t seems, for propitiating cannibals.
Of unrehearsed effects on voyages, indeed, my belief is that it is
possible sometimes to have too much. Eastward of Madagascar, we read, lies
Tromelin Island--a sandbank a mile long. In 1761 the _Utile_ was wrecked
there, and eighty blacks were left behind; all died except seven of the
women, who clung to life for fifteen years, nourished on shell fish
and brackish water, until Captain Tromelin landed and saved them. Now I
cannot feel sorry that I was not one of that party.

There is, naturally, some slender disguise of names and so forth through
my journal. There may be, it occurs, a S.S. _Bonadventure_ at the present
day; if it is so, this is not the ship. My grateful recollections of
Captain Hosea, his officers and crew apply to those gentlemen indeed,
but they do not sign on by the names which I have for this occasion
invented. Thus their own example leads me; how much oftener was I
hailed as "Skylark" and "Jonah" than as

EDMUND BLUNDEN.

London,
December 23, 1921.

Dear Blunden,--

There you are, outward bound and southward ho! Here am I, with the
newsboys outside shouting the latest imbecility to the murk, trying to get
warm and happy by considering a dull electric heater and the faded
memory of another ship (she went downstairs in the war) which, years ago,
on a December morning, passed through the lock gates at Swansea for Para
and all, while I stood by her rail sorry for the people who had not my
luck. Now it is your turn. Make the most of it. It will do something
to take away the taste of Stuff Trench. You will find me, when you come
home, still over the electric stove listening to the newsboys. I shall
call for wine, and you must tell me all about the Fortunate Isles. I am
sure they are still there, and that you will see them.

O, a Cardiff ship sails down the river
(Blow, boys, blow!)
Her masts and yards they shine like silver
(Blow, my bully boys, blow!)

Sing up, Blunden! And don't forget to take soap, towels and matches. Do
you smoke a pipe? You'll wish presently you knew how to do it, if you have
misspent your time and never learned. But I suppose eighteenth-century
literature and the baby have absorbed all your energies. A pipe is only
fit for the idle-minded.

There's anoth