which insisted on being either
insignificant or fulsome: I cannot think of a better word than _comes_,
there being not the shadow of a Latin book on board; yet sure there is
some other. Then _viator_ (though it _sounds_ all right) is doubtful; it
has too much, perhaps, the sense of wayfarer? Last, will it mark
sufficiently that I mean my wife? And first, how about blunders? I
scarce wish it longer.

Have had a swingeing sharp attack in Sydney; beating the fields[13] for
two nights, Saturday and Sunday. Wednesday was brought on board, _tel
quel_, a wonderful wreck; and now, Wednesday week, am a good deal picked
up, but yet not quite a Samson, being still groggy afoot and vague in
the head. My chess, for instance, which is usually a pretty strong game,
and defies all rivalry aboard, is vacillating, devoid of resource and
observation, and hitherto not covered with customary laurels. As for
work, it is impossible. We shall be in the saddle before long, no doubt,
and the pen once more couched. You must not expect a letter under these
circumstances, but be very thankful for a note. Once at Samoa, I shall
try to resume my late excellent habits, and delight you with journals,
you unaccustomed, I unaccustomed; but it is never too late to mend.

It is vastly annoying that I cannot go even to Sydney without an attack;
and heaven knows my life was anodyne. I only once dined with anybody; at
the club with Wise; worked all morning--a terrible dead pull; a month
only produced the imperfect embryos of two chapters; lunched in the
boarding-house, played on my pipe; went out and did some of my messages;
dined at a French restaurant, and returned to play draughts, whist, or
Van John with my family. This makes a cheery life after Samoa; but it
isn't what you call burning the candle at both ends, is it? (It appears
to me not one word of this letter will be legible by the time I am done
with it, this dreadful ink rubs off.) I have a strange kind of novel
under construction; it begins about 1660 and ends 1830, or perhaps I may
continue it to 1875 or so, with another life. One, two, three, four,
five, six generations, perhaps seven, figure therein; two of my old
stories, "Delafield" and "Shovel," are incorporated; it is to be told in
the third person, with some of the brevity of history, some of the
detail of romance. _The Shovels of Newton French_ will be the name. The
idea is an old one; it was brought to birth by an accident; a friend in
t