224 F street
Washington Dec. 10.
Dear Folks—
I called on the Secretary of the Interior, yesterday, but said nothing about a place for Orion, of course—must get better acquainted first—must see his wife—she is the power behind the throne.1 If it were myself, I could get a place pretty easily, because I have friends in high places who offer me such things—but it is hard to get them interested in one’s relatives. Judge Field ‸of the Supreme Bench‸ [ ] is a case in point.2 He wanted to make me Post Master of San Francisco, & I suppose I would have been, without knowing it myself, but that the place was had just been filled when he spoke to the President.3 I told him I didn’t want any office. But he said, “You must have an office, with a good salary & nothing to do. [ You have writt ] You are no common scrub of a newspaperman. You have written the [best ]letter about Pompeii that ever was written about it4—& if you had an easy berth you could [write ] more.” Say what office you want in San Francisco, & the President shall give it you.” I thou didn’t remember the Pompeii letter, but I thought I wouldn’t say so. But I did think like compliments from people who take an interest in me—newspaper compliments I don’t care anything about beyond their market value. But I did think that if I could only turn his good offices over to Orion, it would suit exactly. I had no chance to try it, & it is a delicate business anyhow. But I will call & see him privately in a few [days.]
I am writing a lecture—have half promised to deliver it b for the Cor Newspaper Correspondents’ Club here after the holidays—[ may, ] ‸maybe I may—‸& I may not.5
Dr Birch, of Hannibal, has got a bottle of water which he & I got out of the Pool of Bethesda, in Jerusalem one Sunday morning when the angel wasn’t around.6 Part of it is mine. I’ll give it to you & Mr. Schroter & Sallie Hawes, if you want it & will send for it.7 You can get Essie,8 or Lou Conrad, or some other angel to stir it, & you can start a hospital & cure all the cripples in your camp. I have got some Jordan & some Dead Sea water somewhere, too. I guess it must be in [ Y ]New York.
Inclosed is a letter to me from the wife of the editor of the Cleveland Herald. ‸one of our fellow-passengers.‸ 9 She was the most refined, intelligent, educated & cultivated lady in the ship, & altogether the kindest & best. She sewed my buttons on, kept my clothes in presentable trim, fed me on Egyptian jam, & cured ‸(when I behaved,)‸ lectured me awfully on the quarter-deck on moonlit promenading evenings, & cured me of several bad habits. I am under lasting obligations to her. She looks young, because she is so good—but she has a grown son & daughter at home.10 I wrote her, the other day, that my buttons were all off, [again. She ]had another pup under her charge, younger than myself, whom I called always called the “cub.”11 Hence her reference to cubs & bears. Lucius Moulton12 was another cub of hers. We all called her “mother” & kept her in hot water all the time about her brood. I always abused the sea‐sick people—I said nobody but almighty mean people ever s got sea-sick—& she thought I was in earnest. ‸She never got sick herself.‸ She always drummed us up for prayer meeting, with her monitory “Seven bells, my boys—you know what it is time for.” We always went, but we liked six ‸four‸ bells best, because it meant hash—dinner, I should say.
Love to all the household, & amen.
Yrs affectionately
Sam.
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Source text(s):
Previous publication:
L2, 129–133; MTB, 1:327, excerpt; MTBus, 96–97.
Provenance:see McKinney Family Papers, pp. 512–14.
Emendations and textual notes:
Bench‸ • [followed by a small stroke, part of the insertion, possibly intended as a dash, but here treated as a stray mark]
You have writt You are no common • [‘You are no common’ written over wiped-out ‘You have writt’]
best • bes best [corrected miswriting]
write • w write [corrected miswriting]
days. [¶] I • days.—| [¶] I
may, ‸maybe • [comma mended to a caret]
Y • [partly formed]
again. She • again.—| She