The capital of Upoli is Apia, and this town gives its name to the bay.
The Bay of Apia is crescent-shaped, having the point of Mulinuu for the western, and the point of Matatu for the eastern, tip of the horn. Although the coral reef stretches from tip to tip, there is, in the very middle, a natural gap in the submarine coral wall, deep enough and broad enough to give passage even to a man-of-war.
We cast anchor at daylight, and as I looked over the side of the steamer a sense of familiarity pervaded the landscape, possibly to be accounted for by the fact that the slender, feathery palms had ceased to be distinctive features; not that palms were lacking, but that their long, straight stems were crowded out by a dense growth of other trees. In one of his letters Stevenson himself comments on this, and implies that this “home likeness” formed one of the attractions which drew him to Upolu.
The little town of Apia nestles at the foot of a peaked and forest-clad mountain; indeed the whole of the shore, which is everywhere green and level, is overshadowed by inland mountain tops.
At last I had attained the goal of my pilgrimage; at last I was within hail of that lonely plateau, where all that was mortal of Robert Louis Stevenson was laid to rest some eight years ago.
I looked shoreward with eyes full of reverence and wonder. This island with its wooded peak was the “surfy palm-built bubble” of Gosse’s wonderful poem. The rhythm of the words made music in my brain.
“Now the skies are pure above you, Tusitala,
Feathered trees bow down before you,
Perfumed winds from shining waters
Stir the sanguine-leaved hibiscus,
That your kingdom’s dusk-eyed daughters
Weave about their shining tresses,
Dew-fed guavas drop their viscous
Honey at the sun’s caresses,
Where eternal summer blesses
Your ethereal musky highlands.”
“You are circled, as by magic,
In a surfy palm-built bubble, Tusitala.
Fate hath chosen, but the choice is
Half delectable, half tragic,
For we hear you speak like Moses,
And we greet you back enchanted,
But reply’s no sooner granted
Than the rifted cloud-land closes.”
This poem, which forms the dedication to Russet and Silver, was received by Stevenson only a few days before his death. The fact that he had barely read it ere the “rifted cloud-land” did indeed close upon him imparts an almost prophetic significance to the last two lines.