_Yacht_ ‘_Casco_,’ _at sea_, _near the Paumotus_,
7 A.M., _September_ 6_th_, 1888, _with a dreadful pen_.
MY DEAR CHARLES,—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,