[_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], 1_st_, 1886.
MY DEAR KINNICUM,—I am a very bad dog, but not for the first time. Your
book, which is very interesting, came duly; and I immediately got a very
bad cold indeed, and have been fit for nothing whatever. I am a bit
better now, and aye on the mend; so I write to tell you, I thought of you
on New Year’s Day; though, I own, it would have been more decent if I had
thought in time for you to get my letter then. Well, what can’t be cured
must be endured, Mr. Lawrie; and you must be content with what I give.
If I wrote all the letters I ought to write, and at the proper time, I
should be very good and very happy; but I doubt if I should do anything
else.
I suppose you will be in town for the New Year; and I hope your health is
pretty good. What you want is diet; but it is as much use to tell you
that as it is to tell my father. And I quite admit a diet is a beastly
thing. I doubt, however, if it be as bad as not being allowed to speak,
which I have tried fully, and do not like. When, at the same time, I was
not allowed to read, it passed a joke. But these are troubles of the
past, and on this day, at least, it is proper to suppose they won’t
return. But we are not put here to enjoy ourselves: it was not God’s
purpose; and I am prepared to argue, it is not our sincere wish. As for
our deserts, the less said of them the better, for somebody might hear,
and nobody cares to be laughed at. A good man is a very noble thing to
see, but not to himself; what he seems to God is, fortunately, not our
business; that is the domain of faith; and whether on the first of
January or the thirty-first of December, faith is a good word to end on.
My dear Cummy, many happy returns to you and my best love.—The worst
correspondent in the world,