No bustle is to be observed, but the
work accomplished testifies to a still activity.
The centre-piece of all is the high chief himself,
Malietoa-Tuiatua-Tuiaana Mataafa, king--or not king--or king-claimant--of
Samoa. All goes to him, all comes from him. Native deputations bring
him gifts and are feasted in return. White travellers, to their
indescribable irritation, are (on his approach) waved from his path by
his armed guards. He summons his dancers by the note of a bugle. He
sits nightly at home before a semicircle of talking-men from many
quarters of the islands, delivering and hearing those ornate and elegant
orations in which the Samoan heart delights. About himself and all his
surroundings there breathes a striking sense of order, tranquillity, and
native plenty. He is of a tall and powerful person, sixty years of age,
white-haired and with a white moustache; his eyes bright and quiet; his
jaw perceptibly underhung, which gives him something of the expression of
a benevolent mastiff; his manners dignified and a thought insinuating,
with an air of a Catholic prelate. He was never married, and a natural
daughter attends upon his guests. Long since he made a vow of
chastity,--"to live as our Lord lived on this earth" and Polynesians
report with bated breath that he has kept it.
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