DEAR WILLIAM, This last day of home writing makes me feel queer. I wonder whether it is really true that three weeks from today I am to preach in Trinity. I wonder whether I shall really look so old and thin that people will not know me. I wonder whether those heathen are still chattering and chaffering in the Chandni-Chauk at Delhi. I wonder whether I have really got enough benefit out of all this pleasant year to make it worth while to have come. This last wonder is the hardest of all. Sometimes I think I have, and then again I do not know. At any rate I shall try, and if I find when I begin to preach that I am really as idiotic as I sometimes seem to myself, there are several little hidden nooks in Europe which I know, where I can go and hide my disgrace, and nobody will hear of me any more forever. But perhaps it will not come to that.
Why cannot you make use of my house this autumn, until your own is thoroughly dry and safe ? Pray do not think of going into it. You must not let G. run the slightest danger of a relapse. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to find you all in Clarendon Street. On my return, on the 2d of October, I go to Philadelphia ; shall practically be absent all that month, and you can have free swing. So pray do go there, and please me.
You remember this hotel and the bright, pretty city. . . . But what ‘s the use of writing, when I shall be at home a week after you get this. My last letter. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! My final love ; I am coming home.