Oct. 6, 1844, Cheltenham.
My dear Madam,—I trouble you with a line to say that I have received a letter from Don Jorge, from Constantinople. He evidently is now anxious to be quietly back again on the banks of your peaceful lake; he speaks favourably of his health, which has been braced up by change of air, scenery, and occupations, so I hope he will get through next winter without any bronchitis, and go on with his own biography.
He asks me when Handbook will be done? Please to tell him that it is done and printing, but that it runs double the length which was contemplated: however, it will be a queer book, and tell him that we reserve it until his return to review it. I am now on the point of quitting this pretty place and making for my home at Hevitre, where we trust to arrive next Thursday.
Present my best compliments to your mother, and believe me, your faithful and obedient servant,
Rch. Ford.
When you write to Don Jorge thank him for his letter.
To George Borrow, Esq., Oulton Hall, Lowestoft.
123 Parliament Street,
Grosvenor Square, Feb. 17, 1845.
Dear Borrow,—El hombre propose pero Dios es que dispose. I had hope to have run down and seen you and yours in your quiet Patmos; but the Sangrados will it otherwise. I have never been quite free from a tickling pain since the bronchitis of last year, and it has recently assumed the form of extreme relaxation and irritation in the uvula, which is that pendulous appendage which hangs over the orifice of the throat. Mine has become so seriously elongated that, after submitting for four days last week to its being burnt with caustic every morning in the hopes that it might thus crimp and contract itself, I have been obliged to have it amputated. This has left a great soreness, which militates against talking and deglutition, and would render our charming chats after the Madeira over la cheminea del cueldo inadvisable. I therefore defer the visit: my Sangrado recommends me, when the summer advances, to fly away into change of air, change of scene; in short, must seek an hejira as you made. How strange the coincidence! but those who have wandered much about require periodical migration, as the encaged quail twice a year beats its breast against the wires.
I am not quite determined where to go, whether to Scotland and the sweet heath-aired hills, or to the wild rocks and clear trout streams of the Tyrol; it is a question between the gun and the rod. If I go north assuredly si Dios quiere I will take your friendly and peaceful abode in my way.