CHAPTER XII.

QUITE ALONE IN A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE—RETURN TO REWA—BASALTIC PILLARS—REWA POTTERY—BAU—NEW YEAR’S EVE—KING THAKOMBAU AS AN ELDER OF THE WESLEYAN CHURCH—PRE-CHRISTIAN TIMES.

NAKAMEROUSI, _Monday, Dec. 27_.

DEAREST NELL,—I must begin a letter to you to-night, for the strangeness of the situation exceeds any I have yet happened on. I have left the Langhams at Nirukuruku, and am here quite by myself, very much at home in a Fijian hut, and surrounded by natives, most of whom were, till within the last two years, uncompromising cannibals, and who, moreover, have never before beheld the face of a white woman!

The way it came about was this. When we were going up the river in hot haste, and with no time to loiter by the way, the village of Nakamerousi had attracted my especial admiration. It is perched on a steep bank, and looks right along a broad reach of the river to a beautiful mountain-range. Being anxious to secure a sketch from that point, it was agreed that I should take advantage of the return thither of Reuben, the native teacher, who, with the help of Joshua, one of the boatmen, accordingly paddled me down in a small canoe. Great was the astonishment of the villagers, and still greater that of Reuben’s exceedingly fat wife, in whose house I am spending the night. We made great friends, though I could hardly utter a word of Fijian, and probably few of those around me had ever heard a word of English.

As seen from outside, this house promised well, but on entering I perceived that the first effort of civilisation had not improved the ordinary home. For the teachers have been encouraged to show the advantages of a separate sleeping-room, by having a third of the house screened off with a reed partition, but so little do they appreciate the innovation that they generally convert the inner room into a store-room for yams or lumber. So it is in this case. However, the kind fat old lady resigned the post of honour for my benefit, and here I have hung up my plaid-curtain and mosquito-net, thereby greatly interesting a crowd of spectators, who had previously watched the wonderful process of consuming chocolate and biscuits. One kind woman has brought water in a bamboo, and therewith filled my big brass basin (the old companion of my happy tent life in the Himalayas).

Now a party of laughing brown children are holding up small torches of blazing bamboo, by the light of which I am writing; but the illumination seems to me so likely to end in a general blaze that I will not be responsible for it. And so good night. The girls are greatly delighted with my hair-brushes, especially my tooth-brush. I shall have to keep jealous guard lest they experiment with it! They themselves use wooden combs, sometimes ornamented with coloured string and beads.

Really these falling sparks are too dangerous. Good night again.

* * * * *

NAVOUNINDRALA, _Dec. 28_.

Here we are back at the junction of the two streams, on which we have spent so strangely interesting a fortnight. Our voyage in the canoe is over, and we are once more on the main stream, at the point where we left the boat.

I began this letter to you at beautiful Nakamerousi. As soon as possible I disappeared within my shawl-tent, and then commenced the family supper, followed by much smoking, in which the young ladies joined freely. At last I could stand it no longer, and begged them to desist, which they did forthwith with the utmost courtesy. A few minutes later all present joined in family prayers, then the house was cleared, and only Mrs Reuben and her small boys remained with me.

On the following morning I with much difficulty escaped from the infliction of a great feast which the kind villagers had prepared for me, by contriving to make them understand that they should reserve it for the mission party. The mountains were magnificently clear, and I secured a satisfactory sketch ere the rest of the party arrived. Of course the people crowded round to inspect this new and extraordinary method of _writing the mountains_ in many colours; but they were most courteous and quiet, and as usual my only cause of complaint was their vile habit of incessantly spitting. From the first day that I commenced sketching in Fiji I discovered that here, as with most other semi-civilised races, white as well as coloured, the first sentence it was necessary to learn was a request to abstain from this noxious practice in my immediate neighbourhood!

Now we are back in Ratu Richard’s nice tidy house, which to-day is like a botanical show; for on the way up I gave some children small silver coins for bringing me fronds of a lovely fern with ripe seed (which I enclose for Eisa), and also for other curious plants; so the whole population have been ransacking the bush, and have brought us many rare flowers. I never before saw so many in Fiji. But I fear the poor people are sorely disappointed that I do not want to buy them all. I have, however, just bought a very fine necklace of whale’s teeth, which I hope to show you some day. What a sensation it would make at a Northern Meeting Ball!

