Grass Valley, Sept, 30 1858
Estimable Fair Damsel –
I received you kind letter by last steamer, and hope the letter I promised in my last has safely reached its destination, although on that point I have some reason for doubt. The Coach on which that steamers Mail left this place was robbed before it reached Sacramento. The Mail Bags were found cut open, and those letters containing drafts taken off, and numerous others were found under a bridge covered with mud and water, so defaced as to be unrecognizable. Whether all the letters were so served is not known, and therefore if you have mine I shall feel glad, as it was written in a very comfortable state of mind. Expecting to lose some money, with a forlorn hope of saving it I left Grass Valley – returning with that money in my pocket, caused a pleasurable reaction in feeling, in which state of mind the letter to you was written. As matter with me exercises a great influence over mind, so when that mind is in a comfortable state, I can write the better to be understood, than when the reverse is the case.
But enough on this subject, it may not prove as bad as it looks, and I therefore leave it for another and congenial operations.
In the first place, then, Fair Lady, I design to take your patience while I endeavor to make a few observations on a text which you will find recorded on the 15th line of the 2nd page of the last Epistle of Esther, to Edwin, and 4th line from the bottom of the page, in these words: –
“I cannot compose or write myself.”
The first observation I shall make is that, “the proof of the pudding is the eating thereof.” Let me illustrate:
The 1st 2nd and part of the 3rd pages of your letter, are filled with a string of excuses. A tissue of special pleadings – the putting this against that and that against the other and the other against something else, for instance: –
“I was disappointed, but when I came to think how ludicrous my letters must seem, etc., etc. I did not think strange” etc., etc.
And again: –
“I was constrained to think that had you read it before writing, I should not have the pleasure of hearing from you again.” Etc., etc.
And yet again: –
“I have eagerly looked for the time to come when I should hear from you” etc., tec. “unless you should think it was not worth while, to waste time in answering it and in that case I shall not blame you, although I shall feel very sorry” etc., etc.
And further:
“I like to have a good letter from you if I cannot answer it properly. Therefore, I hope you will not cease to write me/indeed I won’t/ if I do lack the gift of good letter writing.” Etc., etc.
Now, if the above extracts from your letter do not carry out my idea of putting this against that and that against the other, and the other against something else, then there is no such thing as (need original) idea. While reading the first part, therefore of your letter, the old deacon forced himself into my mind involuntarily, and the thought suggested itself that you were under conviction at the time that the case of the old deacon, with a scarcely perceptible alteration, might be made to come pretty near your fit. This thought was converted into a fact, when I read on a little: “I am afraid if I have any more excuses you will tell me a story of some other deacon, etc.” Don’t believe a word of that, however, for that same old deacon will answer the purpose exactly, and leave me all the other deacons for future occasion, if such should arise.
But, to sum up and conclude my observations on the text I have chosen for consideration, let me say, that if you continue to improve in the excuse line, with the same rapidity in that respect as you have since I have had the pleasure of having communication (mutually edifying I trust) with you the time is not far distant when you can easily hold your own with the most astute reasoned of the day. I thought I could keep grave, but “it’s no use”, the old lady who was asked what was good for the toothache would force herself on me. Said she “I know a positive cure – you take some hog’s lard and mustard – no, I think it is mustard, but you take some hog’s lard – and – something else, I disremember now, but I am sure it is one or the other, and it will cure the toothache right off.”
There, almost enough about excuses, but an idea has just popped in, it is this: – You just go on in the excuse line, as you have done, a letter while longer, and if I ever get hard up or “strapped” as we say here, I’ll take your letters and compile from them a work with something like the following titles: –
Hand Book
Of
Excuses
Containing
Over
One Thousand Varieties
Being an
Admirable Assistant
To
Letter Writers
In General
And
Young Ladies
In Particular
Copyright – Secured, Etc., Etc.
So much for that side of the picture – now let us turn to the other side and see how easy a thing it is to demonstrate the utter failure of all special pleading to make out for yourself a good case. Read, if you please, I copy verbatim: –
“I reckon you will think I write strange – but it seems to me just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to, or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation that somehow I cannot account for. Never having had any previous acquaintance with you and never hearing of you either, it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream, or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other. I would not like to have the spell broken, however, for I would hold sweet communion with my own thoughts and with one that seems singularly connected with my something else.” “You can laugh at this if you have a mind to, etc., etc.”
Well I have laughed and will laugh and laugh again and laugh every time I read over your letter – not at the sentiments enunciated in the above extract of your letter – but at the idea of the head that conceived, the head that wrote, and the something else that so gracefully closed the casket on so many clusters of brilliant gems, trying to make me believe that the possessor of that head, hand and something else “cannot compose or write.” Why I can easily conjecture and define your sensations while giving life to that delightful page: –
By turns you felt your glowing mind,
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined.
Talk about “cannot compose or write,” why I would as soon believe now, that the Atlantic Telegraph Cable had not been laid between American and England!
I am glad that Dame Gossip has taken up her residence in Salisbury. If you see the old lady and are on confidential terms with her please, say to her, in my behalf, that if the business she is engaged in, in Salisbury, is at any time slack, and she can stand the journey to California, I will promise as much business as she can possibly attend to here – a good steady job all the year round – may so much business that the fear is, the rapid concentration of that kind of gas, would be more than the tongue could work off and the consequent liability to collapse a flue.
