at
your service--to collect more and correct what I had already. In the
meanwhile I got on with my work, almost finished _The Master of
Ballantrae_, which contains more human work than anything of mine but
_Kidnapped_, and wrote the half of another ballad, the _Song of Rahero_,
on a Taiarapu legend of my own clan, sir--not so much fire as the _Feast
of Famine_, but promising to be more even and correct. But the best
fortune of our stay at Tautira was my knowledge of Ori himself, one of
the finest creatures extant. The day of our parting was a sad one. We
deduced from it a rule for travellers: not to stay two months in one
place--which is to cultivate regrets.

At last our contemptible ship was ready; to sea we went, bound for
Honolulu and the letter-bag, on Christmas Day; and from then to now have
experienced every sort of minor misfortune, squalls, calms, contrary
winds and seas, pertinacious rains, declining stores, till we came
almost to regard ourselves as in the case of Vanderdecken. Three days
ago our luck seemed to improve, we struck a leading breeze, got
creditably through the doldrums, and just as we looked to have the N.E.
trades and a straight run, the rains and squalls and calms began again
about midnight, and this morning, though there is breeze enough to send
us along, we are beaten back by an obnoxious swell out of the north.
Here is a page of complaint, when a verse of thanksgiving had perhaps
been more in place. For all this time we must have been skirting past
dangerous weather, in the tail and circumference of hurricanes, and
getting only annoyance where we should have had peril, and ill-humour
instead of fear.

I wonder if I have managed to give you any news this time, or whether
the usual damn hangs over my letter? "The midwife whispered, Be thou
dull!" or at least inexplicit. Anyway I have tried my best, am exhausted
with the effort, and fall back into the land of generalities. I cannot
tell you how often we have planned our arrival at the Monument: two
nights ago, the 12th January, we had it all planned out, arrived in the
lights and whirl of Waterloo, hailed a hansom, span up Waterloo Road,
over the bridge, etc. etc., and hailed the Monument gate in triumph and
with indescribable delight. My dear Custodian, I always think we are too
sparing of assurances: Cordelia is only to be excused by Regan and
Goneril in the same nursery; I wish to tell you that the longer I live,
the more dear do you beco