* * * * *

BAU, _New Year’s Eve_.

Nothing special occurred on our return journey. We called at the houses of several white men, and received most cordial welcome, and many cups of tea with milk, which after our long abstinence seemed true nectar. How strange it did seem once more to sit on chairs and at tables! I fear I rather regret giving up mat-life!

We spent a pleasant day at Rewa with Mr and Mrs Webb, exchanging the news of the mountains for that of the great outer world, and did not we enjoy a civilised breakfast!

Rewa is a large village of the invariable thatched houses, with an unusually fine thatched church, round which have been set up a series of rude stone pillars, some pentagonal,—which are supposed to have been brought from the basaltic cliffs at Khandavu, the outermost isle of the group. I noted a similar pillar among the ruins of the heathen temple at Bau; and here, at Rewa, Mr Webb has happily replaced several which formerly surrounded a large barrow where three chiefs are buried, and which some ruthless hand had overthrown. Mr Webb kindly took me all over the place, and showed me every point of interest.

The town of Rewa consists of a cluster of villages, inhabited by various divisions of tribes, all subject to a central power. Each village is embosomed in luxuriant gardens of broad-leaved banana and tall sugar-cane, and we passed from one to another by tidy paths, bordered with ornamental shrubs, denoting unusual care.

Here, as in our own land, the fisher town stands quite apart from the homes of the agricultural population, and intermarriage is equally rare. Thither we wended our way, in search of the curious pottery made by the very low caste women of the fisher tribe. We had not the luck to catch the potters at work, but from each little cottage specimens were brought to us, very varied in form, and of a greenish-red earthenware, glazed. Many of the forms are most artistic, the commonest consisting of a cluster of vases resembling a bunch of oranges, sometimes as many as six, all joined together by one handle. I grieve that their extreme fragility should allow so small a chance of many specimens reaching England in safety. However, I have ordered a good many to be made. I had the good fortune to secure several really old pieces in the mountains—finely shaped bowls and water-jars—and these have travelled so far without damage.

[Illustration: ISLES OF OVALAU, MOTURIKI, BAU AND VIWA, FROM VITI LEVU.

_p. 111._]

In the afternoon we continued our voyage down one of the many branches into which the river here divides, entering the sea by many mouths, which are in fact salt-water creeks, winding through the dense mangrove-forest. We called at Navouloa, the training college for native students, now in charge of Mr Waterhouse.

Thence a few hours’ sail brought us here to Bau, the native capital. It is a tiny island, lying close to the great isle of Viti Levu, with which indeed it is connected by a low neck of land, which is fordable at low tide. Small as it is, it holds a very important place in the estimation of a Fijian, being the home of the great chief Thakombau and all his family, and of nobles before whom the tribes of other districts bow in humblest deference, and to whom they grant special privileges. Its chief takes precedence of all other chiefs; and the mere fact of belonging to Bau gives a man a definite position. Moreover, the language of Bau is to the isles of Fiji as the Latin tongue is to the civilised world—the one language which all are bound to understand, however different may be that of each country.

The town has great historic interest, but what with the ravages of fire and the pulling down of all the old temples (whose high-pitched roofs formerly gave some character to the town), it now possesses no architectural features whatever—the house of Thakombau, the ex-king (or, as he prefers to be called by his hereditary title, the Vuni Valu, or Root of War), being as simple a thatched cottage as any other round the beach. So this regal town consists only of a cluster of cottages on the water-level, overshadowed by several large trees. Each member of the royal family has his or her own house. There is the king’s house and the queen’s house, the king’s kitchen (which I think is rather larger than either), and the homes of their sons.

The mission-station at Bau occupies the flat summit of the green hill which composes the island, and is a good illustration of how differently men estimate things. According to our views it is by far the best site on the island, but the missionaries were only allowed to build there because no native cared to leave the water-level, and the summit of the hillock was the receptacle for all the rubbish and filth of the town, and was, consequently, so undesirable a place of residence, that only the policy of securing a footing in the actual capital induced the mission to accept this site. But it was Hobson’s choice,—that or none.

