LONDON, Jan. 16, 1901.
Dear friend:
This letter is for the family. Poor as it will be, it will have to
tell of all I would like to say to you, and for the thousand and one
things I would like to tell of London and of the many kindnesses I
have received. I had not expected to be here this winter, as you know,
and ought not to be. The cold and the damp have developed rheumatism
of a very severe type in my lame leg, and I suffer from pain and
difficulty in walking... I could, of course, obtain some mitigation of
these conditions, but the same reason that compelled my return to
London, Mr. P.'s actual failure, has so encroached upon my
income--without a prospect of even partial recovery for a long time to
come--as to make it almost equally difficult to live either in
Switzerland, where, at Schinznach-les-Bains, I could receive so much
benefit; or in London, or New York. I wish, as I wished two years ago,
that my accident had ended it, and saved all the pain and difficulty
of solving a perpetual and insoluble problem... It seems sometimes as
if there were only two kinds of people in the world--those who ride
over others roughshod, and those who are ridden over. The cruel
accident that shattered me on that June day shattered my world. Life
since then seems in the nature of a resurrection; every day a special
gift, and every pleasant thing an act of Divine Providence. Love to
you all. This is about myself. Write soon and tell me all about
yourselves.
Lovingly,
J.C.C.