he following was written soon after the termination of the voyage of
the _Equator_ and Stevenson's first landing in Samoa, where he was
engaged in collecting materials for the account (then intended to be
the concluding part of his great projected South Sea book) of the war
and hurricane of the previous year.

_Samoa [December 1889]._

MY DEAR BAXTER,-- ... I cannot return until I have seen either Tonga or
Fiji or both: and I must not leave here till I have finished my
collections on the war--a very interesting bit of history, the truth
often very hard to come at, and the search (for me) much complicated by
the German tongue, from the use of which I have desisted (I suppose)
these fifteen years. The last two days I have been mugging with a
dictionary from five to six hours a day; besides this, I have to call
upon, keep sweet, and judiciously interview all sorts of
persons--English, American, German, and Samoan. It makes a hard life;
above all, as after every interview I have to come and get my notes
straight on the nail. I believe I should have got my facts before the
end of January, when I shall make for Tonga or Fiji. I am down right in
the hurricane season; but they had so bad a one last year, I don't
imagine there will be much of an edition this. Say that I get to Sydney
some time in April, and I shall have done well, and be in a position to
write a very singular and interesting book, or rather two; for I shall
begin, I think, with a separate opuscule on the Samoan Trouble, about
as long as _Kidnapped_, not very interesting, but valuable--and a thing
proper to be done. And then, hey! for the big South Sea Book: a devil of
a big one, and full of the finest sport.

This morning as I was going along to my breakfast a little before seven,
reading a number of Blackwood's Magazine, I was startled by a soft
_talofa, alii_ (note for my mother: they are quite courteous here in the
European style, quite unlike Tahiti), right in my ear: it was Mataafa
coming from early mass in his white coat and white linen kilt, with
three fellows behind him. Mataafa is the nearest thing to a hero in my
history, and really a fine fellow; plenty sense, and the most dignified,
quiet, gentle manners. Talking of Blackwood--a file of which I was lucky
enough to find here in the lawyer's--Mrs. Oliphant seems in a staggering
state: from the _Wrong Box_ to _The Master_ I scarce recognise either my
critic or myself. I gather that _T