I told you, in a former Letter, that I lodged at Gen. Roberdeau's.

This Gentleman is of French Extraction, his Father was a rich Planter of the Island of St. Christophers, where my Friend was born, and where he has or had an Estate. He has large Property in England, in Virginia, in Philadelphia, in York Town and in various other Parts 353of Pensilvania. He has also large Property in our American Funds, have1 put great Sums into the Loan Office.

He was an intimate Friend, and a passionate Admirer of Mr. Whitfield, who always made his House an Home. He has the Reputation, I believe very justly of a pious Man.

His Wife was a Daughter of Mr. Bostwick of New York, a famous Minister, Sister to Mrs. McDougall, the Lady of General McDougal, two as fine Women as ever America produced, excepting one. Mrs. Roberdeau was a beauty. A fine Figure—good Taste—great sense—much Knowledge—a fine Temper. But she is no more.2

The Generals two sisters keep his House—the one a Widow, Mrs. Climer Clymer, who has a son—the other a Maiden Lady, Miss Elizabeth Roberdeau.

I have not been able of late to keep up my Correspondence with you, so constantly, as my Heart inclined me to do. But I hope now to write you oftener—but I dont incline to write, very particularly, least my Letters should be intercepted.

I am in tolerable Health, but oppressed, with a Load of public Cares.

I have long foreseen, that We should be brought down to a great Degree of Depression before the People of America would be convinced of their real Danger, of the true Causes of it, and be stimulated to take the necessary Steps for a Reformation.

Government and Law in the states, large Taxation, and Strict Discipline in our Armies, are the only Things Wanting, as human Means. These with the Blessing of Heaven, will certainly produce Glory, Tryumph, Liberty and Safety and Peace, and nothing but these will do.

I long with the Utmost Impatience to come home—dont send a servant for me. The Expence is so enormous that I cannot bear the Thought of it. I will crawl home, upon my little Pony, and wait upon 354myself as well as I can. I think you had better sell my Horse. I am, yours.

The People are universally calling for Fighting and for Blood. Washington is getting into the Humour of fighting and How begins to dread it—and well he may. Fighting will certainly answer the End altho We may be beaten every Time for a great While.

We have been heretofore greatly deceived concerning1 the Numbers of Militia. But there are Numbers enough if they knew how to fight, which as soon as their Generals will let them, they will learn.—I am, with every tender Sentiment, yours forevermore.