TONGA AND SAMOA

Not long after our return from New Caledonia I set sail again, this time to take advantage of an invitation from the Britannic Land Commissioner to stay with him at his house in Samoa. My brother Rupert Leigh and my daughter Margaret accompanied me on the Norddeutscher Lloyd mail-ship Lubeck. The Germans subsidised the line, but it was, I understood, run at a regular loss. We left on August 3rd, and encountered very rough weather, seas sweeping over the bridge, and even invading our cabins. Captain Mentz was very kind, installed us in his own quarters, and did his best to find food which Margaret and I could eat despite sea-sickness. I must say this for him, although he was a German!

We passed Norfolk Island, but did not land anywhere until we reached Nekualofa, the chief town of the Tongan group, which consists of about 100 islands and atolls. Tonga, like every island in the Pacific of which I ever heard, has its own particular quarrels and politics. It was governed at the time of our visit by an ancient potentate called King George, after George III of England. His wife had been Queen Charlotte, but she had died.

The hero, or rather villain, of recent Tongan history was one Shirley Baker, a Wesleyan missionary with the aspirations of a Richelieu or Mazarin. He belonged to the Wesleyan Church of Australia, which had previously become independent of the Mother Church in England. Shirley Baker, however, having made himself Prime Minister of Tonga, did not care to take orders even from Australia, but persuaded the dusky monarch that the right and proper thing was to have a Free Methodist Church of his own. This would not have mattered, but the inhabitants were all compelled to belong to this new connexion, and beaten and imprisoned if they wished to adhere to what was presumably the Church of their baptism. Other trifling accusations, such as of poisoning, were brought against this ecclesiastical Prime Minister, and ultimately the British High Commissioner from Fiji had to come down and deport him to New Zealand. Still, however, as far as we could learn during a brief stay of some twenty-four hours, though there was surface peace, intrigue and suspicion were still rampant.

Even before we landed my brother came to me and said that one of our fellow-passengers had warned him that if we paid a visit to King George the missionary interpreter in attendance would probably misrepresent what we had to say to the monarch. “But,” added Rupert, “I don’t think that we have anything particular to say, have we?” I agreed that I did not think that our communications would vitally affect the peace of the world, or even of the Pacific, so we ventured to enter the royal precincts.

The Palace was a comfortable-looking villa, of which the most striking adornment was a full-length oil-painting of the old German Emperor William, presented to the King for having declared the neutrality of Tonga in the Franco-German War of 1870. The High Commissioner of Fiji had countered this propaganda by presenting an engraving of Queen Victoria, but we were bound to confess, that, being merely head and shoulders, our Sovereign Lady was placed at a disadvantage in the artistic competition.

The Tongan ladies were celebrated for their beauty, and we were told that when the Duke of Edinburgh, as Prince Alfred, visited Australia and some places in the Pacific, Tonga was much disappointed because he failed to land on its shores. The inhabitants, however, found balm for their wounded feelings in two explanations offered: first, Queen Victoria was so impressed by the importance of the group that had she sent a representative it must have been her eldest, not her second son; secondly, she had heard so much of the charms of the ladies that she feared lest the Prince should bring back a dusky daughter-in-law if exposed to their wiles. One only wonders why they thought that she should object. The King was a fine old man, and we had no reason to believe that a rather weak-looking missionary gave any serious misconstruction of our conventional remarks. They dealt a good deal with our Queen, and at all events he introduced her name at the right place!

We had a very pretty drive in a vividly green lane, had tea at the hotel, and returned to sleep on board. The real joy, however, was our departure at sunrise next morning. Never before or since have I seen such a glory of colour—St. John may have witnessed something like it when he wrote the Revelation, but I cannot believe that earth contains a rival.

The sun struck the coral reefs through an absolutely calm sea, and its beams were broken up into streams and rivers of crimson, blue, green, and purple, as if a rainbow or the tail of an angelic peacock or bird of paradise had fallen into the ocean; nor did the rivers remain unchanged. At one moment a flood of crimson passed by, and if we ran to the other side of the ship, we found that the waters were turning to emerald; they parted and mingled and parted again till we seemed in a fairy world of magic.

We spent much time in the lagoons of Samoa and saw beautiful hues, particularly deep purples, there, but never again the extraordinary beauty of the Tongan archipelago. Behind the ever-changing sea rose a myriad islands crowned with palms and floating in light. My brother asked me if I remembered the little picture in our old Ballantyne’s Coral Island of schoolroom days. I had already thought of it, and gratefully felt that at least one dream of childhood had been fulfilled, that I had seen something of what our books had told, though not as the sailor which I had sighed to be.

King George died in the spring after we had made his acquaintance. A prominent resident whom we had met at Nukualofa, Mr. Parker, wrote to describe the honours paid to his memory. He said that he had been for so many years “a leading character for good and bad that his sudden, but on account of his age not unexpected, death caused much commotion.”

The house itself was brilliantly illuminated with hundreds of coloured lamps and paper lanthorns, and within, mats, flowers, and sandal-wood powder were lavished on the dead monarch. Meantime I must return to our voyage.

