Part 5

Indianapolis, August 30th, 1867.

We are safely in Indianapolis. I am not going to write a letter, I only want to thank you and the Doctor and all of the boys for the enjoyments of the pleasant botanical week we spent with you.

We saw, as the steam hurried us on, that the grand harvest of Compositæ would be no failure this year. It is rapidly receiving its purple and gold in generous measure from the precious light of these days.

I could not but notice how well appearances in the vicinity of Chicago agreed with Lesquereux’s theory of the formation of prairies. We spent about five hours in Chicago. I did not find many flowers in her tumultuous streets; only a few grassy plants of wheat and two or three species of weeds,--amaranth, purslane, carpet-weed, etc.,--the weeds, I suppose, for man to walk upon, the wheat to feed him. I saw some new algæ, but no mosses. I expected to see some of the latter on wet walls and in seams in the pavement, but I suppose that the manufacturers’ smoke and the terrible noise is too great for the hardiest of them.

I wish I knew where I was going. Doomed to be “carried of the spirit into the wilderness,” I suppose. I wish I could be more moderate in my desires, but I cannot, and so there is no rest. Is not your experience the same as this?

I feel myself deeply indebted to you all for your great and varied kindness,--not any the less if from stupidity and sleepiness I forgot on leaving to express it.

Farewell. J. MUIR.

Among the Hills of Bear Creek, seven miles southeast of Burkesville, Kentucky, September 9th, [1867.]

I left Indianapolis last Monday and have reached this point by a long, weary, roundabout walk. I walked from Louisville a distance of 170 miles, and my feet are sore, but I am paid for all my toil a thousand times over.

The sun has been among the treetops for more than an hour, and the dew is nearly all taken back, and the shade in these hill basins is creeping away into the unbroken strongholds of the grand old forests.

I have enjoyed the trees and scenery of Kentucky exceedingly. How shall I ever tell of the miles and miles of beauty that have been flowing into me in such measure? These lofty curving ranks of bobbing, swelling hills, these concealed valleys of fathomless verdure, and these lordly trees with the nursing sunlight glancing in their leaves upon the outlines of the magnificent masses of shade embosomed among their wide branches,--these are cut into my memory to go with me forever.

I often thought as I went along how dearly Mrs. Carr would appreciate all this. I have thought of many things I wished to ask you about when with you. I hope to see you all again some time when my tongue and memory are in better order. I have much to ask the Doctor about the geology of Kentucky.

I have seen many caves, Mammoth among the rest. I found two [ ] ferns at the last. My love to Allie and all.

Very cordially yours, JOHN MUIR.

I am in the woods on a hilltop with my back against a moss-clad log. I wish you could see my last evening’s bedroom.

My route will be through Kingston and Madisonville, Tenn., and through Blairsville and Gainesville, Georgia. Please write me at Gainesville. I am terribly hungry. I hardly dare to think of home and friends.

I was a few miles south of Louisville when I planned my journey. I spread out my map under a tree and made up my mind to go through Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia to Florida, thence to Cuba, thence to some part of South America, but it will be only a hasty walk. I am thankful, however, for so much.

I will be glad to receive any advice from you. I am very ignorant of all things pertaining to this journey.

Again farewell. J. MUIR.

My love to the Butlers. I am sorry I could not see John Spooner before leaving Madison.

Cedar Keys, [Fla.] November 8th, [1867.]

I am just creeping about getting plants and strength after my fever. I wrote you a long time ago, but retained the letter, hoping to be able soon to tell you where you might write. Your letter arrived in Gainesville just a few minutes before I did. Somehow your letters always come when most needed. I felt and enjoyed what you said of souls and solitudes, also that “All of Nature being yet found in man.” I shall long for a letter from you. Will you please write me a long letter? Perhaps it will be safer to send it to New Orleans, La. I shall have to go there for a boat to South America. I do not yet know which point in South America I had better go to. What do you say? My means being limited, I cannot stay long anywhere. I would gladly do anything I could for Mr. Warren, but I fear my time will be too short to effect much.

I did not see Miss Brooks, because I found she was 130 miles from Savannah. I passed the Bostwich plantation and could not conveniently go back. I am very sorry about the mistake.

I have written little, but you will excuse me. I am wearied.

My most cordial love to all.

Near Snelling, Merced Co., California, July 26th, [1868.]

I have had the pleasure of but one letter since leaving home from you. That I received at Gainesville, Georgia.

I have not received a letter from any source since leaving Florida, and of course I am very lonesome and hunger terribly for the communion of friends. I will remain here eight or nine months and hope to hear from all my friends.