is about Buccaneers, that it
begins in the "Admiral Benbow" public-house on Devon coast, that it's
all about a map, and a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, and
a current, and a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real Tre, purged of
literature and sin, to suit the infant mind), and a doctor, and another
doctor, and a sea cook with one leg, and a sea-song with the chorus
"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" (at the third Ho you heave at the capstan
bars), which is a real buccaneer's song, only known to the crew of the
late Captain Flint (died of rum at Key West, much regretted, friends
will please accept this intimation); and lastly, would you be surprised
to hear, in this connection, the name of _Routledge_? That's the kind of
man I am, blast your eyes. Two chapters are written, and have been tried
on Lloyd with great success; the trouble is to work it off without
oaths. Buccaneers without oaths--bricks without straw. But youth and the
fond parent have to be consulted.

And now look here--this is next day--and three chapters are written and
read. (Chapter I. The Old Sea-dog at the "Admiral Benbow." Chapter II.
Black Dog appears and disappears. Chapter III. The Black Spot.) All now
heard by Lloyd, F., and my father and mother, with high approval. It's
quite silly and horrid fun, and what I want is the _best_ book about the
Buccaneers that can be had--the latter B's above all, Blackbeard and
sich, and get Nutt or Bain to send it skimming by the fastest post. And
now I know you'll write to me, for _The Sea Cook's_ sake.

Your Admiral Guinea is curiously near my line, but of course I'm
fooling; and your Admiral sounds like a shublime gent, Stick to him like
wax--he'll do. My Trelawney is, as I indicate, several thousand
sea-miles off the lie of the original or your Admiral Guinea; and
besides, I have no more about him yet but one mention of his name, and I
think it likely he may turn yet farther from the model in the course of
handling. A chapter a day I mean to do; they are short; and perhaps in a
month _The Sea Cook_ may to Routledge go, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
My Trelawney has a strong dash of Landor, as I see him from here. No
women in the story, Lloyd's orders; and who so blithe to obey? It's
awful fun boys' stories; you just indulge the pleasure of your heart,
that's all; no trouble, no strain. The only stiff thing is to get it
ended--that I don't see, but I look to a volcano. O sweet, O generous, O
human toil