are sewing-machining in the next room; I have been pulling
down their hair, and Fanny has been kicking me, and now I am driven out.
Austin I have been chasing about the verandah; now he has gone to his
lessons, and I make believe to write to you in despair. But there is
nothing in my mind; I swim in mere vacancy, my head is like a rotten
nut; I shall soon have to begin to work again or I shall carry away some
part of the machinery. I have got your insufficient letter, for which I
scorn to thank you. I have had no review by Gosse, none by Birrell;
another time, if I have a letter in the Times, you might send me the
text as well; also please send me a cricket bat and a cake, and when I
come home for the holidays, I should like to have a pony.--I am, sir,
your obedient servant,

JACOB TONSON.

_P.S._--I am quite well; I hope you are quite well. The world is too
much with us, and my mother bids me bind my hair and lace my bodice
blue.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

_Vailima Plantation, Upolu, Samoan Islands, 18th July 1892._

MY DEAR CHARLES,-- ... I have been now for some time contending with
powers and principalities, and I have never once seen one of my own
letters to the Times. So when you see something in the papers that you
think might interest the exiles of Upolu, do not think twice, out with
your saxpence, and send it flying to Vailima. Of what you say of the
past, eh, man, it was a queer time, and awful miserable, but there's no
sense in denying it was awful fun. Do you mind the youth in highland
garb and the tableful of coppers? Do you mind the SIGNAL of Waterloo
Place?--Hey, how the blood stands to the heart at such a memory!--Hae ye
the notes o't? Gie's them.--Gude's sake, man, gie's the notes o't; I
mind ye made a tuene o't an' played it on your pinanny; gie's the notes.
Dear Lord, that past.

Glad to hear Henley's prospects are fair: his new volume is the work of
a real poet. He is one of those who can make a noise of his own with
words, and in whom experience strikes an individual note. There is
perhaps no more genuine poet living, bar the Big Guns. In case I cannot
overtake an acknowledgment to himself by this mail, please let him hear
of my pleasure and admiration. How poorly Kipling compares! He is all
smart journalism and cleverness: it is all bright and shallow and
limpid, like a business paper--a good one, _s'entend_; but there is no
blot of heart's blood and the Old Night: there are no ha