[_San Francisco, April 1880._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--You must be sick indeed of my demand for books, for you
have seemingly not yet sent me one. Still, I live on promises: waiting
for Penn, for H. James's _Hawthorne_, for my _Burns_, etc.; and now, to
make matters worse, pending your Centuries, etc., I do earnestly desire
the best book about mythology (if it be German, so much the worse; send
a bunctionary along with it, and pray for me). This is why. If I
recover, I feel called on to write a volume of gods and demi-gods in
exile: Pan, Jove, Cybele, Venus, Charon, etc.; and though I should like
to take them very free, I should like to know a little about 'em to
begin with. For two days, till last night, I had no night sweats, and my
cough is almost gone, and I digest well; so all looks hopeful. However,
I was near the other side of Jordan. I send the proof of _Thoreau_ to
you, so that you may correct and fill up the quotation from Goethe. It
is a pity I was ill, as, for matter, I think I prefer that to any of my
essays except _Burns_; but the style, though quite manly, never attains
any melody or lenity. So much for consumption: I begin to appreciate
what the _Emigrant_ must be. As soon as I have done the last few pages
of the _Emigrant_ they shall go to you. But when will that be? I know
not quite yet--I have to be so careful.--Ever yours,