the breeze. A few torn clouds--not white,
the sun has tinged them a warm pink--swim in heaven. In which blessed
and fair day, I have to make faces and speak bitter words to a man--who
has deceived me, it is true--but who is poor, and older than I, and a
kind of a gentleman too. On the whole, I prefer the massacre of weeds.

_Sunday._--When I had done talking to you yesterday, I played on my
pipe till the conch sounded, then went over to the old house for dinner,
and had scarce risen from table ere I was submerged with visitors. The
first of these despatched, I spent the rest of the evening going over
the Samoan translation of my _Bottle Imp_[18] with Claxton the
missionary; then to bed, but being upset, I suppose, by these
interruptions, and having gone all day without my weeding, not to sleep.
For hours I lay awake and heard the rain fall, and saw faint, far-away
lightning over the sea, and wrote you long letters which I scorn to
reproduce. This morning Paul was unusually early; the dawn had scarce
begun when he appeared with the tray and lit my candle; and I had
breakfasted and read (with indescribable sinkings) the whole of
yesterday's work before the sun had risen. Then I sat and thought, and
sat and better thought. It was not good enough, nor good; it was as
slack as journalism, but not so inspired; it was excellent stuff
misused, and the defects stood gross on it like humps upon a camel. But
could I, in my present disposition, do much more with it? in my present
pressure for time, were I not better employed doing another one about as
ill, than making this some thousandth fraction better? Yes, I thought;
and tried the new one, and behold, I could do nothing: my head swims,
words do not come to me, nor phrases, and I accepted defeat, packed up
my traps, and turned to communicate the failure to my esteemed
correspondent. I think it possible I overworked yesterday. Well, we'll
see to-morrow--perhaps try again later. It is indeed the hope of trying
later that keeps me writing to you. If I take to my pipe, I know
myself--all is over for the morning. Hurray, I'll correct proofs!

_Pago-Pago, Wednesday._--After I finished on Sunday I passed a miserable
day; went out weeding, but could not find peace. I do not like to steal
my dinner, unless I have given myself a holiday in a canonical manner;
and weeding after all is only fun, the amount of its utility small, and
the thing capable of being done faster and nearly as well b