But turning from all else, let me come to the most pleasurable portion of my scrawlings.
In the first letter I had the honor, for so I esteem it, of addressing you, occurred something like the following passage:
“A person taken from home very young, and kept away until arrived to years of maturity, will, when brought again to the place of birth have a sensation come over the mind impossible to account for, x x x a dim, indescribable sensation something akin to the foregoing came over me when I first saw the initial of a letter from under your hand” etc., etc.
Let me now add as extract from your first letter in answer:
“I think the initials of the name that woke such fresh memories in your mind must be the same letters that stood for some dear and departed friend” etc. etc.
And yet another extract from you last letter: –
“it seem just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation, that somehow I cannot account for.
Again I related to you a singular dream I once had, and asked your opinion of this and other matters, which was given as follows:
“You have related to me a dream, etc. and asked me to tell you what I think of it. Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things almost real” etc.
Now let me place on record from your letter the following: After mentioning that peculiar sensation before spoken of, you add:
Xxx it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other I cannot account for.”
If you had asked my opinion of this passage, might I not have said “Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things appear almost real.” Or as you said in that same letter: “I am one of those kind that was never troubled with what people term the Blues, never thoughtfully sad; still, I think I can sympathise some with suffering humanity and with your in particular.” I say, I might have thus answered, but the answer would not have described my feelings. I could not have selected terms more choice, more appropriate, more indicative of intense feeling that the following:
“It hardly seems real” xxx ”yet I should not like to have the spell broken, for I would hold sweet communion with one that seems so singularly connected with my something else!”
Fair Lady, it is as much, nay more than I can do to stand all this. My feelings are all in a state of jumble, and the only opiate is to lay down the pen and change the scene, till the tempest somewhat subsides.
Two hours have now elapsed, and I set down again and take up the pen. The past two hours, I have spent with myself, reasoning upon the assimilation of natures – attractive forces in nature, magnetic influence of sympathies, and to atomic theory of creation, where all was confusion until one atom came in contact with another and cohered and attracted another and yet another and so on till one perfect world was the result. how shall I express myself, though I, on this subject and could come to no satisfactory conclusion. I can only therefore, compromise with myself, by making this request. There is a romance called “Shirley”, one of the emanations from the gifted mind of the authoress, Jane Eyre, would you please get that work to be had at all book stores, read it carefully, studiously, and let me have your candid opinion, upon the hero and heroine of that work. I have a copy here; if there is any particular passage or passages that strike your attention more than others, please not the page, tec. And I can refer to them.
I thank you sincerely for the wish that I might some day visit Salisbury – though not exactly a direct invitation – I think I can yet make out to twist it into an invitation by implication. Now let me put in a little story, (for stories you are fond of reading, I know you are for you say so, but I hope you don’t: tell stories,” nay, I know you don’t, I feel you don’t.
When a boy, a companion one day put a ball in my hand to which a wire was attached, informing me that it was a musical electric ball. He requested me to squeeze it in my hand as by so doing it would emit most beautiful music. I endeavored to do as he bid me, but had scarcely begun to squeeze, when my hand became as it were paralysed, and remained so with the ball in it, until he let go the wire he had in his hand and squeezing mine with the ball still on it brought my hand in contact with a needle which was adroitly concealed in the ball, and made me, instead of it, emit some beautiful music for awhile. Ever since I have been on the look out for needles in things and now let me apply the story. You say –,
“A number of city people visit Salisbury yearly to enjoy its nice fresh air and its romantic prospects, which are certainly very delightful. I know you would think so should you visit Salisbury and I do hope you will grace with your presence sometime these hills and valleys.”
Now did you wrap up that needle in that ball carefully and cutely, but for all I think I can see the electricity. Once get the ball in my hand and in my hand it must stay, until the person who has charge of the wire chooses to stick the needle in the hand and make me jump again. But I am never afraid; I may and must get used to this kind of thing some time or other.
I have wished for more than a year to leave California, but if my wish could have been gratified as soon as conceived, what would have been the consequence – you can imagine that as well as myself. Yes lately I have earnestly tried to accomplish, but almost like as a lady once said of her husband. “I’ve tried everything with John and it’s all of no use, he’s no good.” So with me – I’ve tried every way to wind up my business and its no use – (the remainder of the wife’s saying I will not add, however, for a regard myself I don’t believe a word of it.) A year at least must elapse before I can accomplish my object and although I feel –
It were better to stand the lightning shock,
Than moulder (to cause to crumble) piecemeal on the rock,
Yet it can’t be helped, I must, for awhile at least enact the part of
Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
I am sorry indeed to hear that your flower seeds did not come to hand. They were seeds of some of the beautiful wild flowers of California, and whether I can replace them in time for your next season of flowers in doubtful, but I will do my best to do so.
But here is something I had not read understandingly before:
“This letter is not very long, but I think it will compensate for your short note. I will promise you a longer one next time.” Now what am I to understand by this: is it that next time you are going to promise me a longer one; if so I hope you will take that back and give me, not a promise of, but actually a long letter next time.
In trying to make out this letter you will see the relevancy of the excuse that I am about to offer, viz. that like the Dutchman I’ve had my outsides nearly knocked in – and with bad pen and ink, very bad ink, and feeling all over I don’t know how you must do me the kindness to supply all defect and oblige,
Dear Lady,
Yours truly,
E.F. D.
Miss E. F. Dimond
Salisbury, N.H.