d expedition was brought back by another
officer despatched for that purpose from Vailima. Casualties: one horse
wounded; one man bruised; no deaths--as yet, but the bruised man feels
to-day as if his case was mighty serious.

_Dec. 25, '91._--Your note with a very despicable bulletin of health
arrived only yesterday, the mail being a day behind. It contained also
the excellent Times article, which was a sight for sore eyes. I am
still _taboo_; the blessed Germans will have none of me; and I only hope
they may enjoy the Times article. 'Tis my revenge! I wish you had sent
the letter too, as I have no copy, and do not even know what I wrote the
last day, with a bad headache, and the mail going out. However, it must
have been about right, for the Times article was in the spirit I wished
to arouse. I hope we can get rid of the man before it is too late. He
has set the natives to war; but the natives, by God's blessing, do not
want to fight, and I think it will fizzle out--no thanks to the man who
tried to start it. But I did not mean to drift into these politics;
rather to tell you what I have done since I last wrote.

Well, I worked away at my _History_ for a while, and only got one
chapter done; no doubt this spate of work is pretty low now, and will be
soon dry; but, God bless you, what a lot I have accomplished; _Wrecker_
done, _Beach of Falesa_ done, half the _History: c'est etonnant_. (I
hear from Burlingame, by the way, that he likes the end of the
_Wrecker_; 'tis certainly a violent, dark yarn with interesting, plain
turns of human nature), then Lloyd and I went down to live in Haggard's
rooms, where Fanny presently joined us. Haggard's rooms are in a strange
old building--old for Samoa, and has the effect of the antique like some
strange monastery; I would tell you more of it, but I think I'm going to
use it in a tale. The annexe close by had its door sealed; poor Dowdney
lost at sea in a schooner. The place is haunted. The vast empty sheds,
the empty store, the airless, hot, long, low rooms, the claps of wind
that set everything flying--a strange uncanny house to spend Christmas
in.

_Jan. 1st,'92._--For a day or two I have sat close and wrought hard at
the _History_, and two more chapters are all but done. About thirty
pages should go by this mail, which is not what should be, but all I
could overtake. Will any one ever read it? I fancy not; people don't
read history for reading, but for education and display--