It must have been indeed a hateful home in those days, when you could not look down from the windows to the town below without witnessing scenes of unspeakable horror, the very thought of which is appalling; when the soil was saturated with blood, and the ovens were never cool, by reason of the multitude of human victims continually brought to replenish them.

Now the site of the ovens is marked only by greener grass; but an old tree close by is covered, branch and stem, with notches, each one of which is the record of some poor wretch whose skull was dashed against a stone at the temple, the foundations of which are still to be seen a few steps further on. The tree is the sole survivor of a sacred grove, which, like that at Rewa, was cut down on account of the superstitious reverence in which it was held, and the dark memories attaching to it. Beside it is the well, where the bodies were brought to be washed, just below the mission wicket.

Here, too, are the great wooden drums, which in those evil days only sounded a doom of death, or summoned the people to some scene of horrible revelry, but which now beat only to call them to Christian worship, or to summon them to school; and near the drums and the ovens the walls of a stone church are slowly rising.

Very different, too, is the scene on the hill-top, where roses and jessamines now perfume the air around a pleasant home—while on one side cluster the mission buildings, where the students are fed and taught; and beautiful is the panorama of sea and isles which lies outstretched on two sides of the horizon, while on the other lie the near shores and distant mountains of Viti Levu.

Great was the excitement of the juvenile population of this tiny isle when we arrived late last night, and each little urchin was trusted to carry some of our quaint treasures up the hill, and deposit them in the verandah, which really looked very much like a timber-yard when we looked out next morning! Such an _omnium gatherum_ of wooden pillows and clubs, spears and bowls, wooden trays and sticks, to say nothing of sundry pieces of pottery, and a pile of savage finery!

The first to welcome us on landing was the native minister, Joeli Mbulu, a fine old Tongan chief. His features are beautiful, his colour clear olive, and he has grey hair and a long silky grey beard. He is just my ideal of what Abraham must have been, and would be worth a fortune to an artist as a patriarchal study.

All the people are preparing for their New Year feast to-morrow, and have been all day coming up in crowds to consult Mrs Langham about their clothes and other matters.

10 P.M.—I must write a few words just to prove that I am thinking of you all on this last night of the old year. _You_ are just about finishing breakfast. _We_ are just starting for the midnight service, which on this night (Watch-night the Wesleyans call it) is held in every church all over these isles. I shall wish you a glad New Year at the right moment.

_First Sunday in 1876._—I left off to go to the midnight service. It was a very impressive scene, though the church having recently been blown down in a hurricane, and the large house for strangers which was next used having been burnt in a recent fire and the new one not being finished, the congregation have to meet in two smaller buildings.

Churches here are just like the houses on a very large scale. They are on a raised foundation of stones for drainage, and are all built of trees and reeds, with high roof, thatched, and walls thickly coated outside with dry leaves. Of course they burn very readily. The pillars and rafters are often decorated with beautiful patterns in sinnet-work—that is, coloured string made of cocoa-nut fibre woven into elaborate patterns.

On New Year’s Eve the churches are beautifully decorated with green leaves; and exquisitely made wreaths and necklaces of berries, alternating with bunches of tiny leaves and flowers, hang all about the lamps. They are very pretty, but of oppressive scent. At the midnight service two of the native teachers gave short addresses, and as the clock struck twelve there was a short interval for silent prayer. Then the Vuni Valu, the fine old ex-king, prayed, as a beginning of the New Year. They tell me his prayers are generally very striking and very touching.

After service we all stood for a while in the bright starlight, exchanging New Year greetings, while the children indulged in noisily beating the _lalis_, the big wooden drums, and (alas for British importations!) rattling old tin cases! and so making night hideous. This New Year festival is an anniversary of purely English origin, the native method of marking seasons being simply by the yam crops.

