Tuesday Morning,
June 24, 1845.
(So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that first letter, on Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes after, its natural fate accordingly. Then on Saturday I thought to take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the morning – – about town too: last post-hour from this Thule of a suburb – – 4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on Mondays; – – and then my real letter set out with the others – – and, it should seem, set at rest a ‘wonder whether thy friend’s questions deserved answering’ – – de-served – – answer-ing – – !)
Parenthetically so much – – I want most, though, to tell you – – (leaving out any slightest attempt at thanking you) that I am much better, quite well to-day – – that my doctor has piloted me safely through two or three illnesses, and knows all about me, I do think – – and that he talks confidently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of – – and has made a good beginning if I may judge by to-day. As for going abroad, that is just the thing I most want to avoid (for a reason not so hard to guess, perhaps, as why my letter was slow in arriving).
So, till to-morrow, – – my light through the dark week.
God ever bless you, dear friend,
R.B.