all the other "isms."

Pray remember me to Mr. T. B. Curtis, Mr. Mills, Mr. Haven, and other friends. There is a host of them I shall never cease to love. Boston forever.

My eyes allow me to write only about one hour a day.

I hope to see the State House and the Common, and the Steeple on the old South, two days after Congress adjourns. Among others, remember me kindly to Fearing.

Yours truly,
D. WEBSTER.

P. S. I look to hear from you to-morrow morning.

SOURCE: Fletcher Webster, Editor, The Private Correspondence of Daniel Webster, Vol. 2, p. 385-6

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