I shall arrive at your house Dec. 28—& shall leave again Jan 2—except that I shall lecture in Akron Dec. 30. I skip Dayton for the present.

Don’t you know, I just kept on begging & worrying Mrs. Langdon by letter, till she had to say Come, to get rid of me. And so I broke a lecture engagement & staid stopped there from 7 PM 17th to 7 PM 18th. It was splendid. I had had a hard time getting permission to come, but after I was there, none of them were anxious to have me go again—so that was a point gained, wasn’t it? I think so. Mr. Langdon is well again, & was perfectly jolly.—Ⓐemendationbothered us & interrupted us all he could—& appeared to enjoy it.

I begin to think that Livy’s letters are going to miscarry wofully on this trip—but I shall fix it as I go along. I have written her to write Cleveland & never mind the other places for the present—& so you take care of them if any chance to arrive before I do. You say she writes well. I should think so. This paragraph, from her letter received yesterday, so touches me with its simple pathos & so stirs my pity for the poor child, withal, that I feel like a sort of monstrous sort of highwayman when I think of tearing her from the home which has so long been her little world, her shelter, her refuge:

“I think that you must have scared me a little, yesterday, talking about the home in Cleveland, because to-day I have been feeling sad at the thought of ever leaving this home of mine, ever going out from among those who have always made a part of my life. To think of having them grow used to my being absent from them, so that at last they would cease to miss me, made me feel as if I wanted father to put his arms about me & keep me near him always—always.”

It is one’s heart that writes, Madam—mere art could never teach any one to put words together like that. Further along, she says: “He said last night that if he could live as long as I did, he would never let any man take me away from him; & he said that when I left home he was going to sell out—he is good at making threats.”

That girl is one in a million. She is fearfully & wonderfully made. Do you know her superior anywhere?

My dear good Mother, she read me your letter to Mrs Langdon & re-read & dwelt with particular delight upon the passage wherein you speak of placing full confidence in me—told her mother that that was just what she ought to do.1explanatory note AndⒶemendation I believe she does—& it is allowing to your cordial, whole-hearted endorsement of me, my loved & honored mother—& for that, & for your whole saving letter, I shall be always, always grateful to you. And when I prove unworthy of the service you have done me in this matter, & the generous trust you have placed in me, I shall be even in the slightest degree, I shall to be glad to know that that day is the last appointed me to live. There is no way in which I shall not prove your judgment perfect. Across the wastes of frozen snow that lie between us, mother, I waft a filial kiss so warm that such idle citizens as be abroad this night shall think the Spirit of the South Wind went by. Amen. AndⒶemendation that is honest.

Write to Livy, please. I guess she don’t owe you a letter. And maybe she does, too. Some time ago I shamed her so about not answering your letter to her about our contemplated visit, that she verily thought she had committed something akin to high treason. She was going to hurry off & write at once—but I saw that what I had said had distressed her so, that I stopped her & told her it was only talk—& that her mother’s letter was sufficient. I didn’t exactly think so, but then the girl was in so much trouble, how could I do otherwise? And so maybe she didn’t write.2explanatory note Writing is a great labor to her, & the close application it requires taxes her strength—but I will tell her to skip me, for once, & write you.

About this time, (past midnight, & so, Christmas is here,) eighteen hundred & sixty-nine years ago, the stars were shedding a purer lustre above the barren hills of Bethlehem—& possibly flowers were being charmed to life in the dismal plain where the Shepherds watched their flocks—& the hovering angels were singing Peace on earth, good will to men. For the Savior was come. Don’t you naturally turn, in fancy, now, to that crumbling wall & its venerable olives, & to the mouldy domes & turrets of Bethlehem? And don’t you picture it all out in your mind as we saw it many months ago? And don’t the picture mellow in the distance & take to itself again the soft, unreal semblance that Poetry & Tradition give to the things they hallow? And now that the greasy monks, & the noisy mob, & the leprous beggars are gone, & all the harsh, cold hardness of real stone & unsentimental glare of sunlight are banished from the vision, don’t you realize again, as in other years, that Jesus was born there, & that the angels did sing in the still air above, & that the wondering Shepheards did hold their breath & listen as the mysterious music floated by? I do. It is more real than ever. And I am glad, a hundred times glad, that I saw Bethlehem, though at the time it seemed that that sight had swept away forever, every memory pleasant fancy & every cherished memory that ever the City of the Nativity had stored away in my mind & heart.

Please give my love to Mollie,3explanatory note & to Old Mr. Fairbanks, & to all the family. I am coming. When you write our most excellent & well-beloved Mrs. Mason, please say to her that I told warned you to ORGANIZE! against, my coming. I guess she’ll understand. I have just written her to-day.

Good-bye. Peace unto your household—& a very happy Christmas.