We landed at Apia, the capital of Samoa, on August 13th, by Sydney calendar. (Samoan was different, as we had crossed 180° longitude, but this is unimportant.) We were met by our kindest of hosts, Mr. Bazett Michael Haggard, with the boat of the British Commission rowed by a fine crew of natives in white shirts and red lava-lavas or kilts. These, like other Samoan men, were tattooed from the waist to the knee rather as if they wore tight breeches under their kilts. We were taken to Haggard’s quarters, a two-storied house called Ruge’s Buildings, embowered in trees, containing a fine long reception room upstairs, with bedrooms off it for my daughter, myself, and my maid. Below were the servants’ quarters, the staff being a very intelligent Indian and two Samoan boys; behind was a courtyard with rooms beyond for Mr. Haggard and my brother. The whole had been the property of a commercial company. Mr. Haggard in his anxiety for our safety used to lock us women in at night, but I do not know what danger he apprehended.

Ruge’s Buildings were situated on the principal road of Apia, not far from the harbour which was the scene of the famous hurricane in which the English ship Calliope outrode the storm and escaped, while the German Adler was wrecked against the reefs. Her mast still rose above her shattered remains, marking the spot where she lay.

The Samoan group consisted of three principal and several outlying islands. Tutuila, which possesses the best harbour, was held by the Americans, while Upolu, site of the capital, and Savaii, a mountainous isle, were more or less in dispute between the Germans and the British. The politics of the whole group were involved to a degree, and certainly hold little interest for anyone at this time of day. The League of Nations did not exist in 1892, but Samoa would have afforded a splendid field for its discussions, not to say a happy hunting-ground for commissions and expenditure.

The main points of difference in 1892 may be summarised thus: There were two kings, Malietoa Laupepa, acknowledged by the European Powers, and a rebel, Mataafa, fortified in the mountains. There was another monarch, Tamasese, but he was not then counted among the royal claimants, though son of a chief called the “German King,” because his father had once upon a time been acknowledged by the Germans, who gave him a uniform.

Also there were three Land Commissioners and three Consuls, English, American, and German; a German Prime Minister; Mabon, Secretary of State—I think American—and a Swedish Chief Justice. The last-named was appointed to settle any matters of difference which might arise between the Land Commissioners of the three Great Powers, and they were to decide the disputes between the various claimants to land.

The Europeans had often tried to induce the natives to sell them land far below its value, and the natives were not altogether behindhand in the game, as they would sell the same land to two or three different purchasers. Result, far more claims to land than acres existing to satisfy the claimants. The Swedish Chief Justice, a man called Cedercrantz, with a squint, did not know English when appointed, and had to go to Fiji to learn it.

To add to the complications there were three sets of missionaries in Upolu, London missionaries and Wesleyans, with a standing feud between them, and Roman Catholics of course violently opposed to both. All this for a population well under a hundred thousand! However, despite all these quarrels, and the consequent excitements, the natives seemed a singularly contented and easy-going community, and everyone whom we met vied with all others in making us happy.

The Samoans are fairer than the New Caledonians and their hair less woolly; they approached nearer to the Malay type. We found they did not in the least want to work in the cocoa-nut plantations set on foot by the Germans, and why should they. Fishing one day a week and cultivating a few yams and taros on another day would supply their food, and the women made tappa for their few garments out of the bark of trees.

The Germans imported workmen of the dusky negro type from the New Hebrides and New Ireland, but the English settlers were not allowed to do this, and the consequence in our time was that the Germans owned the plantations, but otherwise trade and population accrued largely to New Zealanders and other British subjects.

Our host, Bazett Haggard, brother to Rider Haggard and to William Haggard whom we had known in Athens, was a great character. When he visited Sydney he was known as “Samoa,” for he never talked of anything else, which was perhaps not surprising under the circumstances.

A lawyer by profession, on appointment as Land Commissioner he had been endowed with a Foreign Office uniform and a Red Box which were sources of infinite gratification and innocent pride. An Australian young lady asked in awed tones, “Have you seen the beautiful box which Lord Salisbury gave Mr. Haggard?” Previous to a ball at Government House he asked with all the solemnity appropriate to a budding diplomat whether I would dance with him as first representative of the Foreign Office at Sydney. After the dance he laid aside his sword for the rest of the evening, assuring me that this was the proper etiquette, to dance the State dance wearing the sword and subsequent ones without it. No doubt he was right.

Apart from Samoa the universe for him revolved round his native county, Norfolk, whence sprang all that was finest in the British race, particularly the Haggard brothers. I forget how many there were, but they had, he said, all loud voices, and on some occasion won a contested election by the simple process of shouting.

Apart from this quaint strain of simple satisfaction with himself and his surroundings he was the kindest of men, and I was assured that when it came to his legal work all his oddities were cast aside and that he was an excellent and capable Commissioner.

On the evening following our arrival he invited Robert Louis Stevenson and Mrs. Stevenson to dinner, and if we had already felt the fascination of Utopia we then fell under the spell of the Enchanter who evoked all the magic woven round its land and sea. I shall never forget the moment when I first saw him and his wife standing at the door of the long, wood-panelled room in Ruge’s Building. A slim, dark-haired, bright-eyed figure in a loose, black velvet jacket over his white vest and trousers, and a scarlet silk sash round his waist. By his side the short, dark woman with cropped, curly hair and the strange piercing glance which had won for her the name in native tongue, “The Witch Woman of the Mountain.”

