AUSTIN, Texas, December 22, 1885.

Dear Dave:  Everything wept at your departure.  Especially the clouds.  Last night the clouds had a silver lining, three dollars and a half’s worth.  I fulfilled your engagement in grand, tout ensemble style, but there is a sad bon jour look about the thirty-eight cents left in my vest pocket that would make a hired man weep.  All day long the heavens wept, and the heavy, sombre clouds went drifting about over head, and the north wind howled in maniacal derision, and the hack drivers danced on the pavements in wild, fierce glee, for they knew too well what the stormy day betokened.  The hack was to call for me at eight.  At five minutes to eight I went upstairs and dressed in my usual bijou and operatic style, and rolled away to the opera.  Emma sang finely.  I applauded at the wrong times, and praised her rendering of the chromatic scale when she was performing on “c” flat andante pianissimo, but otherwise the occasion passed off without anything to mar the joyousness of the hour.  Everybody was there.  Isidor Moses and John Ireland, and Fritz Hartkopf and Prof.  Herzog and Bill Stacy and all the bong ton elight.  You will receive a draft to-day through the First National Bank of Colorado for $3.65, which you will please honor.

There is no news, or there are no news, either you like to tell.  Lavaca Street is very happy and quiet and enjoys life, for Jones was sat on by his Uncle Wash and feels humble and don’t sing any more, and the spirit of peace and repose broods over its halls.  Martha rings the matin bell, it seems to me before cock crow or ere the first faint streaks of dawn are limned in the eastern sky by the rosy fingers of Aurora.  At noon the foul ogre cribbage stalks rampant, and seven-up for dim, distant oysters that only the eye of faith can see.

The hour grows late.  The clock strikes!  Another day has vanished.  Gone into the dim recesses of the past, leaving its record of misspent hours, false hopes, and disappointed expectations.  May a morrow dawn that will bring recompense and requital for the sorrows of the days gone by, and a new order of things when there will be more starch in cuff and collar, and less in handkerchiefs.

Come with me out into the starlight night.  So calm, so serene, ye lights of heaven, so high above earth; so pure and majestic and mysterious; looking down on the mad struggle of life here below, is there no pity in your never closing eyes for us mortals on which you shine?

Come with me on to the bridge.  Ah, see there, far below, the dark, turbid stream.  Rushing and whirling and eddying under the dark pillars with ghostly murmur and siren whisper.  What shall we find in your depths?  The stars do not reflect themselves in your waters, they are too dark and troubled and swift!  What shall we find in your depths?  Rest?—­Peace?—­catfish?  Who knows?  ’Tis but a moment.  A leap!  A plunge!—­and—­then oblivion or another world?  Who can tell?  A man once