About coming up, no, that's impossible; for I am worse than a bankrupt.
I have at the present six shillings and a penny; I have a sounding lot
of bills for Christmas; new dress suit, for instance, the old one having
gone for Parliament House; and new white shirts to live up to my new
profession; I'm as gay and swell and gummy as can be; only all my boots
leak; one pair water, and the other two simple black mud; so that my rig
is more for the eye than a very solid comfort to myself. That is my
budget. Dismal enough, and no prospect of any coin coming in; at least
for months. So that here I am, I almost fear, for the winter; certainly
till after Christmas, and then it depends on how my bills "turn out"
whether it shall not be till spring. So, meantime, I must whistle in my
cage. My cage is better by one thing; I am an Advocate now. If you ask
me why that makes it better, I would remind you that in the most
distressing circumstances a little consequence goes a long way, and even
bereaved relatives stand on precedence round the coffin. I idle finely.
I read Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, Martin's _History of France_, _Allan
Ramsay_, _Olivier Basselin_, all sorts of rubbish _apropos_ of _Burns_,
_Commines_, _Juvenal des Ursins_, etc. I walk about the Parliament House
five forenoons a week, in wig and gown; I have either a five or six mile
walk, or an hour or two hard skating on the rink, every afternoon,
without fail.
I have not written much; but, like the seaman's parrot in the tale, I
have thought a deal. You have never, by the way, returned me either
_Spring_ or _Beranger_, which is certainly a d----d shame. I always
comforted myself with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter
to you. "Thus conscience"--O no, that's not appropriate in this
connection.--Ever yours,