LETTER THIRTY-TWO.
[Note by A.T.P.—The first portion of this letter is missing.]
… I think of them as the rural beauties of a country which my children will call foreign. Yes! henceforth the country of my children' shall be mine. Australia has afforded me a better home than my motherland, and I will love her with a patriot's love. With regard to my own individual prospects I am full of hope. I have had my troubles, as the old ladies say. When you think of my landing on the soil of this country with a wife and child, the one only three days old and the other in the delicate state of health of a mother at that time, and with only a few pence and without a home, you will think I must have had some difficulties to contend with since my arrival in Australia. And I have had my share of them in good earnest, and not the least of them I am grappling with at this moment. But still I am full of hope. I believe my circumstances will improve, and that speedily. I see my way now quite clearly which shall lead me to respectability if not competence. I will write again in about three months, and, though it is useless for me to write to you oftener, I should like to hear from you more frequently. Our little girl, who is now four years old, has enjoyed the best of health for this last two years and a half. She is now playing with the cat on the floor of a little sitting room, the door of which opens a few yards from the sea. Her dear mother is lying down—it is Sunday afternoon. In general Clarinda's health has been pretty good, and mine, since my arrival in this country, has been only interrupted by a short sickness about the date of my first letter to you in 1840. I have made inquiries after the son of Mrs. Weston. The officer of Customs who was boarded on the Joseph Cunard tells me that he saw him last June. He then looked well and was respectably dressed. He thinks he was in some draper's shop, but I have not been able to ascertain where he is at the present time. If his friends think proper to address a letter to him in care of me, it is more than probable that in the meantime I shall be enabled to find out where he is. I must now bid you farewell. This letter will be enclosed in a small parcel—the same old box again—and sent in the care of Henry Smith, an apprentice on the barque Standering. The trifles inside, with the exception of five copies of 'Stolen Moments,' are for yourself. Clarinda will send a few similar presents by the first opportunity to her father. Give our united love to all the Varneys whenever you see them, and let them know the contents of this letter as far as it relates to my prospects.
I remain, my very dear sister,
Yours most affectionately,