(Washington) Aug. 21, 1861.
MY DEAR GEORGE:
Nothing new. An immense crowd that boreth ever. Painters, who make God's air foul to the nostril. Rain, which makes a man moist and adhesive. Dust, which unwholesomely penetrates one's lungs. Washington, which makes one swear.
There is not an item. We are waiting for your arrival to make one.
SOURCES: Clara B. Hay, Letters of John Hay and Extracts from Diary, Volume 1, p. 38