the shady grounds; for the dogs of Tai-o-hae are very courtly-minded, and make the seat of Government their promenade and place of siesta.  In front and beyond, a strip of green down loses itself in a low wood of many species of acacia; and deep in the wood a ruinous wall encloses the cemetery of the Europeans.  English and Scottish sleep there, and Scandinavians, and French maitres de manoeuvres and maitres ouvriers:  mingling alien dust.  Back in the woods, perhaps, the blackbird, or (as they call him there) the island nightingale, will be singing home strains; and the ceaseless requiem of the surf hangs on the ear.  I have never seen a resting-place more quiet; but it was a long thought how far these sleepers had all travelled, and from what diverse homes they had set forth, to lie here in the end together.

On the summit of its promontory hill, the calaboose stands all day with doors and window-shutters open to the trade.  On my first visit a dog was the only guardian visible.  He, indeed, rose with an attitude so menacing that I was glad to lay hands on an old barrel-hoop; and I think the weapon must have been familiar, for the champion instantly retreated, and as I wandered round the court and through the building, I could see him, with a couple of companions, humbly dodging me about the corners.  The prisoners’ dormitory was a spacious, airy room, devoid of any furniture; its whitewashed walls covered with inscriptions in Marquesan and rude drawings:  one of the pier, not badly done; one of a murder; several of French soldiers in uniform.  There was one legend in French:  ‘Je n’est’ (sic) ‘pas le sou.’  From this noontide quietude it must not be supposed the prison was untenanted; the calaboose at Tai-o-hae does a good business.  But some of its occupants were gardening at the Residency, and the rest were probably at work upon the streets, as free as our scavengers at home, although not so industrious.  On the approach of evening they would be called in like children from play; and the harbour-master (who is also the jailer) would go through the form of locking them up until six the next morning.  Should a prisoner have any call in town, whether of pleasure or affairs, he has but to unhook the window-shutters; and if he is back again, and the shutter decently replaced, by the hour of call on the morrow, he may have met the harbour-master in the avenue, and there will be no complaint, far less any punishment.  But this is not all.  The charming French Resident, M. Delaruelle, carried me one day to the calaboose on an official visit.  In the green court, a very ragged gentleman, his legs deformed with the island elephantiasis, saluted us smiling.  ‘One of our political prisoners—­an insurgent from Raiatea,’ said the Resident; and then to the jailer:  ’I thought I had ordered him a new pair of trousers.’  Meanwhile no other convict was to be seen—­’Eh bien,’ said the Resident, ‘ou sont vos prisonniers?’ ‘Monsieur le Resident,’ replied the jailer,