[_Monterey, California, October 1879._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--I received your letter with delight; it was the first
word that reached me from the old country. I am in good health now; I
have been pretty seedy, for I was exhausted by the journey and anxiety
below even my point of keeping up; I am still a little weak, but that is
all; I begin to ingrease,[23] it seems, already. My book is about half
drafted: the _Amateur Emigrant_, that is. Can you find a better name? I
believe it will be more popular than any of my others; the canvas is so
much more popular and larger too. Fancy, it is my fourth. That
voluminous writer. I was vexed to hear about the last chapter of _The
Lie_, and pleased to hear about the rest; it would have been odd if it
had no birthmark, born where and how it was. It should by rights have
been called the _Devonia_, for that is the habit with all children born
in a steerage.
I write to you, hoping for more. Give me news of all who concern me,
near or far, or big or little. Here, sir, in California you have a
willing hearer.
Monterey is a place where there is no summer or winter, and pines and
sand and distant hills and a bay all filled with real water from the
Pacific. You will perceive that no expense has been spared. I now live
with a little French doctor; I take one of my meals in a little French
restaurant; for the other two, I sponge. The population of Monterey is
about that of a dissenting chapel on a wet Sunday in a strong church
neighbourhood. They are mostly Mexican and Indian--mixed.--Ever yours,