The letters of our dear children are a feast. Every part of them is
pleasing and interesting. Le Jenne is not expected to be in New-York
for some weeks at least. I avoid the subject. I shudder at the idea of
suffering any thing to mar the happiness I promise myself.
There is no possibility of my return till the middle of next week. In
one of my letters I put it to the last of next week, but we have this
day made unexpected progress. If we are equally fortunate and equally
good-natured, we may finish Wednesday night; but this is conjecture,
and perhaps my impatience makes me too sanguine.
I broke off at the bottom of the other page to pay some attention to
those who deserve much from me (our dear children). To hear that they
are employed, that no time is absolutely wasted, is the most
flattering of any thing that can be told me of them. It ensures their
affection, or is the best evidence of it. It ensures, in its
consequences, every thing I am ambitions of in them. Endeavour to
preserve regularity of hours; it conduces exceedingly to industry.
I have just heard of a Mr. Brown who goes down by water. As I may not
have another opportunity, I hazard it by him. He promises to leave it
at old Mr. Rutherford's. Our business goes on very moderately this
morning. Witnesses all tardy. We have adjourned for want of something
to do. Melancholy and vexatious. It has given me a headache. We shall
be holden, I fear, all next week.
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