Once it was the scene of a tremendous hurricane which caught several ships at anchor in the bay and blew them on the rocks. One English ship perished with all on board as she vainly endeavored to turn her bow towards the storm. The crew went down to Davy Jones's locker with the ship's band playing Rule, Britannia! On the rocks we saw a monument to the lost of this catastrophe in the shape of a wrecked German man-of-war.
As we approached the shore swarms of natives came rowing out to meet us. What splendid specimens of manhood they were! Perfectly formed they were apparently quite unconscious of their power and as gentle as they were strong. I noticed one strapping fellow standing in the bow of his boat beckoning me to join him. As the sun shone upon his copper colored skin he seemed a monarch even in his semi-nudity and in barbaric splendor he suggested Othello. With the aid of two assistants Othello soon landed us on the sands of sunny Samoa. Here we were at once surrounded by a swarm of natives who persuaded us to purchase fans, beads, rings, wooden canoes, corals, shells and a score of other things in which the island abounds. These articles are secured with the least possible labor for the true Samoan considers it infra dig to labor long and is firmly convinced that it is a very poor world that won't support one race of gentlemen.
I am sorry to say the women do not appeal to one as much as the men. They are small of stature and run to fat. They take but little time in arranging their toilet for the day and seldom keep their men friends waiting when asked to a party or a ball, their raiment consisting mostly of beads!
We spent but little time among the natives as we were anxious to visit the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We finally succeeded in procuring a conveyance, a small cart and pony, and were soon on our way to his home. After two miles the road turned into a smaller one and there a sign board, cleanly white-washed, told us in the Samoan tongue that we were nearing the abode of the great romancer. The sign, translated, told all travellers that the road was built by the Samoans as a monument to their beloved friend. At the end of the road we came upon a locked gate. We vaulted over and in a few minutes we came upon a house, flat, but of rather huge dimensions.
As we approached the veranda a lady, of small stature, dressed in a Mother Hubbard, in bare feet, came graciously forward to meet us. In a moment I recognized her. Her face was keen and intelligent and once must have been beautiful. She was pale, thoughtful, dignified and sad. Hers was the right kind of face! It stamped her as the wife of the man who has made the world marvel at his wondrous imagination. We made ourselves known and were received most hospitably. She seemed glad to welcome Anglo-Saxons.
I told her the news of McKinley's nomination and the sad tidings of the death of Kate Field, her life-long friend.
She prepared a luncheon for us (which did not quite suit my fancy, but I was too polite to refuse it). It was some kind of a mushy mixture, requiring the use of a mortar and pestle, which the natives manipulate quite skillfully. It consisted of several ingredients, one of which I thought was——never mind! That was soon over, thank the Lord, and Mrs. Stevenson showed us the house. We reveled in R. L.'s study which was filled with many original prints, books, emblems and gifts of every description.
In this room he passed away one afternoon while giving a reception to the natives who loved him dearly. While bestowing his hospitality he complained of a pain in his side and, excusing himself to his guests, started for his chamber. His wife, noticing his deathly pallor, rushed to his assistance. (Mrs. Stevenson was explicit in her description.) "Give them my compliments," he said to her as she half carried him toward his bedroom. "Tell them I'm a trifle ill, but we will all be together a week from to-night." And he waved an adieu and tried to hide the pain that racked his body. "It's nothing," he kept repeating to his wife, "it will soon pass away." But just as he entered his bedroom words failed him; he could only smile, grasp her hand and sink back onto the bed.
Thus passed the soul of one of the dearest men and one of the most brilliant. He suffered but he uttered no complaint. He had a kindly word even for savages. Now his body lies at the top of a huge mountain and if you look steadily you can almost outline the form as if it were lying on some great catafalque. It is most difficult of access; it took the natives two days and nights to place him on his bed of flowers. But to this day many of the sturdier ones make the toilsome climb and pay homage to the man they call their "dear master."
There alone he lies, as far as possible away from this plaything called earth. Huge trees stand like silent sentinels sheltering him from wind and rain. His companions are the little birds who sing his praises through all the hours of the day and night. Above the moon and stars dance with joy and I can fairly hear the jolly old moon say, "Bobby, we've got you at last!" And each star is whispering as it twinkles along, "Bobby has come, Bobby has come!"