Thakombau is a very fine old man, stately and chief-like in his bearing, and with clear, penetrating eyes. It certainly was strange to hear the first words of prayer uttered in the New Year flowing from _his_ lips, concerning whose youth and manhood we had heard such appalling tales—tales, moreover, which we knew to be undoubtedly true, beginning with that early feat of his childhood, when at the tender age of six, the young Seru, as he was then called, clubbed his first victim, a boy somewhat his senior.

The first fifty years of his life were passed in wars and fightings, and disgraced by unspeakable barbarities, including the strangling of his father’s five wives, after the death of that old miscreant. But while still a determined heathen, he was not altogether unfriendly to the missionaries, whose remonstrances he would often endure, while rejecting their counsels. Their teaching was strongly supported by his wife, Andi Lytia, and his daughter Andi Arietta Kuilla (Lady Harriet Flag). The latter is a woman of masculine intellect, who rules her own district splendidly, and is the king’s best adviser. Like many another, however, Thakombau turned a deaf ear to all their arguments so long as his way was prosperous. It was not till 1854, when one tribe after another had thrown off his yoke, and his fame as a warrior was dimmed, that he began to lose faith in his own gods, and to listen with a more favourable ear to the counsels of the Christian King George of Tonga, who sent him a letter urging him also to become a worshipper of the Saviour.

Like King David of old, in his heaviness of heart he thought upon God, and determined to join the _lotu_; and on the 30th of April he gave orders that the great drums (which ten days previously had been beaten to call the people to the temples for a great cannibal feast) should now sound to summon them to assemble in the great strangers’ house to worship the true God. About three hundred there met, and the Vuni Valu, with all his wives, children, and other relatives, knelt together in solemn adoration of the Christian’s God. Mr Calvert and Mr Waterhouse conducted the service. This was a day for which they had long worked and prayed, hoping against hope—a day ever to be remembered as one of the most important in the annals of Fiji.

But the outward state of matters was very unsatisfactory. Thakombau’s implacable foe, the chief of Rewa, had acquired great power, and announced his intention of utterly destroying Bau and its king and people, whom he would soon eat; and proclaimed that he defied their new God Jehovah to save them. At the same time he had the courtesy to send a message to Mr Waterhouse to beg him and his family to leave the town before he set it on fire. At such a time it certainly needed both faith and courage to stick to his post, but both Mr Waterhouse and his devoted wife determined to hold their ground, greatly to the satisfaction of the king. Then followed a period of dire anxiety. There were fears within the isle, and fightings without—fears of treachery from hostile tribes living even on the little isle itself.

But at the darkest hour came deliverance. The King of Rewa died of dysentery. His chiefs received Thakombau’s overtures of peace favourably. King George of Tonga came to Fiji, and somehow, unintentionally, drifted into the general war and helped to bring it to a speedy end. Seventy towns returned to their allegiance to Bau, and great was the wonder excited by the king’s clemency; his whole aim being to secure a lasting peace, and to induce all concerned to attend to the cultivation of the land and the interests of trade.

All this time he had been carefully studying the doctrines of the faith he professed; but in his case, as in many others, it was deemed desirable to defer his baptism for a considerable period, till his instructors were convinced of his being thoroughly in earnest. It is a point on which the mission has always insisted strongly, that every convert should continue for a long period on probation, and receive careful individual training before being admitted to baptism. It was not till January 1857 that, having dismissed all his wives except one, Thakombau was publicly married to Audi Lytia, and they were baptised together.

From that moment he has taken no retrograde step. Always resolute in whatever line of conduct he adopted, he has shown himself most truly so in the promotion of Christianity, and of every measure that promised to be for the good of his people. Determined and energetic in his relations to other chiefs, he has of late years thrown all his influence on behalf of peace and order, and now professes himself well content with the subordinate position he has accepted, believing that he has thereby consulted the best interests of all his countrymen.

