est style a
negroid native chieftain, much the worse for rum! You can imagine the
evening's pleasure.

This naval report on cruising in the South Seas would be incomplete
without one other trait. On our voyage up here I came one day into the
dining-room, the hatch in the floor was open, the ship's boy was below
with a baler, and two of the hands were carrying buckets as for a fire;
this meant that the pumps had ceased working.

One stirring day was that in which we sighted Hawaii. It blew fair, but
very strong; we carried jib, foresail, and mainsail, all single-reefed,
and she carried her lee rail under water and flew. The swell, the
heaviest I have ever been out in--I tried in vain to estimate the
height, _at least_ fifteen feet--came tearing after us about a point and
a half off the wind. We had the best hand--old Louis--at the wheel; and,
really, he did nobly, and had noble luck, for it never caught us once.
At times it seemed we must have it; old Louis would look over his
shoulder with the queerest look and dive down his neck into his
shoulders; and then it missed us somehow, and only sprays came over our
quarter, turning the little outside lane of deck into a mill race as
deep as to the cockpit coamings. I never remember anything more
delightful and exciting. Pretty soon after we were lying absolutely
becalmed under the lee of Hawaii, of which we had been warned; and the
captain never confessed he had done it on purpose, but when accused, he
smiled. Really, I suppose he did quite right, for we stood committed to
a dangerous race, and to bring her to the wind would have been rather a
heart-sickening manoeuvre.

R. L. S.

TO MARCEL SCHWOB

At Honolulu, Stevenson found awaiting him, among the accumulations of
the mail-bag, two letters of friendly homage--the first, I think, he
had received from any foreign _confrere_--addressed to him by the
distinguished young French scholar and man of letters, M. Marcel
Schwob, since deceased.

_Honolulu, Sandwich Islands, February 8th, 1889._

DEAR SIR,--I thank you--from the midst of such a flurry as you can
imagine, with seven months' accumulated correspondence on my table--for
your two friendly and clever letters. Pray write me again. I shall be
home in May or June, and not improbably shall come to Paris in the
summer. Then we can talk; or in the interval I may be able to write,
which is to-day out of the question. Pray take a word from