The mails brought letters from you and your mother—both most welcome. But alas! my pleasure in receiving them was marred by terrible tidings, which reached us at the same moment, of a most horrible tragedy (of which you must have heard ere now)—namely, the treacherous murder of Commodore Goodenough, who, as you know, was the one to welcome me on my arrival in Sydney, and to give me house-room for the first fortnight of our stay. One of the sunniest-hearted, most genial men I ever met, universally popular, and justly loved by all under his command. He was quite out of the common,—clever, the noblest type of an English naval officer, and as good as good could be. I mean, thoroughly religious,—the religion of a life showing itself in such care for his men, and for whatever could advance Christianity in the Isles, where he was constantly cruising about, and of which his knowledge was very great. Personally, he had endeared himself to us all as a genuine good friend. His last cruise was to take Sir Arthur to Fiji, where he was present at his installation, when King Thakombau formally made personal submission to him as the Queen’s representative. After this the Commodore took Sir Arthur in the Pearl to various Fijian isles; and then, dropping him, went off to look up some other groups. And I particularly want to impress upon you that these groups are as distinct as Russia, England, and India; and that the people of one may be incarnate devils, while the next are positively dove-like. Our Christianised Fijians are of the latter sort. But alas! the Commodore’s cruise was to Santa Cruz—the same group in which, in 1871, Bishop Patteson was murdered. (I suppose you have read that most touching story.) Those islanders have always been difficult to deal with, not understanding good white men, and ready to avenge on them the kidnapping practised by the scum who haunt these seas in the labour traffic. So on this occasion the Commodore, as usual, landed unarmed, and went among the natives in friendly conversation, as he had done on a previous visit. Something unusual in their manner struck him, and he proposed a retreat to the boat, when suddenly, without a moment’s notice, one of them deliberately shot him with an arrow, which pierced his side. He was able to walk to the boat; but a second arrow struck him in the head, and four of his young sailors were wounded. Even then, with what seemed mistaken kindness, he would not allow any bloodshed in revenge, but made his men fire blank-cartridge to frighten away the people, and then set fire to their wretched huts as a sufficient punishment. Well, at first, none of the wounds were considered dangerous, but, as almost invariably happens in that climate, after a few days _tetanus_ (_i.e._, lock-jaw) set in, which means certain death in torture. The Commodore lingered eight days. When he found he could not recover, he called each of his officers in turn, and kissed them, and said good-bye. Then he made