Stevenson was never one to keep all the treasures of his imagination and humour for his books. Every word, every gesture revealed the man, and he gave one the impression that life was for him a game to be shared with his friends and played nobly to the end. I think that Matthew Arnold’s “Empedocles on Etna” expressed him when he sang:

“Is it so small a thing
To have enjoy’d the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes?”

But Stevenson, braver to confront life than Empedocles, would not have leapt into the crater!

At that dinner, which inaugurated our friendship, a very merry talk somehow turned on publishers and publishing. It began, if I remember rightly, with a reference to Mrs. Humphry Ward’s latest book, for which she was reported to have received a number of thousands which both Stevenson and Haggard pronounced to be incredible, Haggard speaking from his brother’s experience and Stevenson from his own. Thereupon it was suggested by someone, and carried unanimously, that we should form an “Apia Publishing Company”; and later on in Haggard’s absence the rest of us determined to write a story of which our host should be hero, and the name, suggested, I think, by Stevenson, was to be An Object of Pity, or the Man Haggard.Before this was completed various incidents occurred which were incorporated into the tale. Another friend of Mr. Haggard was the British Consul, Mr. Cusack Smith, and he took us to tea with him and his pretty wife on the Sunday afternoon following our arrival. They lived in a pleasant bungalow of which the compound—or lawn—was enlivened by a good-sized turtle tied to a post, which was being kept ready to be slaughtered and cooked when we came to dine with them!

The question of fresh meat was not altogether easy to solve in Samoa. We, knowing that there were certain difficulties, had brought with us a provision of tongues and similar preserved foods, also of champagne, but there were few cows and oxen, and sheep were impossible to rear on the island—at least so far means had not been found to feed them amongst the luxuriant tangle of tropical vegetation. Preserved provisions, including butter, were mostly brought from New Zealand. Samoa itself provided skinny chickens, some kind of pigeon, yams, taros, and of course fish.

The occasional great treat was pig cooked in the native oven, an excellent kitchen arrangement. A hole was dug in the ground, the object to be cooked was wrapped up in leaves and placed between hot stones; the whole was then covered up with earth and left long enough for the meat to be thoroughly soft and cooked through; when opened nothing could be more tender.

Among other entertainments we were invited to dine by King Malietoa, to whom we had already paid a formal visit of ceremony. The banquet, which took place about three in the afternoon, was laid on a long cloth spread on the ground and consisted of all sorts of native delicacies, including a dish of a peculiar kind of worm, and, besides pig and pigeon, of vegetables cooked in various ways. The staff of the monarch included an orator or “Talking Man,” and a jester, thereby recalling the attendants of the Duke of Austria in The Talisman.

The Talking Man, whose badge of office was a fly-whisk, carried over his shoulder, had had his innings at our formal reception, but the jester came in very useful at the banquet. We were told that one of his most successful jokes was to snatch away pieces of the food placed before the King. On this occasion he was crouched just behind Malietoa and myself. Part of the regal etiquette was for the monarch to give me a piece of any delicacy in his fingers, but he always tactfully looked the other way when he had done so, thereby giving me the chance of slipping it into the hands of the jester, who consumed it chuckling with glee.

Malietoa was a gentle, amiable being who seemed rather oppressed by the position into which he had been thrust by the Powers. His rival Mataafa was undoubtedly the stronger character of the two, and appealed to the romantic instincts of Stevenson, who was his personal friend.

Stevenson and Haggard between them therefore concocted a plot whereby I was to visit incognita the camp in the mountains of the rebel potentate. As it would not do to keep my own name, my husband being then Governor of New South Wales, I was to become Stevenson’s cousin, Amelia Balfour, and he wrote beforehand to ask that accommodation should be provided for me with the ladies of this royal house, as I was not well accustomed to Island customs.This is how Stevenson later on described the encounter in the very fragmentary “Samoid”:

“Two were the troops that encountered; one from the way of the shore,
And the house where at night, by the timid, the Judge[2] may be heard to roar,
And one from the side of the mountain. Now these at the trysting spot
Arrived and lay in the shade. Nor let their names be forgot.
········
So these in the shade awaited the hour, and the hour went by;
And ever they watched the ford of the stream with an anxious eye;
And care, in the shade of the grove, consumed them, a doubtful crew,
As they harboured close from the bands of the men of Mulinuu
But the heart of the Teller of Tales (Tusitala) at length could endure no more,
He loosed his steed from the thicket, and passed to the nearer shore,
And back through the land of his foes, steering his steed, and still
Scouting for enemies hidden. And lo! under Vaca Hill
At the crook of the road a clatter of hoofs and a glitter of white!
And there came the band from the seaward, swift as a pigeon’s flight.
Two were but there to return: the Judge of the Titles of land;
He of the lion’s hair, bearded, boisterous, bland;
And the maid that was named for the pearl,[3] a maid of another isle,
Light as a daisy rode, and gave us the light of her smile.
But two to pursue the adventure: one that was called the Queen
Light as the maid, her daughter, rode with us veiled in green,
And deep in the cloud of the veil, like a deer’s in a woodland place,
The fire of the two dark eyes, in the field of the unflushed face.
And one her brother[4] that bore the name of a knight of old,
Rode at her heels unmoved; and the glass in his eye was cold.
Bright is the sun in the brook; bright are the winter stars,
Brighter the glass in the eye of that captain of hussars.”

