to P. G. Hamerton

Monterey, California [November 1879].

MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,—Your letter to my father was forwarded to me by mistake, and by mistake I opened it.  The letter to myself has not yet reached me.  This must explain my own and my father’s silence.  I shall write by this or next post to the only friends I have who, I think, would have an influence, as they are both professors.  I regret exceedingly that I am not in Edinburgh, as I could perhaps have done more, and I need not tell you that what I might do for you in the matter of the election is neither from friendship nor gratitude, but because you are the only man (I beg your pardon) worth a damn.  I shall write to a third friend, now I think of it, whose father will have great influence.

I find here (of all places in the world) your Essays on Art, which I have read with signal interest.  I believe I shall dig an essay of my own out of one of them, for it set me thinking; if mine could only produce yet another in reply, we could have the marrow out between us.

I hope, my dear sir, you will not think badly of me for my long silence.  My head has scarce been on my shoulders.  I had scarce recovered from a long fit of useless ill-health than I was whirled over here double-quick time and by cheapest conveyance.

I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of a mossy ruin.  If you would view my countenance aright, come—view it by the pale moonlight.  But that is on the mend.  I believe I have now a distant claim to tan.

A letter will be more than welcome in this distant clime where I have a box at the post-office—generally, I regret to say, empty.  Could your recommendation introduce me to an American publisher?  My next book I should really try to get hold of here, as its interest is international, and the more I am in this country the more I understand the weight of your influence.  It is pleasant to be thus most at home abroad, above all, when the prophet is still not without honour in his own land. . . .