[_Edinburgh, November 12, 1875._]
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Since I got your letter I have been able to do a little
more work, and I have been much better contented with myself; but I
can't get away, that is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse
and my debts, which, I may say, are red like crimson. I don't know how
I am to clear my hands of them, nor when, not before Christmas anyway.
Yesterday I was twenty-five; so please wish me many happy
returns--directly. This one was not unhappy anyway. I have got back a
good deal into my old random, little-thought way of life, and do not
care whether I read, write, speak, or walk, so long as I do something. I
have a great delight in this wheel-skating; I have made great advance in
it of late, can do a good many amusing things (I mean amusing in _my_
sense--amusing to do). You know, I lose all my forenoons at Court! So it
is, but the time passes; it is a great pleasure to sit and hear cases
argued or advised. This is quite autobiographical, but I feel as if it
was some time since we met, and I can tell you, I am glad to meet you
again. In every way, you see, but that of work the world goes well with
me. My health is better than ever it was before; I get on without any
jar, nay, as if there never had been a jar, with my parents. If it
weren't about that work, I'd be happy. But the fact is, I don't
think--the fact is, I'm going to trust in Providence about work. If I
could get one or two pieces I hate out of my way all would be well, I
think; but these obstacles disgust me, and as I know I ought to do them
first, I don't do anything. I must finish this off, or I'll just lose
another day. I'll try to write again soon.--Ever your faithful friend,