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Dear Mr. Turnbull.
I have been hybernating during the winter,
and it is long since I have been to town — the last
time. I think, I saw you, and we spoke of our
friend the Archdeacon, who was then on a missionary
tour. We spoke, I remember of the dropping of the 
and
from his little monthly. I read how of the possibility
of his visiting the Cape on a mission which will in-
volve a long absence from N.Z. I do not know whether he
has been recently in "W."; I am feeling much out of the world
— the world beyond the tunnel, and save for short walks with
Mrs. H. when weather permits, stay at home. The doctor pro-
hibits absolutely all 'literary work' on account of my nerve
trouble — a qualified, but troublesome aphasia, which he hopes
complete rest will in time cure. With my ordinary letters, I
have to 'ca' [unclear: canny]'. Before I have written a page this size,
my writing — in form, spelling, grammar, or single words — pro-
per names especially — is liable to go 'croak' (I've already made
two — or more — slips, I see). My outlook has greatly changed since I
left the Post, and books I have accumulated for uses which I
have slight hope of fulfilling — books which their natural ene-
mies have begun to assail — do not look the same as of old. The
spring has brightened me a little, and the aphasia has so far
spared the type-case, and I have dusted and oiled the little press,
and enclose its first fruit of the season. Sometimes I 'weary' to see
you, and hope to see the Archdeacon, too, when he comes again to the city.
Faithfully yours