I made only a short dash into the dear old Highlands above Yosemite, but
all was so full of everything I love, every day seemed a measureless
period. I never enjoyed the Tuolumne cataracts so much. Coming out
of the sun land, the gray salt deserts of Utah, these wild ice waters
sang themselves into my soul more enthusiastically than ever, and the
forests’ breath was sweeter, and Cassiope fairer than in all my first
fresh contacts. But I’m not going to tell here. I only write now to say
that next Saturday I will sail to Los Angeles and spend a few weeks in
getting some general views of the adjacent region, then work northward
and begin a careful study of the redwoods. I will at least have time
this season for the lower portion of the belt; that is, for all south
of here. If you have any messages, you have time to write me. I sail at
10 A.M., or if not you may direct to Los Angeles.
I hope to see Congar, and also the spot you have selected for home. I
wish you could be there in your grown fruitful groves, all rooted and
grounded in the fine garden nook that I know you will make. It must be
a great consolation in the midst of the fires you are compassed with to
look forward to a tranquil seclusion in the South of which you are so
fond.
John says he may not move to Berkeley, and if not I may be here this
winter, though I still feel some tendency towards another winter in some
mountain ice. It is long indeed since I had anything like a quiet talk
with you. You have been going like an avalanche for many a year, and
I sometimes fear you will not be able to settle into rest even in the
orange groves.
I’m glad to know that the Doctor is so well. You must be pained by the
shameful attacks made upon your tried friend La Grange. Farewell.
Ever cordially yours,
JOHN MUIR.
Los Angeles, Cal., August 12th, 1877.
Pico House.
I’ve seen your sunny Pasadena and the patch called yours. Everything
about here pleases me, and I felt sorely tempted to take Dr. Congar’s
advice and invest in an orange-patch myself. I feel sure you will be
happy here with the Doctor and Allie among so rich a luxuriance of sunny
vegetation. How you will dig and dibble in that mellow loam! I cannot
think of you standing erect for a single moment, unless it be in looking
away out into the dreamy west. I made a fine shaggy little five days’
excursion back in the heart of the San Gabriel Mountains, and then a
week of real pleasure with Congar, resurrecting the past about Madison.
He has a fine little farm, fine little family, and fine cosy home.
I felt at home with Congar and at once took possession of his premises
and all that in them is. We drove down through the settlements eastward
and saw the best orange groves and vineyards, but the mountains I as
usual met alone. Although so gray and silent and unpromising they are
full of wild gardens and ferneries, and lilyries,--some specimens ten
feet high with twenty lilies big enough for bonnets. The main results I
will tell you some other time, should you ever have an hour’s leisure.
I go north to-day, by rail to Newhall, thence by stage to Soledad, and
on to Monterey, where I will take to the woods and feel my way in free
study to San Francisco. May reach the city about the middle of next
month.
Heard through your factor here that Miss Powell is worse and that you
would not be down soon. I _received_ your letter and postal, also the
letters you thought I had lost, via one from Salt Lake for which I sent
and one from Yosemite which Black forwarded.