The adventurous party consisted of R.L.S., his stepson Lloyd Osbourne, his stepdaughter Mrs. Strong (nÉe Osbourne), and a young native chief Henry Simele, my brother, and myself. It was arranged with infinite, but somewhat futile, secrecy that Mr. Haggard, my daughter and I, with Rupert should ride out in the afternoon and find the Vailima party awaiting us at the Gasi-gasi Ford. This duly came off; we were rather late, and found our companions crouching, excited, at the appointed spot in the attitude proper for conspirators.

Haggard and my daughter thereupon returned to Ruge’s Buildings, and the rest of us pursued our way through the enchanted forest, past groves of bananas, and up the mountain. From time to time little stiles barring the narrow paths had to be negotiated; some Europeans explorers had imagined that these were a kind of fortification to protect Mataafa’s quarters, but really they were nothing more romantic than fences to keep pigs from wandering.

Nature in Samoa everywhere erected natural screens for those who desired concealment in the extraordinary luxuriance of her tangled vegetation: overhead, broad-leaved forest trees interlacing their branches so that it was possible to ride even at midday under a tropical sun; below, the long and varied creeping plants which went under the general name of “vines,” and which rendered progress difficult except where narrow tracks had been cleared leading from one little village to another. Mostly, however, the villagers were within easy reach of the seashore, partly for convenience of fishing, partly as being accessible in boats. The villagers loved to visit their friends, rowing pleasantly from place to place within the lagoons which circled the Island.

To return to our journey. Among other instances of tropical luxuriance, we passed a quantity of sensitive plant. The original plant had been placed by a member of a German firm on his child’s grave, thence it had quickly spread and had become a perfect pest in the surrounding districts. My horse was an extremely lanky and skinny animal which Mr. Haggard had procured for my use, and which alternately rejoiced in the names of “Pedigree” and “Starvation,” the latter seeming more appropriate. R.L.S. rode a fat little pony. Mrs. Strong subsequently caricatured our progress by representing me very tall with an extremely tight waistband, and Stevenson looking upward from his diminutive steed.

Mrs. Strong, be it understood, regarded any kind of fitting garment as a foolish superfluity. On this occasion she had donned corsets for the convenience of a long ride, but when, in the twilight, we neared our destination she slipped them off and gave them to an attendant, bidding him be a good boy and carry them for her.

As we approached the royal abode we were met first by a man beating a drum, then by the whole population, and heard many remarks interchanged in low tones; my companions told me that they referred to the “Tamaiti Sili” or “Great Lady,” showing how singularly ineffectual was my disguise. If any proof of this were needed it was soon supplied. Mataafa, a very fine old man, received us most courteously, attended specially by a remarkable old gentleman called Popo, who had curiously aquiline features quite unlike the ordinary native. Stevenson thus described him:

“He who had worshipped feathers and shells and wood,
As a pillar alone in the desert that points where a city stood,
Survived the world that was his, playmates and gods and tongue—
For even the speech of his race had altered since Popo was young.
And ages of time and epochs of changing manners bowed,
And the silent hosts of the dead wondered and muttered aloud
With him, as he bent and marvelled, a man of the time of the Ark,
And saluted the ungloved hand of the Lady of Osterley Park.”

We were first presented with refreshing cocoa-nuts, and after profuse compliments, conveyed through the interpreter, dinner, or supper, was prepared on a small wooden table in the background. It consisted of pigeon, chickens, taros, and yams, but poor Mataafa, who had previously adjourned for evening service, could not share the birds because it was a fast day. He was a Roman Catholic—another point of difference between him and Malietoa, who was a Protestant.

After the evening repast came the kava ceremony. As is well known, kava is a drink made from the roots of the pepper-tree, chewed by young persons (who have first carefully washed their teeth), and then soaked in water. To me it always tasted rather like soapy water, but it is most popular with the natives, who will sit at festivities drinking large quantities. It is said to have no effect on the head, but to numb the lower limbs if too much is imbibed.

At special ceremonies, however, it is somewhat in the nature of a loving-cup, only each guest has a cocoa-nut shell refilled from the general wooden-legged bowl for his benefit. The kava is always given in strict order of precedence, and the interest was to see whether Mataafa would give the first cup to Stevenson as a man, and head of the family, or to me, a mere woman and ostensibly a female relative, as in the latter case it would show that he saw through my cousinly pretensions. It was rather a curious scene in the dimly lighted native house—chairs for the King and his European guests, while the interpreter, Henry Simele, and the native henchmen squatted near-by. With an indescribable expression of suppressed amusement Mataafa handed the cup to me, whereupon Stevenson, with a delightful twinkle of his eye, exclaimed, “Oh, Amelia, you’re a very bad conspirator!”

