I find the pictures of Marian interesting, but have the self-denial to keep only one of them--the prettiest one of course. Your own is rather solemn, but it will do for the title page of the Testimony, which is still my favorite reading.
Scheff showed me your verses on Katie's baby, and Katie has since sent them. They are very tender and beautiful. I would not willingly spare any of your "personal" poems--least of all, naturally, the one personal to me. Your success with them is exceptional. Yet the habit of writing them is perilous, as the many failures of great poets attest--Milton, for example, in his lines to Syriack Skinner, his lines to a baby that died a-bornin' and so forth. The reason is obvious, and you have yourself, with sure finger, pointed it out:
"Remiss the ministry they bear Who serve her with divided heart; She stands reluctant to impart Her strength to purpose, end, or care."
When one is intent upon pleasing some mortal, one is less intent upon pleasing the immortal Muse. All this is said only by way of admonition for the future, not in criticism of the past. I'm a sinner myself in that way, but then I'm not a saint in any way, so my example doesn't count.
I don't mind * * * calling me a "dignified old gentleman"--indeed, that is what I have long aspired to be, but have succeeded only in the presence of strangers, and not always then. * *
*(I forgot to say that your poem is now in the hands of the editor of the Atlantic.)
Your determination to "boom" me almost frightens me. Great Scott! you've no notion of the magnitude of the task you undertake; the labors of Hercules were as nothing to it. Seriously, don't make any enemies that way; it is not worth while. And you don't know how comfortable I am in my obscurity. It is like being in "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land."
How goes the no sale of Shapes of Clay? I am slowly saving up a bit of money to recoup your friendly outlay. That's a new thing for me to do--the saving, I mean--and I rather enjoy the sensation. If it results in making a miser of me you will have to answer for it to many a worthy complainant.
Get thee behind me, Satan!--it is not possible for me to go to California yet. For one thing, my health is better here in the East; I have utterly escaped asthma this summer, and summer is my only "sickly season" here. In California I had the thing at any time o' year--even at Wright's. But it is my hope to end my days out there.