I Can Scarcely Manage To Scribble A

On The 17th Of May, The Delos Put Out To Sea. I Was Immediately Affected With Sea-sickness, Which, However, Lasted But A Short Time. I Remained On Deck Constantly, Forcing Myself To Exercise.

There Is The Morass, Wherein You Plunge Up To Your Knees, Or The Walking Over The Stubborn, Dwarfish Shrubbery, Whereby One Treads Down The Forests Of Labrador; And The Unexpected Bunting Or Sylvia Which Perchance, And Indeed As If By Chance Alone, You Now And Then See Flying Before You, Or Hear Singing From The Ground Creeping Plant.

The Fact Is I Am Growing Old Too Fast, Alas! I Feel It, And Yet Work I Will, And May God Grant Me Life To See The Last Plate Of My Mammoth Work Finished.

I Looked Long And Carefully At The Picture Of A Stag Painted By Landseer - The Style Was Good, And The Brush Was Handled With Fine Effect, But He Fails In Copying Nature, Without Which The Best Work Will Be A Failure.

Poor France, Thy Fine Climate, Rich Vineyards, And The Wishes Of The Learned Avail Nothing; Thou Art A Destitute Beggar, And Not The Powerful Friend Thou Wert Represented To Me.