stable, made two
miles of road some three times, cleared many acres of bush, made some
miles of path, planted quantities of food, and enclosed a horse paddock
and some acres of pig run; but 'tis a good deal of money regarded simply
as money. K. is bosh; I have no use for him; but we must do what we can
with the fellow meanwhile; he is good-humoured and honest, but
inefficient, idle himself, the cause of idleness in others, grumbling, a
self-excuser--all the faults in a bundle. He owes us thirty weeks'
service--the wretched Paul about half as much. Henry is almost the only
one of our employes who has a credit.

_May 17th._--Well, am I ashamed of myself? I do not think so. I have
been hammering letters ever since, and got three ready and a fourth
about half through; all four will go by the mail, which is what I wish,
for so I keep at least my start. Days and days of unprofitable stubbing
and digging, and the result still poor as literature, left-handed,
heavy, unillumined, but I believe readable and interesting as matter. It
has been no joke of a hard time, and when my task was done, I had little
taste for anything but blowing on the pipe. A few necessary letters
filled the bowl to overflowing.

My mother has arrived, young, well, and in good spirits. By desperate
exertions, which have wholly floored Fanny, her room was ready for her,
and the dining-room fit to eat in. It was a famous victory. Lloyd never
told me of your portrait till a few days ago; fortunately, I had no
pictures hung yet; and the space over my chimney waits your counterfeit
presentment. I have not often heard anything that pleased me more; your
severe head shall frown upon me and keep me to the mark. But why has it
not come? Have you been as forgetful as Lloyd?

_18th._--Miserable comforters are ye all! I read your esteemed pages
this morning by lamplight and the glimmer of the dawn, and as soon as
breakfast was over, I must turn to and tackle these despised labours!
Some courage was necessary, but not wanting. There is one thing at least
by which I can avenge myself for my drubbing, for on one point you seem
impenetrably stupid. Can I find no form of words which will at last
convey to your intelligence the fact that _these letters were never
meant, and are not now meant, to be other than a quarry of materials
from which the book may be drawn_? There seems something incommunicable
in this (to me) simple idea; I know Lloyd failed to comprehend it, I