F E B R U A R Y F I F T H
Emerson met the naturalist John Muir during his trip to California in the spring of 1871
My dear Muir, Here lie your significant Cedar flowers on my table, & in another letter, & I will procrastinate no longer. That singular disease of deferring, which kills all my designs, has left a pair of books brought home to send you months & and months ago, still covering their inches on my cabinet, & the letter & letters we should have accompanied to utter my thanks & lively remembrance, are either unwritten or lost,â€”so I will send this peccavi , as a sign of remorse. I have been far from unthankful, â€”I have everywhere testified to my friends, who should also be yours, my happiness in finding you,â€”the right man in the right place,â€”in your mountain tabernacle,— & have expected when your guardian angel would pronounce that your probation & sequestration in the solitudes & snows had reached their term, & you were to bring your ripe fruits so rare and precious into waiting Society.. . . . .