ere, under the microscope, we can see history at
work.

_Wednesday._--I have been very neglectful. A return to work, perhaps
premature, but necessary, has used up all my possible energies, and made
me acquainted with the living headache. I just jot down some of the past
notabilia. Yesterday B., a carpenter, and K., my (unsuccessful) white
man, were absent all morning from their work; I was working myself,
where I hear every sound with morbid certainty, and I can testify that
not a hammer fell. Upon inquiry I found they had passed the morning
making ice with our ice machine and taking the horizon with a spirit
level! I had no sooner heard this than--a violent headache set in; I am
a real employer of labour now, and have much of the ship captain when
aroused; and if I had a headache, I believe both these gentlemen had
aching hearts. I promise you, the late ---- was to the front; and K.,
who was the most guilty, yet (in a sense) the least blameable, having
the brains and character of a canary-bird, fared none the better for
B.'s repartees. I hear them hard at work this morning, so the menace may
be blessed. It was just after my dinner, just before theirs, that I
administered my redoubtable tongue--it is really redoubtable--to these
skulkers. (Paul used to triumph over Mr. J. for weeks. "I am very sorry
for you," he would say; "you're going to have a talk with Mr. Stevenson
when he comes home: you don't know what that is!") In fact, none of them
do, till they get it. I have known K., for instance, for months; he has
never heard me complain, or take notice, unless it were to praise; I
have used him always as my guest, and there seems to be something in my
appearance which suggests endless, ovine long-suffering! We sat in the
upper verandah all evening, and discussed the price of iron roofing, and
the state of the draught-horses, with Innes, a new man we have taken,
and who seems to promise well.

One thing embarrasses me. No one ever seems to understand my attitude
about that book; the stuff sent was never meant for other than a first
state; I never meant it to appear as a book. Knowing well that I have
never had one hour of inspiration since it was begun, and have only
beaten out my metal by brute force and patient repetition, I hoped some
day to get a "spate of style" and burnish it--fine mixed metaphor. I am
now so sick that I intend, when the Letters are done and some more
written that will be wanted, simply to make a b