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.

On my arrival in California I spent but a part of one business day in San Francisco, but Mr King having kindly called on me, I was able to execute your Commission with him as far as I had the ability. I found that he knew nothing of the Christian Commission, but in all other respects he seemed to perfectly well understand the case and to be watching the opportunities and acting according to circumstances wisely and well. We entirely agreed as to the best policy to be pursued, the main point being that everything we could wish people here to think of the Sanitary Commission was to be taken for granted and that it was to be supposed that they knew nothing about and cared nothing for the Christian Commission or anything else that might be in competition with the Sanitary Commission.

After having been to the estate I returned to San Francisco and spent another night there. Mr King had arranged that I should meet his Committee but oweing to the shortness of the notice or some other causes only three persons besides Mr King & myself attended the meeting. [165]They seemed interested in what little I had to say and especially struck by a remark that one dollar which could be made use of before a battle, in preparing arrangments for relief, was worth more than ten thrown in hurriedly after the news of the battle had reached San Francisco. I urged as strongly as I decently could—having respect to their judgment—an effort to increase monthly contributions for the war. The plan of operations which was afterwards (upon receipt of your telegram) adopted was generally agreed upon, but there was a strong difference of opinion as to when and by what detail of process it should be carried out. Mr King thought nothing could be done except by periodic furores. I was rather glad to find the older men had more faith in the sound judgment of the loyalty of California. I made several suggestions which seemed to be approved but I have not heard whether they have been acted upon. When I saw by the papers what you had telegraphed and the consequent immediate proceedings, I wrote to ask if I could be of any use. I got a pleasant note in reply stating what success they had had. The fact is I am in one of the most out of the way places on the Continent—nearly ninety miles from anywhere that people go to from San Francisco on their way to anywhere else. We have thirteen mails a month, however, and next spring I am promised a telegraph.

I have receivd with much satisfaction the first number of your Bulletin full of the most interesting information to me. I had not known before I saw it in Steiner’s Report, for instance, of the release of our men from Richmond. I hope the escape of Brengle will be duly chronicled.

I don’t think that I need tell you, doctor, that I am sometimes very home-sick. I don’t think I want to be General Secretary again, but, if it were possible, how I should leap to be a relief-agent with the army! I hardly envy anyone as much.

With Mariposa and what I have here I am greatly disappointed—simply disappointed not caught aback. I can’t tell you—without more reflection than I can give a useless matter—distinctly why or in what, but I feel that I am disappointed. I feel like an old man setting about planting oaks—or as if I had got a very heavy burden upon me and could see no place ahead where I could back up for a while and rest. I really am not well & strong. I don’t know what’s the matter, but one queer thing is certain, I am pen-sick. I no sooner get pen to paper than a horrid sort of night-mare begins to grow upon me, and the longer I write the worse it gets, till finally my eyes twitch and I have to quit to avoid suffocation. If I live three or four days without writing at all, I am quite well. I ride a great deal—sometimes too much—it’s impossible to avoid it. The estate is very large and from nothing you ever saw can you form any idea how complicated its topography is. I galloped seventeen miles after sunset yesterday and not more than five miles of it upon a road—the rest partly upon a mountain trail, partly across country. I have an excellent, long [166]striding, but nimble & sure-footed horse, have learned how to jerk myself into the saddle from the ground without assistance and feel that I have got my old seat again. I am as good as anybody on horseback now, & it’s very lucky for the Company that I am.

I wouldn’t have you think that I have the slightest disposition to back out. I got what I bargained for and I shall give what I bargained to give. The difficulties of what I have to accomplish are much greater than I had been led to imagine—great enough, in fact, to fasten me pretty effectually for life, I suppose. I am bound to give myself to the overcoming of them. Perhaps I am all the better fitted to cope with them because I hate them. Many men would like them—that in fact is one of the chief of my difficulties. But I am going to overcome it, more or less. I can’t do anything else.

