to be plain the whole estate is one impassable
jungle, which must be cut down and through at considerable expense. Then
the house has to be built; and then (as a climax) we may have to stand a
siege in it in the next native war.

I do feel as if I was a coward and a traitor to desert my friends; only,
my dear lady, you know what a miserable corrhyzal (is that how it is
spelt?) creature I was at home: and here I have some real health, I can
walk, I can ride, I can stand some exposure, I am up with the sun, I
have a real enjoyment of the world and of myself; it would be hard to go
back again to England and to bed; and I think it would be very silly. I
am sure it would; and yet I feel shame, and I know I am not writing like
myself. I wish you knew how much I admired you, and when I think of
those I must leave, how early a place your name occupies. I have not had
the pleasure to know you very long; and yet I feel as if my leaving
England were a special treachery to you, and my leaving you a treachery
to myself. I will only ask you to try to forgive me: for I am sure I
will never quite forgive myself. Somebody might write to me in the care
of R. Towns & Co., Sydney, New South Wales, to tell me if you can
forgive. But you will do quite right if you cannot. Only let me come and
see you when we do return, or it will be a lame home-coming.

My wife suffered a good deal in our last, somewhat arduous voyage; all
our party indeed suffered except myself. Fanny is now better but she is
still no very famous success in the way of health.

All the while I have been writing, I have had another matter in my eye;
of which I scarce like to speak: You know of course that I am thinking
of Sir Percy and his widow. The news has reached me in the shape of a
newspaper cutting, I have no particulars. He had a sweet, original
nature; I think I liked him better than ever I should have liked his
father; I am sorry he was always a little afraid of me; if I had had
more chance, he would have liked me too, we had so much in common, and
I valued so much his fine soul, as honest as a dog's, and the romance of
him, which was like a dog's too, and like a poet's at the same time. If
he had not been Shelley's son, people would have thought more of him;
and yet he was the better of the two, bar verses.

Please tell my dear Ida and Una that we think much of them, as well as
of your dear self, and believe me, in words which you once allowed me to
use (and I