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.