_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _September_ 1886.
MY DEAR LOCKER,—That I should call myself a man of letters, and land
myself in such unfathomable ambiguities! No, my dear Locker, I did not
want a cheque; and in my ignorance of business, which is greater even
than my ignorance of literature, I have taken the liberty of drawing a
pen through the document and returning it; should this be against the
laws of God or man, forgive me. All that I meant by my excessively
disgusting reference to your material well-being was the vague notion
that a man who is well off was sure to know a Governor of Christ’s
Hospital; though how I quite arrived at this conclusion I do not see. A
man with a cold in the head does not necessarily know a ratcatcher; and
the connection is equally close—as it now appears to my awakened and
somewhat humbled spirit. For all that, let me thank you in the warmest
manner for your friendly readiness to contribute. You say you have hopes
of becoming a miser: I wish I had; but indeed I believe you deceive
yourself, and are as far from it as ever. I wish I had any excuse to
keep your cheque, for it is much more elegant to receive than to return;
but I have my way of making it up to you, and I do sincerely beg you to
write to the two Governors. This extraordinary outpouring of
correspondence would (if you knew my habits) convince you of my great
eagerness in this matter. I would promise gratitude; but I have made a
promise to myself to make no more promises to anybody else, having broken
such a host already, and come near breaking my heart in consequence; and
as for gratitude, I am by nature a thankless dog, and was spoiled from a
child up. But if you can help this lady in the matter of the Hospital,
you will have helped the worthy. Let me continue to hope that I shall
make out my visit in the spring, and believe me, yours very truly,