Thursday Morning.
June 19, 1845.
When I next see you, do not let me go on and on to my confusion about matters I am more or less ignorant of, but always ignorant. I tell you plainly I only trench on them, and intrench in them, from gaucherie, pure and respectable . . . I should certainly grow instructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if deprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I shall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am thinking all the while, ‘now I will just ask simply, what flattery there was,’ &c. &c., which, as I had not courage to say then, I keep to myself for shame now. This I will say, then – – wait and know me better, as you will one long day at the end.
Why I write now, is because you did not promise, as before, to let me know how you are – – this morning is miserably cold again – – Will you tell me, at your own time?
God bless you, my dear friend.
R.B.