Stevenson and my brother were then taken off to another house, while Mrs. Strong and I were escorted to the couch prepared for us—a large pile of soft mats enclosed in a mosquito curtain, with two pillows side by side at the head.

A native house has often been described. It is generally a roof shaped like an inverted boat of wooden beams supported on posts and thatched with palm-leaves. Its size varies greatly according to the position and wealth of the owner. Mataafa’s was a large one and his mats were beautiful. There was only one room, and in a general way no one would have demurred at sleeping all together. However, in this case a large tappa curtain was let down in the centre; the King and his warriors slept on one side, and the other formed the apartment of Mrs. Strong and myself.

Mrs. Strong was a most entertaining companion, and told me stories of American experience before we both composed ourselves to sleep. She was much amused by my one preparation for evening toilet, which was a toothbrush; but I had to go outside the matting curtains suspended between the posts to use it, as all cooking and washing was bound to take place where nothing should spoil the beautiful mats carpeting the house proper. I found guards outside waiting in the darkness, and when he heard of my excursion Stevenson declared that my teeth would become historic. It is not to be supposed that the natives neglect cleanliness—they constantly bathe in the sea and in streams, but all washing takes place outside, not inside, their houses.

Next morning we adjourned from the private abode to Mataafa’s large new Parliament House, where all his chiefs were assembled for public or King’s kava. They sat round in a sort of circle, each representing one of the royal “names” or tribes.

Without going into the intricacies of Samoan genealogy it may be explained that no Prince could properly be King of the whole group unless he could prove his title to rule over all the “names.” As it seemed that neither Malietoa nor Mataafa could do this, their quarrel was unlikely ever to be decided except by force and by the support given to one or the other from outside. Anyhow, a great number of “names” were represented on this occasion and the scene was very interesting.

This Parliament House was said to be the largest native building in Samoa, and was certainly fine and well constructed. On the cross-beams of the central “roof-tree” were three painted wooden birds, emblems of the King’s house, as his father had been called “King of the Birds.”

The King and his guests again sat on chairs, the chiefs squatted on the ground. This time, being public, the King, with true courtesy, accepted my ostensible position, and gave the kava first to R.L.S.; after the rest of us had drunk, it was carried to each chief in turn, and in several cases curious rites accompanied their acceptance of the cup. In one case an old man had to lie down and be massaged for an imaginary ailment, in another the kava was poured over a stone which stood for one of the “names” whose human representative was lacking. The most dramatic incident was when a fine-looking chief, who was a sort of War Lord in Mataafa’s army, five times refused the cup with a very haughty air before condescending to drink, which he then had to do five times. We were told that this was in memory of an ancestor who had refused water when no supply could be obtained for his king, recalling the story of David pouring out the water obtained at the risk of his captains’ lives.

When all was over some of the chiefs were presented to us, particularly the War Lord, who had laid by his truculent manners and was very smiling and amiable. He had had two drinks, first as Head of the Forces, later on as Headman of his Village—so was in great form.

Poor Mataafa! After we left the Islands war broke out again, his forces were finally defeated, and I believe that he died in exile. My stolen visit to him will, however, be always a most delightful recollection.

We also paid our respects to Tamasese, son of the “German King,” previous to spending a night with the Wesleyan Missionary and his wife. Tamasese was out when we arrived, as he did not expect us so early. We had started in the Commissioner’s boat at 4 a.m., and saw the sun rise over the locked lagoon. We were, however, most courteously received by his handsome wife Viti, who besides her tappa lava-lava wore a kind of double bib or sleeveless jumper falling to the waist before and behind, with a hole in the middle for her head to go through. This ingenious garment was made of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs not yet cut apart for sale and printed with portraits of prize-fighters.

Tamasese, when he entered the house, proved to be the finest native whom we had yet seen, with the square head and broad limbs of a Roman emperor. In addition to the lava-lava both men and women loved to decorate themselves and their guests with garlands of flowers worn either on their heads or hung round their necks. I have a vivid recollection of my brother seated on a box in Tamasese’s hospitable house with a wreath of flowers on his head, surrounded by an admiring crowd of young women, including the handsome Viti, a young cousin or adopted daughter, and the Taupau or Maid of the Village, a girl selected for her beauty and charm to represent the community in the receptions and merry-makings which are a prominent feature in Samoan life.

Later in the day we were present at a native dance, if dance it can be called, when the performers sat for the most part on the ground, and the action took place by girls swinging their arms and bodies while the men contributed the music. The girls did not confine themselves to rhythmic movements, but also gave a kind of comic dramatic performance, mimicking amongst other things the manners and customs of white people with much laughter and enjoyment. They threw bunches of leaves about by way of cricket balls—got up and walked in peculiar manners, with explanations which were translated to us as “German style,” “English style,” and so on; and when they sang a kind of song or recitative, concerning a college for native girls about to be established by the missionaries, they made the very sensible suggestion that one or two of them should go and try what the life was like before they entered in any number.

