food nasty. Fortunately, there is not much of it. I ordered me a bottle of Berncastler Doctor. They brought me Liebfraumilch. I waved it away, saying that hock was acid and gave me gout. Then, persuaded to be a Christian, I sent one running after it before the doctor was opened and drank two glasses; and it was delicious; and I have no gout. Why I sit boring you with this dull stuff I do not know: it is certainly not worth including in the Life and Letters.
Two days of solitude set him athirst for
companionship.
Good-morning, fair sir, he writes on 12. 6. 16. I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present, a little improved in health. But I would not wish my worst enemy the weariness from which I am suffering. . . . Picture me buying useless things so that I may exchange a word with a shopman; for no one talks to me here. Also the weather is bitterly cold.
And next day:
I have . . . talked at length to a highly intelligent
Dane, with a massy pair of calves that
do credit to his pastoral country. But he has
returned to town this morning.
