Philadelphia, 15 May, 1777.
General Warren writes me that my farm never looked better than when he
last saw it, and that Mrs. ---- was likely to outshine all the farmers.
I wish I could see it. But I can make allowances. He knows the weakness
of his friend's heart, and that nothing flatters it more than praises
bestowed upon a certain lady. I am suffering every day for want of my
farm to ramble in. I have been now for near ten weeks in a drooping,
disagreeable way, constantly loaded with a cold. In the midst of
infinite noise, hurry, and bustle, I lead a lonely, melancholy life,
mourning the loss of all the charms of life, which are my family, and
all the amusements that I ever had in life, which is my farm. If the
warm weather, which is now coming on, should not cure my cold and make
me better, I must come home. If it should, and I should get tolerably
comfortable, I shall stay, and reconcile myself to the misery I here
suffer as well as I can. I expect that I shall be chained to this oar
until my constitution both of mind and body are totally destroyed and
rendered wholly useless to myself and family for the remainder of my
days.
However, now we have got over the dreary, dismal, torpid winter, when we
had no army, not even three thousand men, to protect us against all our
enemies, foreign and domestic, and now we have got together a pretty
respectable army, which renders us tolerably secure against both, I
doubt not we shall be able to persuade some gentleman or other in the
Massachusetts to vouchsafe to undertake the dangerous office of delegate
to Congress. However, I will neither whine nor croak. The moment our
affairs are in a prosperous way and a little more out of doubt, that
moment I become a private gentleman, the respectful husband of the
amiable Mrs. A., of B., and the affectionate father of her children, two
characters which I have scarcely supported for these three years past,
having done the duties of neither.