Tuesday Evening.
August 13, 1845.
What can I say, or hope to say to you when I see what you do for me?
This – – for myself, (nothing for you!) – – this, that I think the great, great good I get by your kindness strikes me less than that kindness.
All is right, too – –
Come, I will have my fault-finding at last! So you can decypher my utterest hieroglyphic? Now droop the eyes while I triumph: the plains cower, cower beneath the mountains their masters – – and the Priests stomp over the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two lines of a legend that delighted my infancy, and now instruct my maturer years in pretty nearly all they boast of the semi-mythologic era referred to – – ‘In London town, when reigned King Lud, His lords went stomping thro’ the mud’ – – would all historic records were half as picturesque!)
But you know, yes, you know you are too indulgent by far – – and treat these roughnesses as if they were advanced to many a stage! Meantime the pure gain is mine, and better, the kind generous spirit is mine, (mine to profit by) – – and best – – best – – best, the dearest friend is mine,
So be happy
R.B.