July 21, 1850.
Sunday, one o'clock.
MY DEAR SIR,—My
brain has been in such a whirl for a week, that I have hardly been composed
enough to write any body. I am well, and that is about all I can say of myself,
except that I sometimes feel that I have done a very foolish thing. A hot and
anxious summer is before me; I dread its heat and its fatigue, and I shrink
from its responsible duties. Indeed, indeed, my dear Sir, to give up home and
rest for such a prospect of things, is bad enough. But I must try to go through
it.
Pray let me hear
from you.
Yours,
DAN'L WEBSTER.
SOURCE: Fletcher
Webster, Editor, The Private Correspondence of Daniel Webster, Vol.
2, p. 378
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