Aug. 7th

My Dear Colvin, — This is to inform you, sir, that on Sunday last (and this is Tuesday) I attained¹ my ideal here, and we had a paper chase in Vailele Plantation², about 15 miles, I take it, from us; and it was all that could be wished. It is really better fun than following the hounds, since you have to be your own hound, and a precious bad hound I was, following every false scent³ on the whole course to the bitter end; but I came in 3rd at the last on my little Jack⁴, who stuck to it gallantly⁵, and awoke the praises of some discriminating⁶ persons. (5 + 7 + 2.5 = 14.5 miles; yes, that is the count.) We had quite the old sensations of exhilaration, discovery, an appeal to a savage⁷ instinct; and I felt myself about 17 again, a pleasant experience. However, it was on the Sabbath Day, and I am now a pariah⁸ among the English, as if I needed any increment⁹ of unpopularity. I must not go again; it gives so much unnecessary tribulation¹⁰ to poor people, and, sure, we don’t want to make tribulation. I have been forbidden to work, and have been instead doing my two or three hours in the plantation every morning. I only wish somebody would pay me 10 pounds a day for taking care of cacao, and I could leave literature to others. Certainly, if I have plenty of exercise, and no work, I feel much better; but there is Biles the butcher! him we have always with us.

I do not much like novels, I begin to think, but I am enjoying exceedingly Orme’s History of Hindostan, a lovely book in its way, in large quarto, with a quantity of maps, and written in a very lively and solid eighteenth century way, never

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