His eldest son, Ratu Abel, cannot look so placidly on the resignation of his birthright, and holds himself somewhat aloof from the foreign rulers. His half-brothers, Ratu Timothy and Ratu Joe, are more cordial, and, moreover, talk very good English. They are fine handsome fellows, and inherit something of their father’s stately carriage; indeed all the chiefs are distinguishable from the common herd by their dignity and grace of movement, the lack of which among some of the commoners is due, doubtless, to the fact that no Fijian dare stand upright in the presence of a superior: if at rest he must crouch before him (in no case presuming to pass behind him), or if in motion, must either crawl on all-fours or walk bending lowly. Even Thakombau’s own sons scarcely venture to stand upright before him. Naturally such a custom, continuing from generation to generation, becomes second nature.

At early dawn on New Year’s morning I went out, the better to enjoy the loveliness of the scene, the soft balmy air, the dreamy beauty of the far-away isles, and the wondrous calm of the wide waters. I sat on a grassy hillock and watched the sun rise from the sea, reflected in dazzling light. Below me lay the peaceful village, where it seemed none were yet astir.

I was leaning against a rude wooden pillar which marks the grave of Tanoa, Thakombau’s aged father, who to the last continued a vicious and obstinate cannibal. Nothing delighted him more than to return from tributary isles with the bodies of infants hanging from the yard-arms of his canoe, as tribute exacted from their parents! Horrible beyond description are the stories of his brutalities. I may just tell you one as a sample of many.

One of his near kinsmen had offended him, and knowing how little pity he had to expect, sought by every means in his power to mollify him, humbly imploring his forgiveness. But the fiend responded by cutting off his arm at the elbow, and drinking the warm blood as it flowed. Then he cooked the arm, and ate it in presence of the sufferer, who afterwards was cut to pieces, limb by limb, while the brutal chief sat watching and gloating over the dying agonies of the miserable victim. Afterwards he sentenced his own youngest son to death, and compelled an elder brother to club him.

When the time of his own death drew near—I think it was in the year 1852—he gave special injunctions that his wives should on no account fail to accompany him to the spirit-world. Two English missionaries—Mr Calvert and Mr Watsford, who had for years vainly striven to convert this atrocious old heathen—now exerted their whole influence to try and persuade Thakombau to refrain from carrying out his father’s wicked will. These felt that success in this matter would be an earnest of wavering from heathendom on the part of the king. So Mr Calvert offered a princely gift of whale’s teeth, and even to have his own finger cut off (Vaka Viti—_i.e._, Fiji fashion), if only the lives of the women might be spared; but to no purpose. Mr Watsford offered twenty muskets, the mission whale-boat, and all his own personal property; but all in vain. Thakombau had just assumed the title of Tui Viti—King of Viti—and felt that his dignity would suffer by the omission of any customary ceremony. It is the privilege of an eldest son first to strangle his own mother, and then to assist in performing the same kind office for the other widows. So the five ladies were dressed with all pomp, and placed the new cords round their necks as proudly as though they had been precious ornaments; and Thakombau himself assisted the men whose office it was to strangle his mother and the four other women. Out of deference to the white men’s prayer, he offered life to one victim; but she refused it,—not from any love to her cruel lord, but simply because it was the custom of Fiji.

So here they all lie side by side, on the green hillock overlooking the broad blue Pacific and the isles where the name of Tanoa was once so sorely dreaded.

I turned back to the peaceful, pleasant mission-home, and lingered in the fragrant garden, looking across to Viwa, where the early missionaries established themselves before gaining a footing in Bau. Brave women were the wives of those men; and in many a scene of horror, and many a peril, did they prove themselves helps-meet for the men of earnest purpose whose lot they shared. I will give you one instance of the part they took here in those awful days—not remote days either; for the story I will tell you happened just thirty years ago.

