I have yours of 7th Novr. I had heard before about Mrs Schuyler from Mary. She is so associated with all that is good and great in my mind that I shall feel as if her death were a part of the war. The war has made sudden and most lamentable death, something not to be surprised or shocked at. We love, revere and rest our hearts upon great souls with that condition. As for Mrs Schuyler, I believe that I wish in my soul that I were in her place. In every way, it seems to me she will die triumphant, her life brought as nearly to a satisfactory completion as human life can be. In years she is yet young but years are no measure of life. The war makes us all old it seems to me. I feel toward death as an old man, myself. Her children are men and women in the world, not wise before their time but wise for others as well as themselves, more than most mature men and women—their characters and even the parts they shall play in life, well established, and no matter of concern to her. How satisfactory it must be to her that they are what they are. If satisfaction with life, [158]especially in this respect, could reconcile anyone to having lived with death inevitable—if content is the mere negation of sorrow, I should think that she would have as little cause to regret leaving life as she could ever have expected to. There can be but one great reason of grief—sorrow for the sorrow of those who part with her. I feel the deepest sympathy for this but I feel yet more perhaps gladness that death can be met by her, as it will be. I think I hate death more than most men, and I value whatever makes the death of those we value less an unendurable ever-impending calamity. It is not reasonable to regret what is inevitable. It is not reasonable to find our only way of not hating death through having no satisfaction in the life of those who die. But make the best of your philosophy and religion, it is hard for those who stay. I don’t think death will often bring as much deep sorrow, though often more violent. I can bring myself to feel like congratulating Mrs Schuyler on having so well got through life, but when I think of Louisa, for whom I have more than friendly regard & respect—and of poor Mr Schuyler—I almost hate life as well as death—life for death’s sake. If it comes in your way to do so without pushing it in—give my dearest love & condolence to Louisa.

More than half the population—several thousand—are Chinese, with some Diggers & many Indian Mexicans. I don’t think a Christian word, scarcely a Christian act, is presented them from year to year. Everything bad—vicious—hateful is presented them without alloy by “Christians”. I think it probable we shall increase this Pagan population here by many thousand in a year or two. I employ some & would be glad to employ more on wages—the rest pay a small license—fee for privilege of residence & use of land—& are under my surveillance & to a certain extent control. I will accommodate & aid any sensible man who wishes to devote himself to a missionary field offering such vast advantages. But I don’t want any man, who trusts merely to preaching & praying to gain the grace of God for the heathen.

I greatly prefer an Episcopalian—next a Roman Catholic—next a Unitarian—looking to probabilities of practical success. I think the fashionable hullabaloo of the Evangelicals very satisfying to the sentimental heart of individuals & encouraging to spiritual pride & self satisfaction, but the more distinctly earthly & human pride of the other sort is less deceitful & stands less in the way of doing good, which is the best sort of preaching.

As to the war—I always told you your impatience—your regard for particular enterprises, events, men, battles, campaigns was foolish. Be still & see the salvation of God as old Linc. says. None the less is there [159]work to do always by every man—chiefly for you & I to keep up the faith of people & make them look ahead as is not their custom in every day affairs.

With love to Letitia

I write an off hand, friendly letter about as easily as a cow walks a tight-rope, and I put myself to writing now, with as much stinginess as a man would have selling his blood. You will understand better than anybody else when I tell you that to write a single sheet entirely interrupts my digestion, sets my brain throbbing, my ears singing and half suffocates me–also my eyes twitch. It begins already after writing so much as this. And as I must write a good deal for business’ sake—You see.

I think the voyage instead of resting me tired and sickened my brain & nerves. It was that dull inert sort of seasickness I had all the time. And here I have overworked again. It was hardly possible not to do so. It is hard not to do so continuously but I assure you I have the best [161]intentions now. I think that a full year’s absolute rest—just now—would be equal to ten years’ addition to my life risk.

So situated, I give up any purpose to drive through California & come home with my debts paid & a little capital for something I would like to do. I can’t accomplish anything here or earn anything here honestly, in a hurry. I must lay long, slow plans & see them grow. Such is life, and I must make the best of it.

Two matters daily on my mind that I should talk to you about if I saw you.

I  Why don’t I hear or see something of your paper? The letter which I wrote Norton—a confidential letter about you & it & Knapp—before leaving N. York I found, postage stamp’d in my trunk on arriving at San. Franco. Sent it from there immediately.

I don’t think I should have been much for it, as my health has turned out.

II.  Can I ever hope to have you here? I can begin to see my way to a decent little community of good fellows & their wives & children here, if all goes well for another year. You have nothing in particular to anchor you in N. York, & there’s a great deal you would like here: Alpine scenery and rocky mountainous praeries, where you ride free as a bird in a hail storm. Gallop for a day without striking a fence or bending to a tree. But ruggedness & grand mountains for all that. And the climate—so far—delicious. Hot as Tophet for a few days in July, but here at Christmas—just such weather as makes me enjoy a Christmas pin’ oak log fire—which I haven’t—& would make an English man grumble at the suggestion of a fire. All our mountain tops in great wooly clouds, ice barely skimming over the pools at night & radishes & I don’t know what growing quickly, crisp and mild like Paris in May, (but cursedly indigestible for all that). By the luckiest chance I picked up a perfect gentleman’s horse. When I first looked at him he jumped away from me as if I were a tiger, & fairly trembled with excitement. I gave him up at once—but I had fallen in love with him, so a week afterwards I sent for him—kept in my own stable a week. Then mounted him with great difficulty, but never have had slightest trouble with him since. Stands like a rock, till I have hoisted my game leg over the high Spanish Saddle & am well settled, & then bows his head & goes off dancing. He is a cabinet race–horse, not so very small either, about 12 hands high. I ride a good deal and enjoy it much—sometimes too much. Near fifty miles round the estate & two principal mines are 12 miles apart. There’ll be good chance for a lawyer here, I think next year—to begin—the principal lawyer, a Virginian, is going to leave. But some superintendency would suit you best.

I have heard from you two or three times through my wife (who seems to have got a new degree of liking for yours, lately) but I’d like to hear direct—especially how you are & California climate would agree [162]with you, don’t you think? Of course I mean if they are such fools that you have not got the paper started, and if you have—I can’t do the least thing for it. God help me. Not that I’m blue but I think that I could accommodate myself easier to something else than writing by amanuensis. One thing I can do—good—& it don’t hurt me—read newspapers.

Give my love to your wife.