LETTER NO. XII 



San Francisco, October 12, 1854. 

 My Dearly Beloved Parents: — Week after week passes 

 without bringing me, what I desire most, news from you. 

 It is now more than three months since I received your 

 last letter. No change has taken place in my way of liv- 

 ing since I wrote to you last, and I am, to my own sur- 

 prise, still following the same trade— painting, without 

 bettering my condition, except perfecting myself in the 

 business. As to my health, I have no reason to complain. 

 As far as social intercourse is concerned, I keep company 

 with myself and wonder sometimes that I do not feel 

 more lonesome, but then I might feel more lonesome if I 

 were to associate with others. During my idle hours I 

 walk, and of all places I prefer a quiet nook at the beach. 

 There, far from the noise and the strife of God's images, 

 stretching myself upon the sand in the shade of some 

 rock, I let my thoughts roam wherever they please and 

 let the waves of the Pacific sing to me the old, old song, 

 which fits my thoughts so well! Do not imagine me, how- 

 ever, to be a complete anchoret, such as are found among 

 the Hindoos and early Christians, who retired for solitude 

 to the wilderness, living in hovels and caves. As far as 

 outward appearance is concerned, I am on excellent terms 

 with all persons with whom chance brings me, but I have 

 no desire to become in the least degree intimate with any- 

 one. I know myself too well, and this is the result of it. I 

 know what the verdict of sensible people would be were 

 I to tell them of my troubles and my anxieties. How 

 ridiculous, how silly I would appear in their eyes! This 

 T know to be true, because other sentimental dreamers, 

 such as I (but who have not sense enough to conceal their 

 weak sentimentality) have always challenged my satire, 



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