[The allusions in the latter half of this letter are to the departure
for Europe of the young Hawaiian princess Kaiulani (see the poem
beginning 'When from Her Land to Mine She Goes,' in _Songs of Travel_,
p. 47); and to the circumstances of the great hurricane at Apia, on
March 15, 1889.]
HONOLULU (about) 20th May '89.
MY DEAR LOW,— ... The goods have come; many daughters have done
virtuously, but thou excellest them all.—I have at length finished
the Master; it has been a sore cross to me; but now he is buried, his
body's under hatches,—his soul, if there is any hell to go to, gone
to hell; and I forgive him; it is harder to forgive Burlingame for
having induced me to begin the publication, or myself for suffering
the induction.—Yes, I think Hole has done finely; it will be one of
the most adequately illustrated books of our generation; he gets the
note, he tells the story—_my_ story: I know only one failure—the Master
standing on the beach.—You must have a letter for me at Sydney—till
further notice. Remember me to Mrs. Will. H., the godlike sculptor, and
any of the faithful. If you want to cease to be a republican, see my
little Kaiulani, as she goes through—but she is gone already. You will
die a red; I wear the colours of that little royal maiden, _Nous allons
chanter à la ronde, si vous voulez!_ only she is not blonde by several
chalks, though she is but a half-blood, and the wrong half Edinburgh
Scots like mysel'. But, O, Low, I love the Polynesian: this civilisation
of ours is a dingy, ungentlemanly business; it drops out too much of
man, and too much of that the very beauty of the poor beast; who has
his beauties in spite of Zola and Co. As usual here is a whole letter
with no news; I am a bloodless, inhuman dog; and no doubt Zola is a
better correspondent.—Long live your fine old English admiral—yours, I
mean—the U.S.A. one at Samoa; I wept tears and loved myself and mankind
when I read of him: he is not too much civilised. And there was Gordon,
too; and there are others, beyond question. But if you could live, the
only white folk, in a Polynesian village; and drink that warm, light
_vin du pays_ of human affection, and enjoy that simple dignity of all
about you—I will not gush, for I am now in my fortieth year, which seems
highly unjust, but there it is, Mr. Low, and the Lord enlighten your
affectionate.