Tuesday Evening.
September 3, 1845.
I rather hoped . . . with no right at all . . . to hear from you this morning or afternoon – – to know how you are – – that, ‘how are you,’ there is no use disguising, is, – – vary it how one may – – my own life’s question. – –
I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about you – – the head; and that too, too warm hand . . . or was it my fancy? Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory, – – all seems to rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you do know that I know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone’s counsel ‘to be composed,’ &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!
God bless you – –
I am yours
R.B.