To Mrs. Surreal England, St. Peter's, December 11th, 17, dash.

You will rejoice to hear that now disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise, when you have,

regarded with such evil forebodings.

I arrived here yesterday, my first task, is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburg, I feel a cold northern breeze, play upon my cheeks,

which braces my nerves and fills me with delight.

Do you understand this feeling?

This breeze which has traveled from the regions toward which I've been bouncing gives me aaste of those icy climbs.

And spirited by this wind of promise my daydreams,

become more fervent and vivid.

I try in vain to be persuaded that the pool is the seat of frosted and desolation.

It ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and tonight.

There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible.

It's broad disk, just skirting the horizon.

It's broad disk, just skirting the horizon. It's broad disk, just skirting the horizon, and evasing a perpetual splendor.

Therefore, with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in proceeding at navigators.

There snow and frost are banished, and sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted into a land,

surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region either too discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies

undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.

What may not be expected in a country of eternal light.

I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle,

and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.

...