A piratical tribe, called the Mbutoni, had brought a large offering of their spoil as tribute to the old king, Tanoa. Custom required that a feast of human flesh should be prepared for them, but the larder was empty, and no prisoners of war could be obtained. Under these circumstances, it was the duty of Ngavindi, the chief of the _lasakau_, or fishermen, to provide victims. Two young men were accordingly entrapped; but these not being deemed sufficient, the wary fisher went forth with his men. They ran their canoes among the mangrove-bushes, and covered either end with green boughs, and then lay in wait. Soon a company of fourteen women came down to fish. They were seized and bound, and carried off to Bau to furnish a feast for the morrow. News of this reached Viwa, where Mrs Calvert and Mrs Lyth were living alone with their children, their husbands having gone to teach on another island. They determined to make an attempt to save the lives of their luckless sisters; so having induced a friendly native to take them across in his canoe, they started on their errand of mercy. As they neared the shore it was evident that the cannibals were in a state of frantic excitement: the death-drums were booming, muskets firing, in token of rejoicing; and then piercing shrieks rose above the wild din, and told that the horrid butchery had begun. It needed desperate courage for these two lone (and apparently unprotected) women to land on the isle and face that bloodthirsty rabble. But with resolute courage and unfailing faith they pressed on.

On the beach they were met by a Christian chief, who led them through the crowd to Tanoa’s house, which it was death for any woman to enter. But unheeding their own safety, they forced their way in, with a whale’s tooth in each hand, as the customary offering when making a petition. The old man was so amazed at their courage, that he commanded that such as still lived should be spared; and a messenger was despatched to see that the order was obeyed. Nine had already perished; but five survived, and were set at liberty, blessing their brave deliverers, who, not satisfied with having gained their object so far, went straight to the house of Ngavindi, the chief butcher, who was sitting in full dress, rejoicing in his work. They spoke to him earnestly on the subject, and had the satisfaction of seeing that his chief wife and that of Thakombau cordially seconded their words. A few days later, H.M.S. Havannah touched the isles, and Captain Erskine went to Viwa to call at the mission. They had just sat down to tea, and he had just been delicately hinting his belief that many of the missionary stories about these nice well-conducted people were grossly exaggerated, when Ngavindi came in to ask Mrs Lyth about the great English ship. He was most kindly received, and took his place at table with perfect ease. Captain Erskine described him as a very handsome, prepossessing young fellow, of modest and gentle manners. He could scarcely believe that he had just been chief actor in this horrid business. Not long after this, Ngavindi was slain in battle, when attempting to carry off a dead body. One of his wives was sister to Thakombau, whose duty it now was to strangle her; but the tribe petitioned that her life might be spared, that her unborn child might become their chief. So the old mother offered herself as a substitute, and the king strangled her with his own hand—a hand which had already cut off the nose of one sister, as a punishment for being unfaithful to her husband.[26] So Ngavindi lay in state on a raised platform, with one dead wife at his side, and the corpse of his mother at his feet, and an attendant close by; and all were laid together in one grave.

The day after Captain Erskine had made acquaintance with the gentle, courteous Ngavindi, he came to Bau, where he saw the bloody stone on which the heads of multitudes of victims had been dashed, when presented to the god at the chief temple. The Mbutoni guests were still in the stranger’s house, and to prove how well they had been received, they pointed out four or five large ovens in which the nine women had been cooked; and also the spot where a few months previously, after the capture of Lokia, a town belonging to Rewa, eighty corpses of those slain in battle had been heaped up, previous to being apportioned to the greedy warriors.

But in a greater or less degree this was the ever-recurring story, and the days of joy and rejoicing for men, women, and little children, were those on which canoes arrived bringing _bokola_, which were thrown into the sea and ignominiously dragged ashore with shouts of joy, and made the occasion for wild orgies and mad dances of death.

It was only people who had been killed that were considered good for food. Those who died a natural death were never eaten,—invariably buried. But it certainly is a wonder that the isles were not altogether depopulated, owing to the number who were killed. Thus in Namena, in the year 1851, fifty bodies were cooked for one feast. And when the men of Bau were at war with Verata, they carried off 260 bodies, seventeen of which were piled on a canoe and sent to Rewa, where they were received with wild joy, dragged about the town, and subjected to every species of indignity ere they finally reached the ovens. Then, too, just think of the number of lives sacrificed in a country where infanticide was a recognised institution, and where widows were strangled as a matter of course! Why, on one occasion, when there had been a horrible massacre of Namena people at Viwa, and upwards of one hundred fishermen had been murdered and their bodies carried as _bokola_ to the ovens at Bau, no less than eighty women were strangled to do honour to the dead, and the corpses lay strewn in every direction round the mission station! It is just thirty years since the Rev. John Watsford, writing from here, describes how twenty-eight victims had been seized in one day while fishing. They were brought here alive, and only stunned when they were put into the ovens. Some of the miserable creatures attempted to escape from the scorching bed of red-hot stones, but only to be driven back and buried in that living tomb, whence they were taken a few hours later to feast their barbarous captors. He adds, that probably more human beings were eaten on this little isle of Bau than anywhere else in Fiji. It is very hard indeed to realise that the peaceful village on which I am now looking has really been the scene of such horrors as these, and that many of the gentle, kindly people round me have actually taken part in them.

