In the interval between this letter and the last, the writer had been
down with an acute and dangerous illness. _Forester_, here mentioned,
was an autobiographical paper by J. W. F. on his own boyhood.
_P.O. San Francisco, April 8th, 1880._
MY DEAR FERRIER,--Many thanks for your letter, and the instalment of
_Forester_ which accompanied it, and which I read with amusement and
pleasure. I fear Somerset's letter must wait; for my dear boy, I have
been very nearly on a longer voyage than usual; I am fresh from giving
Charon a quid instead of an obolus: but he, having accepted the payment,
scorned me, and I had to make the best of my way backward through the
mallow-wood, with nothing to show for this displacement but the fatigue
of the journey. As soon as I feel fit, you shall have the letter, trust
me. But just now even a note such as I am now writing takes it out of
me. I have, truly, been very sick; I fear I am a vain man, for I thought
it a pity I should die. I could not help thinking that a good many would
be disappointed; but for myself, although I still think life a business
full of agreeable features I was not entirely unwilling to give it up.
It is so difficult to behave well; and in that matter, I get more
dissatisfied with myself, because more exigent, every day. I shall be
pleased to hear again from you soon. I shall be married early in May and
then go to the mountains, a very withered bridegroom. I think your MS.
Bible, if that were a specimen, would be a credit to humanity. Between
whiles, collect such thoughts both from yourself and others: I somehow
believe every man should leave a Bible behind him,--if he is unable to
leave a jest book. I feel fit to leave nothing but my benediction. It is
a strange thing how, do what you will, nothing seems accomplished. I
feel as far from having paid humanity my board and lodging as I did six
years ago when I was sick at Mentone. But I dare say the devil would
keep telling me so, if I had moved mountains, and at least I have been
very happy on many different occasions, and that is always something. I
can read nothing, write nothing; but a little while ago and I could eat
nothing either; but now that is changed. This is a long letter for me;
rub your hands, boy, for 'tis an honour.--Yours, from Charon's strand,