Tamasese paid us a return visit at Apia. It was curious to see him seated on a chair having luncheon with us, dressed solely in a white lava-lava and a large garland of leaves and flowers or berries. He also attended an evening party at Ruge’s Buildings; on that occasion he added a white linen coat to his costume at Haggard’s request, simply because the cocoa-nut oil with which natives anoint their bodies might have come off on the ladies’ dresses in a crowd.

The truth is that a lava-lava and a coating of oil are much the most healthy and practical costume in a tropical climate. When a shower of rain comes on it does so with such force that any ordinary garment is soaked through in a few minutes. It is impossible for natives to be always running home to change their clothes even if their wardrobes permitted, and remaining in these wet garments is surely provocative of the consumption which so often carries them off.

Shirley Baker in Tonga made it a law that everyone should wear an upper and a nether garment; in Samoa it was not a legal question, but the missionaries made doubtless well-intentioned efforts to enforce the addition of white shirts to the male, and overalls to the female costume, which really seemed unnecessary with their nice brown skins.

It is difficult for a casual visitor to judge fairly the influence of missionaries on natives, but on the whole, as far as I have seen missions in different lands, despite mistakes and narrow-mindedness, it seems to be for good. There is an enormous difference between missions to ancient civilisations such as those of India and China, and to children of nature such as the population of the Pacific. I do not forget the command “Go ye and teach all nations,” an authority which no Christian can dispute; I am thinking only of how this has been done, and with what effect on the “nations.”

It is pretty evident that when the nations have an elaborate ritual of their own, and when the educated classes among them have a decided tendency to metaphysics, a ritual such as that of the Roman Catholics is apt to appeal to them, and the men sent to teach them must be prepared to enter into their difficulties and discussions. When, however, the populations to be approached are merely inclined to deify the forces of nature, and to believe in the power of spirits, if a man of some education comes among them, helps them in illness, and proves his superiority in agriculture and in the arts of daily life, they are very ready to accept his authority and obey his injunctions.

In the case of the South Sea Islanders there is no doubt that the missionaries have afforded them protection against the tyranny and vices introduced by many of the low-class traders and beachcombers who exploited them in every possible way. The missionaries have done their best to stop their drinking the horrible spirits received from such men, in return for forced labour and the produce of their land. They have done much to eradicate cannibalism and other evil customs. Their error seems to have been the attempt to put down dances and festivities of all kinds on the plea that these were connected with heathen rites, instead of encouraging them under proper restrictions. Even when we were in the Islands, however, many of the more enlightened missionaries had already realised that human nature must have play, and that, as St. John told the huntsman who found him playing with a partridge, you cannot keep the bow always bent. Probably by now the Christian Churches in the Pacific have learnt much wisdom by experience.

As before remarked, there were, in 1892, three sets of missionaries in Samoa. Apart from the Roman Catholics, the most important were the London Missionaries, whose founders had been men of high education and who had settled in the Islands about the time of Queen Victoria’s accession. The Wesleyans had also made many converts.

Some years before our visit a sort of concordat had been arranged between the various Anglican and Protestant Churches working in the Pacific. The Church of England clergy were to work in the Islands commonly called Melanesia; the Wesleyans, whose great achievements had been in Fiji, were to take that group, Tonga, and other offshoots of their special missions; the London missionaries were to have Samoa and other fields of labour where their converts predominated. Under this agreement the Wesleyan missionaries left Samoa, but alas! after a time they came back, to the not unnatural indignation of the London missionaries. Their plea was that their flock begged them to return. An outsider cannot pronounce on the rights and wrongs of the question, but the feeling engendered was evident to the most casual observer.

As for the Roman Catholics, we were sitting one evening with a London missionary, when a native servant ran in to inform him that the R.C. priest was showing a magic-lantern in which our host and one of his colleagues were represented in hell!

I should add that I noticed that in a course of lectures given to their students by the London missionaries was one “on the errors of the Roman Church,” but that was not as drastic, nor, I presume, so exciting, as the ocular argument offered by the priest.

The mythology of the Samoans was much like that of other primitive nations, and as in similar cases their gods and heroes were closely connected. The chief deity was a certain Tangoloalangi or “god-of-heaven.” He had a son called Pilibuu, who came down to earth, settled in Samoa, and planted kava and sugar-cane. He also made a fishing-net and selected as his place of abode a spot on Upolu large enough to enable him to spread it out. Pilibuu had four sons to whom he allotted various offices; one was to look after the plantations, another to carry the walking-stick and fly-whisk to “do the talking,” a third as warrior carried the spear and club, while the youngest had charge of the canoes. To all he gave the excellent advice, “When you wish to work, work; when you wish to talk, talk; when you wish to fight, fight.” The second injunction struck me as that most congenial to his descendants.

