Samoa Under the Sailing Gods

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The place of pilgrimage in Samoa is Stevenson's tomb. It was about three miles on a fairly straight road to Vailima, and then one went along the Road of the Loving Heart—a mere track—and crossed a little bridge that spanned the Vailima stream—not far from the house itself—above which bridge was a fine bathing-pool, and below where the water tumbled over a small fall.

The path to the tomb zigzagged up through what appeared to be a sort of secondary bush, not unlike some English woodland. It was a fairly stiff climb, and one was glad to rest on arriving at the top. The tomb is a massive structure, in plaster-concrete, with a rather fine simplicity: a sort of peaked box with inscribed bronze tablets let into the sides and ends, surmounting a base that is too large to be called a slab. The verses of the inscription—"Under the wide and starry sky," make a satisfactory requiem; and the view from the sepulchre is exquisite.

The top of the mountain is flat, like a table, and turf-covered; no bigger than the floor of a room. Between a break in the trees, Apia Roadstead can be seen, far below and very tiny, with the water in the bay a concentrated blue, and that upon the reef white and creamy, its noise amounting here only to a gentle murmur, and the expanse of empty ocean that slants upwards to the sky seems vast indeed. At the edge of the arborial frame, I remember, on the occasion of my visit, was a scarlet-blossomed tree—not an hibiscus—in flower, and the birds all about were singing and twittering like in an English spring; for, as in Australia, the songless birds and the scentless flowers are here a myth.

On the night of Flag Raising Day—August 29th—there was a ball at Vailima, to which I went, as did nearly every- oneone else in Apia. The shorn lawns before the residence—now Government House—are spacious, and beside them, stands the wooded hill, on the summit of which is buried Stevenson. Still remaining, as he made it—a core to the dwelling, enlarged, lengthened, and generally altered out of all recognition—is a great red fireplace, built of imported brick: the only bricks and fireplace perhaps in Samoa.

It was a magnificent night, and a crowded and colourful scene. The Administrator, spurred and in scarlet mess-jacket, was dancing away valiantly, strictly at the dictate of duty. He made some pleasant remark to me in passing, for he had, in addition to considerable charm of manner when he chose to exert it, the gift, on such occasions, of saying the right thing.

There was visiting Samoa at this time a writer, the author of a light book which gained a fair measure of success in the early days of the War. His latest work—apparently of a similar nature—he took the opportunity of advertising by distribution in Apia of small coloured blotters, inscribed with title, name of publisher, and price; and also dispensed among the departments of the Administration and in all directions a sort of questionnaire, soliciting people to supply him with material for writing up, in return for which it was promised that those who contributed to any considerable extent might have their names mentioned in the preface of a forthcoming volume. To-night, arrayed in kilted evening-dress, he seemed constituted Master of Ceremonies. Later, he had a piano pulled on the floor, and danced—not over-well, being a small Teutonic type of man—the Highland Fling. Finally he called for cheers for the Administrator, and then for three more; and so at length we made for our cars, and down the long road to the Beach. This writer apparently was considerably impressed by the personality of General Richardson, for on his return to London he inserted in the newspapers photographs of him captioned as "The Kitchener of the South Seas." He had accompanied the Administrator on one of his malangas.