My Dear Dr.,
I have nearly bursted my heart out, and proved, that my soul or soles (I have two) is'nt—or an't—immortal,—by wearing on 'em out running to and fro after yr. Balmorals—Bootless errands! The wretched slave (of awl) has but just brought them! I bristle with wrath! and could welt him!—but—no—I won't—he may want his calf's skin whole, to mend his own Bad-morals!!
I rush! I fly! to the Gt. W. R. Station!—--!!!!
I sink—breathless into the arms of the astounded clerk—point to the boots——
My-mouth faintly whispers "Wey-mouth in his pen-adorned Ear!!" and—and—"Bless me! where am I?"—and, and—I wish—you may get 'em!
If you visit Portland again, make a note of any peculiarities of spot—convict dress, &c.—as I have a touching bit of horse-y sentiment (!) connected therewith, which will do for Spg. Gazette.—I should think you ought to find painty bits—within walking distance—say—right or left ten miles?