HONOLULU, April 2nd, 1889.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am beginning to be ashamed of writing on to you
without the least acknowledgement, like a tramp; but I do not care—I
am hardened; and whatever be the cause of your silence, I mean to write
till all is blue. I am outright ashamed of my news, which is that we are
not coming home for another year. I cannot but hope it may continue the
vast improvement of my health; I think it good for Fanny and Lloyd; and
we have all a taste for this wandering and dangerous life. My mother I
send home, to my relief, as this part of our cruise will be (if we can
carry it out) rather difficult in places. Here is the idea: about the
middle of June (unless the Boston Board objects) we sail from Honolulu
in the missionary ship (barquentine auxiliary steamer) _Morning Star_:
she takes us through the Gilberts and Marshalls, and drops us (this is
my great idea) on Ponapue, one of the volcanic islands of the Carolines.
Here we stay marooned among a doubtful population, with a Spanish
vice-governor and five native kings, and a sprinkling of missionaries,
all at loggerheads, on the chance of fetching a passage to Sydney in
a trader, a labor ship or (maybe, but this appears too bright) a ship
of war. If we can't get the _Morning Star_ (and the Board has many
reasons that I can see for refusing its permission) I mean to try to
fetch Fiji, hire a schooner there, do the Fijis and Friendlies, hit
the course of the _Richmond_ at Tonga Tabu, make back by Tahiti, and so
to S. F., and home: perhaps in June, 1890. For the latter part of the
cruise will likely be the same in either case. You can see for yourself
how much variety and adventure this promises: and that it is not devoid
of danger at the best, but if we can pull it off in safety, gives me a
fine book of travel, and Lloyd a fine lecture and diorama, which should
vastly better our finances. I feel as if I were untrue to friendship;
believe me, Colvin, when I look forward to this absence of another
year, my conscience sinks at thought of the Monument; but I think you
will pardon me if you consider how much this tropical weather mends my
health. Remember me as I was at home, and think of me sea-bathing and
walking about, as jolly as a sandboy; you will own the temptation is
strong; and as the scheme, bar fatal accidents, is bound to pay in the
bargain, sooner or later, it seems it would be madness to come home now,
with an imperfect book, no illustrations to speak of, no diorama, and
perhaps fall sick again by autumn. I do not think I delude myself when
I say the tendency to catarrh has visibly diminished.
It is a singular thing that as I was packing up old papers ere I left
Skerryvore, I came on the prophecies of a drunken Highland Sybil, when
I was seventeen. She said I was to be very happy, to visit America,
and _to be much upon the sea_. It seems as if it were coming true with
a vengeance. Also, do you remember my strong, old, rooted belief that
I shall die by drowning? I don't want that to come true, though it
is an easy death; but it occurs to me oddly, with these long chances
in front. I cannot say why I like the sea; no man is more cynically
and constantly alive to its perils; I regard it as the highest form
of gambling; and yet I love the sea as much as I hate gambling. Fine,
clean emotions; a world all and always beautiful; air better than wine;
interest unflagging: there is upon the whole no better life. Yours ever,