The Samoans had legends connected with their mats, those of fine texture being valued as jewels are in Western lands. One was told me at great length about a mat made by a woman who was a spirit, who worked at different times under the vines, under a canoe, and on the sea-shore. Either her personal charms or her industry captivated Tangoloalangi, and he took her up to heaven and made her his wife. Her first child, a daughter, was endowed with the mat, and looking down from heaven she was fascinated by the appearance of a fine man attired in a lava-lava of red bird-of-paradise feathers. She descended in a shower of rain, but her Endymion, mistaking her mode of transit for an ordinary storm, took off his plumes for fear they should get wet. Arrived on earth she went up to him and said, “Where is the man I saw from heaven wearing a fine lava-lava?” “I am he,” replied the swain. Incredulous, she retorted, “I saw a man not so ugly as you.” “I am the same as before, but you saw me from a distance with a red lava-lava on.” In vain he resumed his adornment; the charm was broken and she would none of him. Instead of returning to the skies she wandered to another village and had further adventures with the mat, which she gave to her daughter by the earthly husband whom she ultimately selected. She told the girl that on any day on which she took the mat out to dry in the sun there would be darkness, rain, and hurricane. The mat was still preserved in the family of the man who told me the story, and was never taken out to dry in the sun.

The Samoans, like other races, had a story of the Flood, and one derivation (there are several) of the name of the Group is Sa = sacred or preserved, Moa = fowl, as they say that one of their gods preserved his fowls on these islands during the deluge.

They had sacred symbols, such as sticks, leaves, and stones, and a general belief in spirits, but I never heard of any special ritual, nor were there any traces of temples on the Islands. They seemed a gentle, amiable people, not fierce like the natives of New Ireland, the New Hebrides, and others of negroid type.

The constant joy of the natives is to go for a malanga or boat expedition to visit neighbouring villages, and we quite realised the fascination of this mode of progress when we were rowed through the quiet lagoons in early morning or late evening, the rising or setting sun striking colours from the barrier reefs, and our boatmen chanting native songs as they bent to their oars. Once a little girl was thrown into our boat to attend us when we were going to sleep in a native teacher’s house. She lay down at the bottom with a tappa cloth covering her from the sun. We were amused, when the men began to sing, to hear her little voice from under the cloth joining in the melody.

On this occasion we visited one or two stations of the London missionaries and inspected a number of young chief students. I noticed one youth who seemed particularly pleased by something said to him by the missionary. I asked what had gratified him, and Mr. Hills said that he had told him that the Island from which he came (I think one of the Ellice Islands) had just been annexed by the British, and they were so afraid of being taken by the Germans! That well represented the general feeling. Once as we were rowing in our boat a large native canoe passed us, and the men in it shouted some earnest supplication. I asked what it was, and was told that they were imploring “by Jesus Christ” that we should beg the British Government to take the Island.

Poor things, not long after we left, the agreement was made by which England assumed the Protectorate of Tonga and Germany that of Upolu and Savaii of the Samoan group. Since the war New Zealand has the “mandate” to govern them, and I hope they are happy. I never heard that they were ill-treated by the Germans during their protectorate, but they had certainly seen enough of the forced labour on German plantations to make them terribly afraid of their possible fate.

The London missionaries had stations not only on the main Island, but also on the outlying islets of Manono and Apolima which they were anxious that we should visit. The latter was a small but romantic spot. The only practicable landing-place was between two high projecting rocks, and we were told that any party of natives taking refuge there could guarantee themselves against pursuit by tying a rope across from rock to rock and upsetting any hostile canoe into the sea.Ocean itself, not the inhabitants, expressed an objection to our presence on this occasion. There was no sheltering lagoon to receive us, the sea was so rough and the surf so violent that our crew assured us that it was impossible to land, and we had to retreat to Manono. Mr. Haggard sent a message thence to the Apolima chiefs assuring them of our great regret, and promising that I would send my portrait to hang in their village guest-house. I told this to the head missionary’s wife when I saw her again, and she exclaimed with much earnestness, “Oh, do send the photograph or they will all turn Wesleyans!” To avert this catastrophe a large, elaborately framed photograph was duly sent from Sydney and formally presented by Mr. Haggard. I trust that it kept the score or so of Islanders in the true faith. A subsequent visitor found it hanging upside down in the guest-house, and the last I heard of it was that the chiefs had fled with it to the hills after some fighting in which they were defeated. I seem to have been an inefficient fetish, but I do not know whose quarrel they had embraced.

We had one delightful picnic, not by boat, but riding inland to a waterfall some twenty or thirty feet high. Our meal was spread on rocks in the little river into which it fell, and after our luncheon the native girls who accompanied us sat on the top of the fall and let themselves be carried by the water into the deep pool below. My daughter and I envied, though we could not emulate them, but my brother divested himself of his outer garments and clad in pyjamas let two girls take him by either arm and shot with them down into the clear cool water. One girl who joined the entertainment was said to be a spirit, but there was no outward sign to show wherein she differed from a mortal. Mortals or spirits, they were a cheery, light-hearted race.

I must mention Tamasese’s farewell visit to us accompanied by one or two followers. Mr. Haggard donned his uniform for the occasion, and as usual we English sat in a row on chairs, while the Samoans squatted on the floor in front. We had as interpreter a half-caste called Yandall, who had some shadowy claim to the royal blood of England in his veins. How or why I never understood, but he was held in vague esteem on that account.

At this visit, after various polite phrases had been interchanged, Haggard premised his oration by enjoining on Yandall to interpret his words exactly. He first dilated in flowery language on the importance of my presence in Samoa, on which our guests interjected murmurs of pleased assent. He then went on to foreshadow our imminent departure—mournful “yahs” came in here—and then wound up with words to this effect: “Partings must always occur on earth; there is but one place where there will be no more partings, and that is the Kingdom of heaven, where Lady Jersey will be very pleased to see all present”! Imagine the joy of the Stevenson family when this gem of rhetoric was reported to them.

