YACHT CASCO, _at sea, near the Paumotus_,
7 A.M., _September 6th, 1888_.
MY DEAR CHARLES [BAXTER],—Last night as I lay under my blanket in the
cockpit, courting sleep, I had a comic seizure. There was nothing
visible but the southern stars, and the steersman there out by the
binnacle lamp; we were all looking forward to a most deplorable landfall
on the morrow, praying God we should fetch a tuft of palms which are
to indicate the Dangerous Archipelago; the night was as warm as milk,
and all of a sudden I had a vision of—Drummond Street. It came on me
like a flash of lightning; I simply returned thither, and into the
past. And when I remember all I hoped and feared as I pickled about
Rutherford's in the rain and the east wind; how I feared I should make a
mere shipwreck, and yet timidly hoped not; how I feared I should never
have a friend, far less a wife, and yet passionately hoped I might;
how I hoped (if I did not take to drink) I should possibly write one
little book, etc. etc. And then now—what a change! I feel somehow as if
I should like the incident set upon a brass plate at the corner of that
dreary thoroughfare for all students to read, poor devils, when their
hearts are down. And I felt I must write one word to you. Excuse me if
I write little: when I am at sea, it gives me a headache; when I am in
port, I have my diary crying, 'Give, give.' I shall have a fine book of
travels, I feel sure; and will tell you more of the South Seas after
very few months than any other writer has done—except Herman Melville
perhaps, who is a howling cheese. Good luck to you, God bless you.—Your
affectionate friend,