I've just received your letter. I have been in one sense unable to
write, but you know, of course, what my condition is, and need no
excuses.
I have been, by the advice of my friends, "cooped up" since I arrived
here, going out only occasionally in the evening. My health is good,
but I suffer from the want of fresh air and exercise.
Poor mother is in Philadelphia, about crushed by her sorrows, and my
sister, Mrs. Clarke, is ill, and without the least knowledge of her
husband, who was taken from her several days ago, with Junius.
My position is such a delicate one that I am obliged to use the utmost
caution. Hosts of friends are staunch and true to me. Here and in
Boston I feel safe. What I am in Philadelphia and elsewhere I know
not. All I do [know] of the above named city is that there is one
great heart firm and faster bound to me than ever.
Sent in answer to dear Mary's [his wife's] prayers--I faithfully
believe it. She will do what Mary struggled, suffered, and died in
doing. My baby, too, is there. Now that the greatest excitement is
over, and a lull is in the storm, I feel the need of that dear angel;
but during the heat of it I was glad she was not here.
When Junius and Mr. Clarke are at liberty, mother will come here and
bring Edwina [his daughter] to me. I wish I could see with others'
eyes; all my friends assure me that my name shall be free, and that in
a little while I may be where I was and what I was; but, alas! it
looks dark to me.
God bless you all for your great assistance in my behalf; even dear
Dick aided me in my extremity, did he not?
Give my love to all and kisses to George.
... I do not think the feeling is so strong in my favour in
Philadelphia as it is here and in Boston. I am not known there. Ever
yours.