writing for the last two or three weeks, to send Ma some money, but devil take me if I knew where she was, and so the money has slipped out of my pocket somehow or other, but I have a dollar left, and a good deal owing to me, which will be paid next Monday.  I shall enclose the dollar in this letter, and you can hand it to her.  I know it’s a small amount, but then it will buy her a handkerchief, and at the same time serve as a specimen of the kind of stuff we are paid with in Philadelphia, for you see it’s against the law, in Pennsylvania, to keep or pass a bill of less denomination than $5.  I have only seen two or three bank bills since I have been in the State.  On Monday the hands are paid off in sparkling gold, fresh from the Mint; so your dreams are not troubled with the fear of having doubtful money in your pocket.

I am subbing at the Inquirer office.  One man has engaged me to work for him every Sunday till the first of next April, (when I shall return home to take Ma to Ky;) and another has engaged my services for the 24th of next month; and if I want it, I can get subbing every night of the week.  I go to work at 7 o’clock in the evening, and work till 3 o’clock the next morning.  I can go to the theatre and stay till 12 o’clock and then go to the office, and get work from that till 3 the next morning; when I go to bed, and sleep till 11 o’clock, then get up and loaf the rest of the day.  The type is mostly agate and minion, with some bourgeois; and when one gets a good agate take,—­["Agate,” “minion,” etc., sizes of type; “take,” a piece of work.  Type measurement is by ems, meaning the width of the letter ’m’.]—­he is sure to make money.  I made $2.50 last Sunday, and was laughed at by all the hands, the poorest of whom sets 11,000 on Sunday; and if I don’t set 10,000, at least, next Sunday, I’ll give them leave to laugh as much as they want to.  Out of the 22 compositors in this office, 12 at least, set 15,000 on Sunday.

Unlike New York, I like this Philadelphia amazingly, and the people in it.  There is only one thing that gets my “dander” up—­and that is the hands are always encouraging me:  telling me—­“it’s no use to get discouraged—­no use to be down-hearted, for there is more work here than you can do!” “Down-hearted,” the devil!  I have not had a particle of such a feeling since I left Hannibal, more than four months ago.  I fancy they’ll have to wait some time till they see me down-hearted or afraid of starving while I have strength to work and am in a city of 400,000 inhabitants.  When I was in Hannibal, before I had scarcely stepped out of the town limits, nothing could have convinced me that I would starve as soon as I got a little way from home....

The grave of Franklin is in Christ Church-yard, corner of Fifth and Arch streets.  They keep the gates locked, and one can only see the flat slab that lies over his remains and that of his wife; but you cannot see the inscription distinctly enough to read it.  The inscription, I believe, reads thus: