g him that, if I find any favouritism, he will find
me the most recalcitrant tax-payer on the island. Then I have a talk
with an old servant by the wayside. A little further I pass two children
coming up. "Love!" say I; "are you two chiefly-proceeding inland?" and
they say, "Love! yes!" and the interesting ceremony is finished. Down to
the post office, where I find Vitrolles and (Heaven reward you!) the
White Book, just arrived per _Upolu_, having gone the wrong way round,
by Australia; also six copies of _Island Nights' Entertainments_. Some
of Weatherall's illustrations are very clever; but O Lord! the lagoon! I
did say it was "shallow," but, O dear, not so shallow as that a man
could stand up in it! I had still an hour to wait for my meeting, so
Postmaster Davis let me sit down in his room and I had a bottle of beer
in, and read _A Gentleman of France_. Have you seen it coming out in
Longman's? My dear Colvin! 'tis the most exquisite pleasure; a real
chivalrous yarn, like the Dumas' and yet unlike. Thereafter to the
meeting of the five newspaper proprietors. Business transacted, I have
to gallop home and find the boys waiting to be paid at the doorstep.

_Monday, 5th._--Yesterday, Sunday, the Rev. Dr. Brown, secretary to the
Wesleyan Mission, and the man who made the war in the Western Islands
and was tried for his life in Fiji, came up, and we had a long,
important talk about Samoa. O, if I could only talk to the home men! But
what would it matter? none of them know, none of them care. If we could
only have Macgregor here with his schooner, you would hear of no more
troubles in Samoa. That is what we want; a man that knows and likes the
natives, _qui paye de sa personne_, and is not afraid of hanging when
necessary. We don't want bland Swedish humbugs, and fussy, footering
German barons. That way the maelstrom lies, and we shall soon be in it.

I have to-day written 103 and 104, all perfectly wrong, and shall have
to rewrite them. This tale is devilish, and Chapter XI. the worst of the
lot. The truth is of course that I am wholly worked out; but it's nearly
done, and shall go somehow according to promise. I go against all my
gods, and say it is _not worth while_ to massacre yourself over the last
few pages of a rancid yarn, that the reviewers will quite justly tear to
bits. As for _D. B._, no hope, I fear, this mail, but we'll see what the
afternoon does for me.

4.15.--Well, it's done. Those tragic 16 pp. are at l