[_San Francisco, April 1880._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--My dear people telegraphed me in these words: "Count on
250 pounds annually." You may imagine what a blessed business this was.
And so now recover the sheets of the _Emigrant_, and post them
registered to me. And now please give me all your venom against it; say
your worst, and most incisively, for now it will be a help, and I'll
make it right or perish in the attempt. Now, do you understand why I
protested against your depressing eloquence on the subject? When I _had_
to go on any way, for dear life, I thought it a kind of pity and not
much good to discourage me. Now all's changed. God only knows how much
courage and suffering is buried in that MS. The second part was written
in a circle of hell unknown to Dante--that of the penniless and dying
author. For dying I was, although now saved. Another week, the doctor
said, and I should have been past salvation. I think I shall always
think of it as my best work. There is one page in Part II., about having
got to shore, and sich, which must have cost me altogether six hours of
work as miserable as ever I went through. I feel sick even to think of
it.--Ever your friend,