“Mr. Greeley expressed a hope that you would stop at his home until your house is settled and ready for occupation. He also expects that Katy will accept his invitation to come immediately to attend school, and remain with them until you are settled in New York. It is only since my sea-life that I have fully realized the situation. You are exposed to the scoffs and ridicule of the masses, at all times and in all places. This great and important truth is destined to revolutionize the world, and will render your names a part of the history of the age. It has already done so. I shall claim as a right from you, occasionally, a full account of the progress of the cause. The subject has been a very dear one to me. In fact, I feel that I am living in a different sphere since I have been acquainted with the object of my own existence, and have a clearer perception of a life beyond. I can realize the truth of that saying, so common with the good old Methodists, viz., ‘I enjoy a peace that the world cannot give nor take away.’
“We are now almost one thousand miles from San Francisco, being only four or five days’ sail, with a fair wind. Unfortunately, however, the wind is turned unfavorable, and we may be as many weeks. This is our one hundred and fourth day at sea, without landing, having travelled some fifteen thousand miles.
“Our voyage, on the whole, has been very pleasant. The weather has been remarkably fine. We have not experienced one day of what the sailors term rough weather. Our passage round Cape Horn, the place so much dreaded by all voyagers, was unusually favorable. We were only three days in getting round, while it is common for ships to be from fifteen to thirty. The greatest treat of the voyage is the sunsets on this side. Their wondrous beauties baffle every attempt at description. Will you have the kindness to send by mail the piece of music, ‘Haunted Ground’?
“With kind regards to all, I remain yours truly,
JOHN E. ROBINSON.
“Rochester, N. Y., October 20, 1853.
“Dear Friend Leah:
“I have received your note of a recent date, and am obliged to you for it, as I always am for a letter from you. But, what is the matter with you? your letter is deeply tinged with sadness, and reads very much as I feel sometimes, though from a different cause from any which appeared in yours.
“You have, or had just then, a November mood on, and here it is October, and a clear and bright sky; and although it be autumn, it is one of no common beauty. What has crossed your path? Are you not blessed with friends good and true? such as you used to tell me of? and if your health is passingly good, what is there standing between you and your share of happiness? I suppose I might give answers to these questions by looking in upon my own life record: for a human is a human, and we are all of a piece in most things. But your letter leads me to these questions, and so my pen has asked them. You do not say a word about Spirits, or what they and you are doing, leaving me to guess everything which I would know about those things.