[_Newport_, _U.S.A._, _September_ 1887.]
MY DEAR JAMES,—Here we are at Newport in the house of the good
Fairchilds; and a sad burthen we have laid upon their shoulders. I have
been in bed practically ever since I came. I caught a cold on the Banks
after having had the finest time conceivable, and enjoyed myself more
than I could have hoped on board our strange floating menagerie:
stallions and monkeys and matches made our cargo; and the vast continent
of these incongruities rolled the while like a haystack; and the
stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, looking through the ports at
our dinner-table, and winked when the crockery was broken; and the little
monkeys stared at each other in their cages, and were thrown overboard
like little bluish babies; and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the
ship and rested willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and the
man of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and sat therein
at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on a box of chocolates;
and the other passengers, when they were not sick, looked on and laughed.
Take all this picture, and make it roll till the bell shall sound
unexpected notes and the fittings shall break lose in our state-room, and
you have the voyage of the _Ludgate Hill_. She arrived in the port of
New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, fresh meat, or fresh
water; and yet we lived, and we regret her.
My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes.
America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a great place for
kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is popularity! I envy the cool
obscurity of Skerryvore. If it even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed
at himself.—Yours most sincerely,