saved by steaming straight out to sea through the gap in the reef by which we had just come in, these wrecks still remain gloomy beacons of disaster. High and dry on the beach lies the bow of the German Ebba, while not far away stands up, picturesquely black and ruined, out of the calm sea nearly the whole of the American Admiral's illfated Trenton. In the distance a smaller gunboat lies on its side, showing keel out of water among the shallow reefs just inside the harbour. These wrecks, as they get broken up by hurricanes, will gradually disappear. There are supposed to be hollow passages in the coral by which boats, and even ships, that are lost are carried away under the islands. It is dangerous to dive among coral reefs; often swift currents sweep the strongest swimmers into caves underneath, and they are never seen again. Of the men who were drowned on that terrible night, those whose bodies were recovered lie buried in a beautiful spot near the scene. So hidden now by trees and rich foliage is the monu. ment erected to their memory that it is barely distinguishable from the roadstead. An important matter, however, quickly diverted our thoughts from scenery and wrecks.

In Samoa the Eastern and Western Hemispheres touch at their extreme edges; and here, consequently, the moment we dropped anchor we got into a religious dilemma. Bringing Eastern Hemisphere time with us we reached Apia on Sunday morning, the 11th August, and, to the horror of some of the lady passengers, found the Samoans all at work; it was their busiest day of the week. By Western Hemisphere time it was Saturday, 10th August, ashore. What was to be done? Were we to work or pray? Our skipper took the pious English way. He compromised the matter in the manner most advantageous to his employers.

"Ships work when they can, and pray when they can't work," was his doctrine-a refinement, in fact, of the good old principle, laborare est orare, well up to date. The crew called it Saturday, and discharged the ship; the stewards called it Sunday, and gave us an excellent Sunday's dinner; everyone was satisfied. The crew got their Sunday's dinner and rest next day at sea. The passengers? Well, the passengers, passing nuns and brown converts going to early mass at 6 a.m. of the day before by eastern reckoning, called the next morning Monday, as they bade good-bye to Apia on their way on board the steamer and off, south-westward, to Fiji.

Near the top of the frowning knoll over Apia lies Robert Louis Stevenson in his grave, and if a stately mausoleum be erected there as proposed, it will always be a landmark for vessels - the first of Samoa sighted from the sea. Such a practically useful monument

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would be in keeping with his constant desire to benefit and protect her people. He was much beloved, and when giving even a dance or entertainment to European friends, Samoans of all classes were welcome

"We all liked him," said to me an English butcher with a Samoan wife. I was sitting before breakfast on the butcher's broad, room-like verandah. He and I were chatting over Samoan cigarettes of tobacco wrapt in banana leaf, and some Old Tom and milk, served to us by his amiable-looking wife and pretty little half-caste daughter.

"Stevenson," continued my friend, "had such a genial manner we could not help liking him. He put on no side-not a bit. Traders, missionaries, Samoans, all had a good word to say of him."

The butcher-my host for the nonce-had a neighbour who boasted the only decent trap I could hear of in Apia, and our acquaintanceship and conversation began with negotiations for the use of this buggy and a fine American horse. Two comical Australian magpies, tumbling over each other on the floor, and the harmless necessary cat sitting on the pinewood table, beside our Old Tom and milk, made things look quite home-like. Inwards, beyond the open French windows, was to be seen a large iron tent-bedstead, covered with mosquito curtains, reclining on which, in cool pyjamas, after his early morning work, I had a few moments previously found my friend comfortably reading and smoking, while his young native wife, in a high-necked print dress, was bustling merrily about, looking after the children and the breakfast.

The thermometer at 85° in the morning shade in winter was quite cool, he thought, but he liked to get his work pretty well done by breakfast time. He added that he imported the sheep and fat cattle for his European customers all the way from Sydney. There were plenty of cattle on the island, one German firm owning 1200 head; "but competition was the life of trade."

He told me more-much more-about Stevenson and his Samoan mode of life. Have not these been talked of and written of until the subject may be considered exhausted? Such, at any rate, is the feeling in this part of the globe. Indeed, one passenger, who joined us at Apia after having spent a month ashore, swore a great oath as he stretched himself with evident relief on our smoking saloon bench and changed the conversation, that if any man on board mentioned Stevenson's name again in his hearing, he would "go for him" straight. He ended with " For God's sake, let the poor man rest: nothing else has been talked of in Samoa for the last month!" The speaker was a big, black-bearded, truculent-looking stranger, and I did not ask him any more questions. Probably, like many another, he had