[SARANAC LAKE, April, 1888.]
MY DEAR GAMEKEEPER,—Your p. c. (proving you a good student of
Micawber) has just arrived, and it paves the way to something
I am anxious to say. I wrote a paper the other day—Pulvis et
Umbra;—I wrote it with great feeling and conviction; to me
it seemed bracing and healthful; it is in such a world (so
seen by me), that I am very glad to fight out my battle, and
see some fine sunsets, and hear some excellent jests between
whiles round the camp fire. But I find that to some people
this vision of mine is a nightmare, and extinguishes all
ground of faith in God or pleasure in man. Truth I think not
so much of; for I do not know it. And I could wish in my heart
that I had not published this paper, if it troubles folks too
much: all have not the same digestion, nor the same sight of
things. And it came over to me with special pain that perhaps
this article (which I was at the pains to send to her) might
give dismalness to my _Gamekeeper at Home_. Well, I cannot
take back what I have said; but yet I may add this. If my
view be everything but the nonsense that it may be—to me it
seems self-evident and blinding truth—surely of all things
it makes this world holier. There is nothing in it but the
moral side—but the great battle and the breathing-times with
their refreshments. I see no more and no less. And if you look
again, it is not ugly, and it is filled with promise.
Pray excuse a desponding author for this apology. My wife is
away off to the uttermost parts of the States, all by herself.
I shall be off, I hope, in a week; but where? Ah! that I know
not. I keep wonderful, and my wife a little better, and the
lad flourishing. We now perform duets on two D tin whistles;
it is no joke to make the bass; I think I must really send
you one, which I wish you would correct....
I may be said to live for these instrumental labours now;
but I have always some childishness on hand.—I am, dear
Gamekeeper, your indulgent, but intemperate Squire,