Your letter by this day's mail, dated the 13th, and postmarked the 12th, is one of those hasty and unsatisfactory scraps which neither improve you nor amuse me. I pray you never to write to me with the mere motive of getting rid of the task. These performances always lead me to fear that all other tasks are performed in the same manner; but adieu to tasks and reproaches. I will endure your haste or your silence without a murmur. One is not always in the bumour to write, and one always writes as much as the humour prompts.
I am here sentinel over the interest of Le Guen, and cannot leave the post until the final decision be had, of which, at present, I form no conjecture as to the period; but I entertain no doubt of Le Guen's eventual success.
Among the letters forwarded by you is one recommending to me in very high terms a Mr. Irving, or Irwin, [3] from London; pray inquire who he is, and where to be found, and be able to inform me, on my return, if I _should_ happen to return.
Mr. Eacker has offered his services to take a letter. You see that I cannot refrain from improving every occasion of assuring, you how very truly I am your faithful friend and affectionate father,
This will be handed you by Mr. Brown, [4] secretary to General Hamilton. By the two preceding mails I had nothing from you; by that of this day I am again disappointed. I do indeed receive a very pleasant little letter, but I expected a volume. Would it be an intolerable labour, if, precisely at half past nine o'clock every evening, you should say, "I will now devote an hour to papa?" Or even half an hour. Your last letter, though not illy written, has evident marks of haste.
I agree entirely with your eulogium on our amiable friend; but one point you overlook. Her heart is as cold as marble, And you mistake the effusions of politeness, mingled with respect, for symptoms of tender emotions.
The argument of the cause of Le Guen is concluded. I fear that I must wait for the final decision of the court before I can leave Albany. To-morrow I go with John to Schenectady. I am more impatient to return than I can express.
I had taken my passage for this day, and anticipated the pleasure of dining with you on Saturday. But--but--these buts--how they mar all the fine theories of life! But our friend Thomas Morris [5] has entreated in such terms that I would devote this day and night to certain subjects of the utmost moment to him, that I could not, without the appearance of unkindness, refuse. He would, I know, at any time, devote a week or month, on like occasion, to serve me. How, then, could I refuse him one day? I could not.