[_Vailima_, _December_ 1890.]
MY DEAR BURLINGAME,—By some diabolical accident, I have mislaid your
last. What was in it? I know not, and here I am caught unexpectedly by
the American mail, a week earlier than by computation. The computation,
not the mail, is supposed to be in error. The vols. of _Scribner’s_ have
arrived, and present a noble appearance in my house, which is not a noble
structure at present. But by autumn we hope to be sprawling in our
verandah, twelve feet, sir, by eighty-eight in front, and seventy-two on
the flank; view of the sea and mountains, sunrise, moonrise, and the
German fleet at anchor three miles away in Apia harbour. I hope some day
to offer you a bowl of kava there, or a slice of a pineapple, or some
lemonade from my own hedge. ‘I know a hedge where the lemons
grow’—_Shakespeare_. My house at this moment smells of them strong; and
the rain, which a while ago roared there, now rings in minute drops upon
the iron roof. I have no _Wrecker_ for you this mail, other things
having engaged me. I was on the whole rather relieved you did not vote
for regular papers, as I feared the traces. It is my design from time to
time to write a paper of a reminiscential (beastly word) description;
some of them I could scarce publish from different considerations; but
some of them—for instance, my long experience of gambling places—Homburg,
Wiesbaden, Baden-Baden, old Monaco, and new Monte Carlo—would make good
magazine padding, if I got the stuff handled the right way. I never
could fathom why verse was put in magazines; it has something to do with
the making-up, has it not? I am scribbling a lot just now; if you are
taken badly that way, apply to the South Seas. I could send you some, I
believe, anyway, only none of it is thoroughly ripe. If kept back the
volume of ballads, I’ll soon make it a respectable size if this fit
continue. By the next mail you may expect some more _Wrecker_, or I
shall be displeased. Probably no more than a chapter, however, for it is
a hard one, and I am denuded of my proofs, my collaborator having walked
away with them to England; hence some trouble in catching the just note.
I am a mere farmer: my talk, which would scarce interest you on Broadway,
is all of fuafua and tuitui, and black boys, and planting and weeding,
and axes and cutlasses; my hands are covered with blisters and full of
thorns; letters are, doubtless, a fine thing, so are beer and skittles,
but give me farmering in the tropics for real interest. Life goes in
enchantment; I come home to find I am late for dinner; and when I go to
bed at night, I could cry for the weariness of my loins and thighs. Do
not speak to me of vexation, the life brims with it, but with living
interest fairly.
Christmas I go to Auckland, to meet Tamate, the New Guinea missionary, a
man I love. The rest of my life is a prospect of much rain, much weeding
and making of paths, a little letters, and devilish little to eat.—I am,
my dear Burlingame, with messages to all whom it may concern, very
sincerely yours,