I fear that among the various cares incident to my departure from
Washington I forgot, or neglected, to acknowledge the Joaquin Miller
book that you kindly sent me. I was glad to have it. It has all his
characteristic merits and demerits--among the latter, his interminable
prolixity, the thinness of the thought, his endless repetition of
favorite words and phrases, many of them from his other poems, his
mispronunciation, his occasional flashes of prose, and so forth.
Scheff tells me his book is out and mine nearly out. But what of
yours? I do fear me it never will be out if you rely upon its
"acceptance" by any American publisher. If it meets with no favor
among the publisher tribe we must nevertheless get it out; and you
will of course let me do what I can. That is only tit for tat. But
tell me about it.
I dare say Scheff, who is clever at getting letters out of me--the
scamp!--has told you of my being up here atop of the Alleghenies, and
why I _am_ here. I'm having a rather good time. * * * Can you fancy me
playing croquet, cards, lawn--no, thank God, I've escaped lawn tennis
and golf! In respect of other things, though, I'm a glittering
specimen of the Summer Old Man.
Did _you_ have a good time in the redwoods?
Please present my compliments to Madame (and Mademoiselle) Sterling.
Sincerely yours,