The spirit moves me to scribble off a few lines to you—but I don't know why,
for I have no news to tell & nothing particular to write about any how. I
returned to-day from a three days visit to my Quaker friends at
Germantown—they have tip top horses & carriage, & we had good long
drives Saturday afternoon & Sunday towards evening after the rain—After
supper, & the things are removed, we all sit around the table we sometimes keep
it up an hour & a half & have a good talk & discussions, & accounts
of any thing that has occurred during the day, & somebody has questions to put
or information to glean,—perhaps some little recitation or singing, a good lot
of us—eight or nine altogether—there are two just grown daughters, as
nice and jolly and 'cute as young women can be—one son—& always
three or four others—making a good time loc_vm.00210_large.jpg Sunday morning, they have family
prayers—I was requested to read a chapter from the testament—(the Sermon
on the Mount)—which I did—(I wish you could
have all seen & heard me)—I never beheld such a merry, affectionate,
hearty healthy family—nobby, too—
—With me, this fall, everything just floats idly along, as far as writing and work are concerned—Down there at Ocean Grove and along Barnegat &c. I was moved to write a poem on the ocean1—I have turned it & turned it & rewritten it over & over again—but cant get it to suit me yet—Harry, how is it with you? & why didnt you come & tell me—before you left the printing offices here?—Write me a line soon as you get this2—Sometimes I think you must be sick—
—I am about as usual—I am writing this after 9 at night up in my room, sitting in the big ratan chair.
God bless you Harry dear— W W