I have already referred to the story, An Object of Pity, or the Man Haggard, which was written by my brother and myself in collaboration with the Stevensons. The idea was that each author should describe his or her own character, that Haggard should be the hero of a romance running through the whole, and that we should all imitate the style of Ouida, to whom the booklet was inscribed in a delightful dedication afterwards written by Stevenson, from which I venture to cull a few extracts:

There follow humorous comments on the contents of the chapters, and the Dedication ends with the signatures of “Your fond admirers” in Samoan with English translations. Mrs. Stevenson, for instance, was “O Le Fafine Mamana O I Le Maunga, The Witch-Woman of the Mountain”; and the rest of us bore like fanciful designations. It was of course absurd daring on the part of Rupert and myself to write the initial chapters, which dealt with an imaginary conspiracy typical of the jealousies among various inhabitants of the Islands, and with our expedition to Malie (Mataafa’s Camp); but we were honoured by the addition of four amusing chapters written by Stevenson, Mrs. Stevenson, Mrs. Strong, and their cousin Graham (now Sir Graham) Balfour. The Stevensons gave a lurid account of Haggard’s evening party at Ruge’s Buildings, and Mr. Balfour projected himself into the future and imagined Haggard old and historic surrounded by friends and evolving memories of the past.

We had kept him in ignorance of what was on foot, but when all was complete the Stevensons gave us luncheon at Vailima with the best of native dishes, Lloyd Osbourne, adorned with leaves and flowers in native fashion, officiating as butler. When the banquet was over a garland of flowers was hung round Haggard’s neck, a tankard of ale was placed before him, and Stevenson read aloud the MSS. replete with allusions to, and jokes about, his various innocent idiosyncrasies. So far from being annoyed, the good-natured hero was quite delighted, and kept on saying, “What a compliment all you people are paying me!” In the end we posed as a group, Mrs. Strong lying on the ground and holding up an apple while the rest of us knelt or bent in various attitudes of adoration round the erect form and smiling countenance of Haggard. The photograph taken did not come out very well, but sufficiently for my mother later on to make a coloured sketch for me to keep as a frontispiece for my special copy of An Object of Pity. It was indeed a happy party—looking back it is sad to think how few of those present now survive, but it was pleasure unalloyed while it lasted.

As for the booklet, with general agreement of the authors I had it privately printed at Sydney, the copies being distributed amongst us. Some years after Stevenson’s death Mr. Blaikie asked leave to print twenty-five presentation copies in the same form as the Edinburgh edition, to which Mrs. Stevenson consented. I wrote an explanatory Preface, and lent for reproduction the clever little book of coloured sketches by Mrs. Strong, with Stevenson’s verses underneath to which I have already alluded.

We had arranged to return to Australia by the American mail-ship, the Mariposa, so after three of the happiest weeks of my life we had to embark on board her on the evening of September 2nd, when she entered the harbour of Apia.

Regret at leaving Samoa was, however, much allayed by meeting my son, Villiers, who had come across America from England in the charge of Sir George Dibbs, our New South Wales Premier, whose visit to the mother-land I have already described. Villiers had grown very tall since we parted, he had finished his Eton career and joined us to spend some months in Australia before going to Oxford. We were amused by an “interview” with him and Dibbs in one of the American papers, in which he was described as son of the Governor of New South Wales, but more like a young Englishman than a young Australian, which was hardly surprising considering that he had at that time never set foot in Australia. This reminds me of some French people who seeing a Maharajah in Paris at the time of Lord Minto’s appointment to India, thought that the dignified and turbaned Indian must be the new Viceroy—the Earl of Minto.

Poor Robert Louis Stevenson—he died not long after our visit; his life, death, and funeral have been recorded in many books and by many able pens. His life, with all its struggles and despite constant ill-health, was, I hope and believe, a happy one. Perhaps we most of us fail to weigh fairly the compensating joy of overcoming when confronted with adversity of any kind. He told me once how he had had a MS. refused just at the time when he had undertaken the cares of a family represented by a wife and her children, but I am sure that the pleasure of the success which he won was greater to his buoyant nature than any depression caused by temporary failure.

He loved his Island home, though he had from time to time a sense of isolation. He let this appear once when he said how he should feel our departure, and how sorry he should be when he should also lose the companionship of Haggard.

There has lately been some correspondence in the papers about misprints in his books. This may be due in part to the necessity of leaving the correction of his proofs to others when he was residing or travelling in distant climes. When we were in Samoa, Una, or the Beach of Falesa, was appearing as a serial in an illustrated paper of which I received a copy. Stevenson had not seen it in print until I showed it to him, and was much vexed to find that some verbal alteration had been made in the text. At his request when we left the Island I took a cable to send off from Auckland, where our ship touched, with strict injunctions to “follow Una line by line.” There was no cable then direct from Samoa, and apparently no arrangement had been made to let the author see his own work while in progress.