I persuade myself this is the last day you spend in Philadelphia. That to-morrow's stage will bring you to Elizabethtown; that Tuesday morning you will breakfast with those who pass the tedious hours regretting your absence, and counting time till you return. Even little Theo. gives up her place on mamma's lap to tell dear papa--"come home." Tell Augustine he does not know how much he owes me. 'Tis a sacrifice I would not make to any human being but himself, nor even to him again. It is the last time of my life I submit to your absence, except from necessity to the calls of your profession. All is well at home. Ireson gone on his intended journey. Morris very little here. The boys very attentive and industrious; much more so for being alone. Not a loud word spoken by the servants. All, in silent expectation, await the return of their much-loved lord; but _all faintly_ when compared to thy
Since writing to you last evening, every thing has conspired to harass and delay me. I was really in hopes of surprising you on Wednesday morning; but am now most unfortunately and cruelly detained here till to-morrow evening; shall therefore, with the usual luck of stages, embrace you on Thursday morning.
I have been walking, in the course of this day, hunting offices, records, &c., &c., above eight hours, and am not fatigued. I must really be very robust. Thine,
I arrived here on Tuesday evening very late, though little fatigued. Wednesday afternoon I went with Sill to Bethlehem (Nichols), drank tea, supped, and breakfasted. I am pleased with our friend's choice, of which more next Tuesday evening. I am vexed you were not of my party here--that we did not charter a sloop. I have planned a _circuit_ with you to Long Island, with a number of pleasant &c.s, which are also reserved to a happier moment.
I shall succeed in all Mrs. Clarke's business except that of the lands, in which I hope little.
I feel impatient, and almost angry, that I have received no letter from you, though I really do not know of any opportunity by which you could have written; but it seems an endless while to wait till Saturday night before I can hear from you. How convenient would a little of the phlegm of _this region_ be upon such occasions as these! I fear very much for our dear petite. I tell every one who asks me that both she and you are well, because I abhor the cold, uninterested inquiries, which I know would be made if I should answer otherwise. Do you want the pity of such? Those you thought your very good friends here have forgotten you.