not only revolts foreigners, but has begun to exercise the minds of the natives themselves.  Soon after the German heads were taken, Mr. Carne, Wesleyan missionary, had occasion to visit Mataafa’s camp, and spoke of the practice with abhorrence.  “Misi Kane,” said one chief, “we have just been puzzling ourselves to guess where that custom came from.  But, Misi, is it not so that when David killed Goliath, he cut off his head and carried it before the king?”

With the civil life of the inhabitants we have far less to do; and yet even here a word of preparation is inevitable.  They are easy, merry, and pleasure-loving; the gayest, though by far from either the most capable or the most beautiful of Polynesians.  Fine dress is a passion, and makes a Samoan festival a thing of beauty.  Song is almost ceaseless.  The boatman sings at the oar, the family at evening worship, the girls at night in the guest-house, sometimes the workman at his toil.  No occasion is too small for the poets and musicians; a death, a visit, the day’s news, the day’s pleasantry, will be set to rhyme and harmony.  Even half-grown girls, the occasion arising, fashion words and train choruses of children for its celebration.  Song, as with all Pacific islanders, goes hand in hand with the dance, and both shade into the drama.  Some of the performances are indecent and ugly, some only dull; others are pretty, funny, and attractive.  Games are popular.  Cricket-matches, where a hundred played upon a side, endured at times for weeks, and ate up the country like the presence of an army.  Fishing, the daily bath, flirtation; courtship, which is gone upon by proxy; conversation, which is largely political; and the delights of public oratory, fill in the long hours.

But the special delight of the Samoan is the malanga.  When people form a party and go from village to village, junketing and gossiping, they are said to go on a malanga.  Their songs have announced their approach ere they arrive; the guest-house is prepared for their reception; the virgins of the village attend to prepare the kava bowl and entertain them with the dance; time flies in the enjoyment of every pleasure which an islander conceives; and when the malanga sets forth, the same welcome and the same joys expect them beyond the next cape, where the nearest village nestles in its grove of palms.  To the visitors it is all golden; for the hosts, it has another side.  In one or two words of the language the fact peeps slyly out.  The same word (afemoeina) expresses “a long call” and “to come as a calamity”; the same word (lesolosolou) signifies “to have no intermission of pain” and “to have no cessation, as in the arrival of visitors”; and soua, used of epidemics, bears the sense of being overcome as with “fire, flood, or visitors.”  But the gem of the dictionary is the verb alovao, which illustrates its pages like a humorous woodcut.  It is used in the sense of “to avoid visitors,” but it means literally “hide in the wood.”  So, by the sure hand of popular speech, we have the picture of the house deserted, the malanga disappointed, and the host that should have been quaking in the bush.