by precious Mr. Grant Allen, so painfully moved serious circles--I was
sliding back to the level of the savagery around me. May these
confessions be accepted in the same spirit as they are offered; may it
partly palliate my guilt that I had apparently no chance of escape from
the island, and no hope beyond that of converting the natives and
marrying Doto. I trusted to do it, not (as of old) by open and fearless
denunciation, but by slowly winning hearts, in a secular and sportive
capacity, before gaining souls.

Even so have I seen young priests of the prelatical Establishment aim at
popularity by playing cricket with liberal coal-miners of sectarian
persuasions. They told me they were "in the mission field," and one
observed that his favourite post in the field was third man. I know not
what he meant. But to return to the island.

My career of soul-destroying "amusement" (ah, how hollow!) was not
uninterrupted by warnings. Every now and again the mask was raised, and
I saw clearly the unspeakable horrors of heathen existence.

For example, in an earlier part of this narrative, I have mentioned an
old heathen called Elatreus, a good-natured, dull, absent-minded man, who
reminded me of a respectable British citizen. How awful was _his_ end,
how trebly awful when I reflect how nearly I--but let me not anticipate.
Elatreus was the head, and eldest surviving member of a family which had
a singular history. I never could make out what the story was, but, in
consequence of some ancient crime, the chief of the family was never
allowed to enter the town hall. The penalty, if he infringed the law,
was terrible. Now it chanced one day that I was wandering down the
street, my hands full of rare flowers which I had gathered for Doto, and
with four young doves in my hat. It was spring, and at that season the