affection to those others to whom I cling, I love better than all
the world besides - my mother. From the opposite end of the table,

my wife, who has been all in all to me, when the days were very
dark, looks to-night into my eyes - while we have both grown a bit

older - with undiminished and undiminishing affection.
"Childless, yet on either side of me sits that good woman, my

daughter, and the stalwart man, my son, and both have been and are
more than son and daughter to me, and have brought into my life

mirth and beauty. Nor is this all. There sits the bright boy dear
to my heart, full of the flow and the spirits of boyhood, so that I

can even know that for a time at least we have still the voice of a
child in the house."

Mr A. W. Mackay gives an account of the funeral and a description
of the burial-place, ending:

"Tofa Tusitala! Sleep peacefully! on thy mountain-top, alone in
Nature's sanctity, where the wooddove's note, the moaning of the

waves as they break unceasingly on the distant reef, and the
sighing of the winds in the distant tavai trees chant their

requiem."
The Rev. Mr Clarke tells of the constant and active interest Mr

Stevenson took in the missionaries and their work, often aiding
them by his advice and fine insight into the character of the

natives; and a translation follows of a dirge by one of the chiefs,
so fine that we must give it:

I.
"Listen, O this world, as I tell of the disaster

That befell in the late afternoon;
That broke like a wave of the sea

Suddenly and swiftly, blinding our eyes.
Alas for Loia who speaks tears in his voice!

REFRAIN - Groan and weep, O my heart, in its sorrow.
Alas for Tusitala, who rests in the forest!

Aimlessly we wait, and sorrowing. Will he again return?
Lament, O Vailima, waiting and ever waiting!

Let us search and inquire of the captain of ships,
'Be not angry, but has not Tusitala come?'

II.
"Teuila, sorrowing one, come thou hither!

Prepare me a letter, and I will carry it.
Let her Majesty Victoria be told

That Tusitala, the loving one, has been taken hence.
REFRAIN - Groan and weep, O my heart, etc., etc.

III.
"Alas! my heart weeps with anxious grief

As I think of the days before us:
Of the white men gathering for the Christmas assembly!

Alas for Aolele! left in her loneliness,
And the men of Vailima, who weep together

Their leader - their leader being taken.
REFRAIN - Groan and weep, O my heart, etc., etc.

IV.
"Alas! O my heart! it weeps unceasingly

When I think of his illness
Coming upon him with fatal swiftness.

Would that it waited a glance or a word from him,
Or some token, some token from us of our love.

REFRAIN - Groan and weep, O my heart, etc., etc.
V.

"Grieve, O my heart! I cannot bear to look on
All the chiefs who are there now assembling:

Alas, Tusitala! Thou art not here!
I look hither and thither in vain for thee.

REFRAIN - Groan and weep, O my heart, etc., etc."
And the little booklet closes with Mr Stevenson's own lines:

"REQUIEM.
Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie;
Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:

'Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea;

And the hunter home from the hill.'"
Every touch tells here was a man, with heart and head, with soul

and mind intent on the loftiest things; simple, great,
"Like one of the simple great ones gone

For ever and ever by.
His character towered after all far above his books; great and

beautiful though they were. Ready for friendship; from all
meanness free. So, too, the Samoans felt. This, surely, was what

Goethe meant when he wrote:
"The clear head and stout heart,

However far they roam,
Yet in every truth have part,

Are everywhere at home."
His manliness, his width of sympathy, his practicality, his range

of interests were in nothing more seen than in his contributions to
the history of Samoa, as specially exhibited in A FOOTNOTE TO

HISTORY and his letters to the TIMES. He was, on this side, in no
sense a dreamer, but a man of acute observation and quick eye for

passing events and the characters that were in them with sympathy
equal to his discernments. His portraits of certain Germans and

others in these writings, and his power of tracing effects to
remote and underlying causes, show sufficiently what he might have

done in the field of history, had not higher voices called him.
His adaptation to the life in Samoa, and his assumption of the

semi-patriarchal character in his own sphere there, were only
tokens of the presence of the same traits as have just been dwelt

on.
CHAPTER XI - MISS STUBBS' RECORD OF A PILGRIMAGE

MRS STRONG, in her chapter of TABLE TALK IN MEMORIES OF VAILIMA,
tells a story of the natives' love for Stevenson. "The other day

the cook was away," she writes, "and Louis, who was busy writing,
took his meals in his room. Knowing there was no one to cook his

lunch, he told Sosimo to bring him some bread and cheese. To his
surprise he was served with an excellent meal - an omelette, a good

salad, and perfect coffee. 'Who cooked this?' asked Louis in
Samoan. 'I did,' said Sosimo. 'Well,' said Louis, 'great is your

wisdom.' Sosimo bowed and corrected him - 'Great is my love!'"
Miss Stubbs, in her STEVENSON'S SHRINE; THE RECORD OF A PILGRIMAGE,

illustrates the same devotion. On the top of Mount Vaea, she
writes, is the massive sarcophagus, "not an ideal structure by any

means, not even beautiful, and yet in its massive ruggedness it
somehow suited the man and the place."

"The wind sighed softly in the branches of the 'Tavau' trees, from
out the green recesses of the 'Toi' came the plaintive coo of the

wood-pigeon. In and out of the branches of the magnificent 'Fau'
tree, which overhangs the grave, a king-fisher, sea-blue,

iridescent, flitted to and fro, whilst a scarlet hibiscus, in full
flower, showed up royally against the gray lichened cement. All

around was light and life and colour, and I said to myself, 'He is
made one with nature'; he is now, body and soul and spirit,

commingled with the loveliness around. He who longed in life to
scale the height, he who attained his wish only in death, has

become in himself a parable of fulfilment. No need now for that
heart-sick cry:-

"'Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,