Friday, July 26.—­At night in the dark, the singers of Makin paraded in the road before our house and sang the song of the princess.  ’This is the day; she was born to-day; Nei Kamaunave was born to-day—­a beautiful princess, Queen of Butaritari.’  So I was told it went in endless iteration.  The song was of course out of season, and the performance only a rehearsal.  But it was a serenade besides; a delicate attention to ourselves from our new friend, Karaiti.

Saturday, July 27.—­We had announced a performance of the magic lantern to-night in church; and this brought the king to visit us.  In honour of the Black Douglas (I suppose) his usual two guardsmen were now increased to four; and the squad made an outlandish figure as they straggled after him, in straw hats, kilts and jackets.  Three carried their arms reversed, the butts over their shoulders, the muzzles menacing the king’s plump back; the fourth had passed his weapon behind his neck, and held it there with arms extended like a backboard.  The visit was extraordinarily long.  The king, no longer galvanised with gin, said and did nothing.  He sat collapsed in a chair and let a cigar go out.  It was hot, it was sleepy, it was cruel dull; there was no resource but to spy in the countenance of Tebureimoa for some remaining trait of Mr. Corpse the butcher.  His hawk nose, crudely depressed and flattened at the point, did truly seem to us to smell of midnight murder.  When he took his leave, Maka bade me observe him going down the stair (or rather ladder) from the verandah.  ‘Old man,’ said Maka.  ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and yet I suppose not old man.’  ‘Young man,’ returned Maka, ‘perhaps fo’ty.’  And I have heard since he is most likely younger.

While the magic lantern was showing, I skulked without in the dark.  The voice of Maka, excitedly explaining the Scripture slides, seemed to fill not the church only, but the neighbourhood.  All else was silent.  Presently a distant sound of singing arose and approached; and a procession drew near along the road, the hot clean smell of the men and women striking in my face delightfully.  At the corner, arrested by the voice of Maka and the lightening and darkening of the church, they paused.  They had no mind to go nearer, that was plain.  They were Makin people, I believe, probably staunch heathens, contemners of the missionary and his works.  Of a sudden, however, a man broke from their company, took to his heels, and fled into the church; next moment three had followed him; the next it was a covey of near upon a score, all pelting for their lives.  So the little band of the heathen paused irresolute at the corner, and melted before the attractions of a magic lantern, like a glacier in spring.  The more staunch vainly taunted the deserters; three fled in a guilty silence, but still fled; and when at length the leader found the wit or the authority to get his troop in motion and revive the singing, it was with much diminished forces that they passed musically on up the dark road.