To Charles Eliot Norton

Denmark Hill, 6 January, ‘62.

Dear Norton,—At home again at last, after six months’ rest. I have two letters of yours unanswered. But after six months of doing nothing I feel wholly incapable of ever doing anything any more, so I can't answer them. Only, so many thanks, for being nice and writing them. Thanks for Atlantic. Lowell is delicious in the bits, “The coppers ain't all tails,” and such like; but I can't make out how it bears on the business—that's laziness too, I suppose. Also, for said business itself, I am too lazy to care anything about it, unless I hear there's some chance of you or Lowell or Emerson's being shot, in which case I should remonstrate. For the rest, if people want to fight, my opinion is that fighting will be good for them, and I suppose when they're tired, they'll stop. They've no Titians nor anything worth thinking about, to spoil—and the rest is all one to me.

I've been in Switzerland from the 20th September to day after Christmas. Got home on last day of year. It's quite absurd to go to Switzerland in the summer. Mid-November is the time. I've seen a good deal—but nothing ever to come near it. The long, low light,— the floating frost cloud—the divine calm and melancholy—and the mountains all opal below and pearl above. There's no talking about it, nor giving you any idea of it. The day before Christmas was a clear frost in dead-calm sunlight. All the pines of Pilate covered with hoar-frost—level golden sunbeams—purple shadows—and a mountain of virgin silver.