Before we had finished breakfast, we had a New Year’s morning visit from the old king’s daughter, Andi Arietta Kuilla, accompanied by her beautiful youngest boy, little Timothy. She has two other children, Ratu Beny (Benjamin) and a little girl rejoicing in the name of Jane Emilia. We walked back with her to her father’s house, at the foot of this hill, and found her mother, Andi Lytia, the old queen, suffering from a very severe cough. She was lying on her mats beside a central fireplace (_i.e._, a square hollow in the floor). She wore only a long waist-cloth, a style of dress which displayed her ample proportions to the utmost, and being so huge, she did strike one as being rather undraped! But no one thinks anything about it, so I suppose it is only prejudice. Happily both these immense ladies are strikingly handsome, with massive features and clever heads, which have been proved to contain good brains.

Their home, like those of their neighbours, is simply a large room strewn with mats, on which the family and their guests recline. The king’s own house stands apart, but he reserves a corner here, which is shut off by a heavy curtain of native cloth; and one uncomfortable-looking chair revealed his wish to conform to foreign customs. He thought it necessary to sit on this when I first entered the house, but soon sacrificed dignity to comfort, and reclined on his mat, while his family squatted round him.

A large number of lamps attracted my attention, as did also two neck-pillows, each formed of a joint of the largest bamboo I have ever seen, measuring 5½ inches in diameter. It had drifted ashore from some unknown isle, and been brought to the Vuni Valu as a rare prize. It is certainly a curiosity, but not quite one’s idea of a comfortable pillow for a weary head. A Fijian pillow, however, is merely a neck-rest; the head still supports itself as it was taught to do in those days of the elaborate hair-dressing, on which the chiefs prided themselves so greatly that each considered it necessary to have his especial barber, whose joy and delight it was to adorn the head of his master with curls and twists and plaits, more numerous and more wonderful than those of any other chief.

It was strangely suggestive of a stormy past to hear the old king, who was eager for particulars of our expedition up the Rewa, constantly asking Mr Langham to explain exactly where the different towns were of which we spoke. Then I found that neither he nor his daughter (whose own district is actually on the Rewa) had ever even heard of these towns; while as to seeing them, no tribe _ever_ saw anything beyond their own property unless they went as invaders in time of war. I showed Andi Kuilla sketches of places within a day’s march of her own property, but she had never seen any of them.

Another suggestive thought is awakened when, on shaking the hand so cordially offered by these comely ladies, we are conscious of the absence of at least one finger. By such sacrifice the women of Fiji (like those of Tahiti and Hawaii) have hitherto shown their mourning for the dead, or made their appeal to the gods to save the sick. So you rarely meet a woman above middle age who has not lost one or both her little fingers. The operation is performed with a sharp shell, with which the mourner saws the first joint till she cuts it off. On the next occasion of mourning, she sacrifices the second joint. The little finger of the other hand supplies a third and fourth proof of sorrow. After this, the Fijian equivalent of wearing crape is to rub the poor mutilated stumps on rough stones till they bleed.

I have been in sole possession of the house all the morning, every other creature being at church, notwithstanding a thermometer at about 90°, which decided my remaining on the hill-top in a fresher atmosphere than that of the crowded church. But I am going this afternoon to accompany Mr Langham, who holds service at a pretty village on the big isle, some way up a lovely river, so I may as well close this letter, ready for to-morrow’s mail.