JAN. 2ND.


I woke this morning to find the blow quite ended. The heaven
was all a mottled gray; even the east quite colourless; the
downward slope of the island veiled in wafts of vapour, blue
like smoke; not a leaf stirred on the tallest tree; only,
three miles away below me on the barrier reef, I could see
the individual breakers curl and fall, and hear their
conjunct roaring rise, as it still rises at 1 P.M., like the
roar of a thoroughfare close by. I did a good morning's
work, correcting and clarifying my draft, and have now
finished for press eight chapters, ninety-one pages, of this
piece of journalism. Four more chapters, say fifty pages,
remain to be done; I should gain my wager and finish this
volume in three months, that is to say, the end should leave
me per February mail; I cannot receive it back till the mail
of April. Yes, it can be out in time; pray God that it be in
time to help.

How do journalists fetch up their drivel? I aim only at
clearness and the most obvious finish, positively at no
higher degree of merit, not even at brevity - I am sure it
could have been all done, with double the time, in two-thirds
of the space. And yet it has taken me two months to write
45,500 words; and, be damned to my wicked prowess, I am proud
of the exploit! The real journalist must be a man not of
brass only, but bronze. Chapter IX. gapes for me, but I