Sunday Morning, April 14, 1844.
Yesterday was the day my journal should have gone; and my delay has not the usual excuse, for here was already a heavy budget. It is my love of completeness which has detained it. Next Saturday I can send you, together with the account of Harry's arrival and visit here, that of our leave-taking at Omocqua. You will thus have this little episode in my life entire.
The solicitude we had felt beforehand about Dr. Borrow's entertainment was thrown away. He has his particularities certainly, but we soon learned to accommodate ourselves to them. Harry, with perfect simplicity and directness, all along as on the first day, kept us informed of the Doctor's tastes and warned us of his antipathies, so that we had no difficulty in providing for his general comfort. As to his little humors and asperities, we accepted them, in the same way that Harry does, as belonging to the man, and never thought of asking ourselves whether we should like him better without them. One thing I will say for the Doctor: if, when he feels annoyance, he makes no secret of it, on the other hand, you can be sure that he is pleased when he appears to be,—and this is a great satisfaction. He is not inconsiderate of the weaknesses of others, either. I do not know how he divined that I disliked his blue glasses, but after the second day they disappeared. He said our pure air enabled him to do without them. Then the umbrella,—it attended us on the Saturday's walk. I supposed it was to be our inevitable companion. But on Sunday it came only as far as the door; here the Doctor stopped, held it up before him, considered, doubted, and set it down inside. Harry carried it up-stairs in the evening. I expected to see it come down again the next morning,—but it had no part in our pleasant Monday rambles. I had not said a word against the umbrella.
The engagement I made with Harry that Monday afternoon had Dr. Borrow's concurrence. He even expressed a willingness to assist at our readings. The order of our day was this:—In the early morning we had our walk,—Harry and I. Coming back, we always went round by Keith's Pine. We were sure to find the Doctor seated on the bench, which had been left there since the last Sunday, microscope in hand and flower-press beside him. Then all to the house, where we arrived with an exactitude which caused the Doctor, whose first glance on entering was at the clock, to seat himself at the table in a glow of self-approval sufficient to warm all present into a little innocent elation. After breakfast we separated,—Harry walking off to take my place with Karl and Fritz, the Doctor going to his flowers, and I to my writing. We all met again at an appointed time and place for an excursion together. We carried our dinner with us; or, if we were not going very far, had it left at some pleasant spot, where we found it on our way home. After dinner I read, and then we had an hour or so of discussion and criticism.
I have given you the readings of two days. I shall try to copy the rest for you in the course of the week. Copying is work; I cannot do any this morning; and then I have still other things remaining to me from those days which I have not yet shared with you.
On Tuesday, the ninth, the first day of the new arrangement, Harry went away as soon as breakfast was over. The Doctor rose, as if going to his room, hesitated, and sat down again. I saw that he had something to say to me, and waited. My thoughts went back to the conversation of the afternoon before. Had I really displeased him? He spoke seriously, but very kindly.
"Harry has no need of incitement in the direction of"——
He stopped, as if for a word which should be true at once to his pride and his disapprobation. He did not find it, and began over again:—
"It is the office of friendship to restrain even from generous error. It is possible to err on the side of too great disinterestedness. A man such as Harry will be, while living for himself,—living nobly and wisely as he must live,—is living for others; he has no need to become a crusader."
"Harry will be what he was meant to be; you would not have him force himself to become anything else?"