It’s a wonderful change and I look back upon the Sanitary Commission & the park, as upon a previous state of existence—something too sometimes, as the souls of good boys in the ancient mythology were supposed to look back upon Saturday afternoons after they had been steadily singing anthems for several thousand million billions of years of Sundays without baked beans. But in personal satisfaction there really is much compensation—the climate, during the last two months, has been finest imaginable. The scenery, while, here in the valley and in the adjoining mountains, it is the furthest possible—the furthest at least of any scenery I ever saw—from that sort which I particularly “hanker after,” while it has not the smallest atom of the essential components of such scenery as lives in my affections—is highly interesting, and there are certain views here which are sterner and more awful than any I ever saw before. I don’t love them, but I surrender to them; I feel that they have got me. I should feel humiliated to live anywhere else, after having made myself at home with them.

The people are open, free, bold—& generally very bad. A few days after I had got the reins of the estate, a gentleman of my staff—and the one who had the largest moral responsibility of anyone on the estate, came into my office and said “I’m sick today, I got very drunk yesterday and I believe it’s made me sick.” Worse things than drunkenness are spoken of in the same way, without the slightest thought of shame. Of course the security against hypocricy is worth something, but I like civilization best.

Politically, lines are drawn very sharply between Secesh & abolitionists. A great many Southerners here and their bigotry, taunts and freedom of speech have driven all those who love the Union to a compact radicalism without ifs or buts. They are not really “abolitionists”, but they want to free the niggers now because the Southerners seem to have dared them to do it, dared them to avow a willingness to do it. The rebs sneer at Lincoln. “Then by _____, we’ll make Lincoln President again”! Of [167]course there are some sensible leading men, but that’s about the sense of the rank & file.

It’s two or three days after Christmas (i.e. two turning three). I’ve jabbled into this when I could—looking back I don’t like it. I told you I had nightmare when I wrote. When I am on horseback, not nightmare. I enjoy myself here, a good deal: enjoy what I hope it is to be and of which I shall see foundations laid; enjoy freedom for time being from small cares, enjoy to think that I am earning $15000 a year & considerably deserve as much. Of course that fixes it—it’s my place—I couldn’t be worth half as much anywhere else, and it’s all right. And this being so, you’ve no idea how I enjoy the fact that before I came here I did something in the great war—cripple as I am—and that before I settled down to my place in the wilderness, I did a nice bit of civilized workmanship, and better than all that I was for along time the intimate associate of as fine a body of highly educated, well-equipped, thoroughbred Christian gentlemen as the world has been allowed to produce. I can’t help thinking my horse knows it. He always stands still when I mount, but kicks about like all the rest of the vicious brutes here when anybody else tries him. He knows I have been tamed (some), (tamed—not broken). I can’t do much with Martin & Pieper and California Barnie (which is but a spurious sort of conviviality, after all) in the way of good fellowship, but I never cease to think what a jolly good thing it is that there are good fellows in the world & what a jolly lucky thing it is for a fellow of my cut to have been rubbed against them so thoroughly before he got shoved into his place in the world.

Now I think of it, Henry Bellows (who does not come into the Noctes of CampodelOso because he lives at the Princeton-camp) is in the best place possible for the sort of education which I suppose you wished him to have of California. He goes to the bottom of California mercantile business & yet is reasonably near the top. He adapts himself thoroughly well to circumstances, looks well—greatly improved since he left New York—and every[one] likes him. Apparently he finds life no burden. I think that he will do well here. When you come bring him a wife if you can—if not, wouldn’t one of his sisters come & keep house for him? It would be better he didn’t live camp-fashion more than another year.

I suppose you will not come, now California has done so well, till after the subjugation. I have engaged a seat for you at the Yo Semite. The door-keeper is a friend of mine.

When you write anything for the public or your sayings are decently reported won’t you tell them to send me a copy. Think how hungry I must be here.

My kindest regards to Mrs Bellows & Anny.

[168]

Galen Clark, in Front of a Sequoia Gigantea