Friday, March 29, 1843.

I divine, by one of those intuitions of the mind’s eye, that we shall have fine weather for several days, but it will be followed by a long siege of bad weather. On the other hand, our last walk, which was almost a failure, we should consider as not having taken place. The bears alone are the better for it. I envy them the interest you take in their welfare, and I am thinking of having me a costume made which will give me some of their charms. Hitherto, we have always walked from the east towards the south, and it might be a good idea to try the opposite direction. First we should find our starting-point, and the muddy stream that flows near it, and we will end our walk where we usually begin it. It is devilish hard that just now I am uncommonly busy; however, if Saturday, at three o’clock, would be convenient, we could go on our voyage of discovery until half past five; if not, we shall be obliged to postpone it until Monday, which is a long time to wait.

If you knew how sweet you were the other day, you would never again be the tease you are sometimes. I wish you had been less reserved with me. At the same time, while your words were more ambiguous than the Apocalypse, I seemed to read your thoughts clearly. I wish you had the hundredth part of the pleasure which I have in following your thoughts. There are two persons in you, so you see you no longer resemble Cerberus. From three, you have come to be two. One, the better one, is all heart and soul. The other is a pretty statue, highly polished by society, gracefully draped in silk and cashmere, a charming automaton, the springs of which are adjusted with infinite skill. When one thinks he is speaking to the first, he finds he is speaking to the statue. Why must this statue be so attractive? If it were not for this, I should hope that, like the Spanish oaks, you would lose your outer bark as you grow older.

It is better for you to remain as you are, but let the first person take the precedence over the automaton. I am getting all tangled up with my metaphors.

At this moment I am reminded of a white hand. It seems to me that I wished to scold you, but I can not remember the reason. It is I this time who am suffering with my back. The pain attacked me after my return the other day, but I can not, like you, find relief in a twelve-hours sleep. The fact is, I am not as careful of my strength as you are. I hope to have a letter from you to-morrow, but you must write another also to tell me whether it is to be Saturday or Monday. Here is a third combination: Saturday, until four o’clock, and again Monday, from two until five. This, I think, would be a perfect arrangement. I must not fail to have your reply before noon Saturday.