In the evening there was heavy rain, of which, I believe, this green isle receives a plentiful allowance. Happily yesterday morning was fine, and (while the Jubilee slowly beat up the coast to Wairiki, a distance of twelve miles) we took the boat and rowed close inshore. It was very lovely. Wairiki is one of the few spots in Fiji where the Roman Catholic Church has established something of a footing; and it is the home of two French priests, whose care extends to Somo Somo. The _lotu katolika_, however, has comparatively few adherents, the people in general having a strong preference for what they call the _lotu ndina_—“the true religion”—which, however, in this place seemed to be in a slovenly condition. We found the house of the native minister so unpleasant that we did not care to enter it, but made our way to the very ill-cared-for little church, and had our luncheon brought there, as it was raining heavily. We were now in the dominions of the great chief Tui Thakow, a very fine specimen of a high chief, second only to Thakombau, but, unfortunately, much addicted to drinking and other vices. Though affording kindly protection to both Catholic priests and Wesleyan teachers, he eschews the guidance of either, and scandalises both, by pursuing his own jovial views of domestic life, and keeping up as large an establishment as in the old heathen days—the ladies of his harem being practically without limit. His first queen, Andi Eleanor, is at present out of favour, and lives at Wairiki in a very picturesque house, of which I made a sketch when the rain stopped. She had some enormous bales of native cloth lying in the house. She is still very handsome, as is also her son Ratu Lala, whom I often see at Mr Thurston’s house.