natives in Tahiti, Moorea, Huahine, and Raiatea. A serious, unflattering inference may be drawn from the callous indifference of Tahitian-French public opinion to disease, dirt, and vice among the natives.

The harbour of Papeete, picturesque though it be, and well fortified by batteries placed on the high ground, is not a first-class one. The

deep-water entrance through the reef is only one hundred feet wide. The wind often fails, and the currents being strong it is rather dangerous for sailing vessels entering. The town looking to the north, and consequently being completely sheltered from the south-east trades, the climate is hot and rather more enervating than that of the other side of the island. At the last census (1892), just half a century after the establishment of the French Protectorate, and

twelve years after annexation to France, Papeëte had 4288 inhabitants. Did it possess a better harbour for large ships, and were it in a healthier site, it would become an important town, Tahiti being the natural centre of French Oceania.

It was on a Sunday that I first saw the sun rise and awaken Papeëte. By the time she was moored alongside a crowd of natives had assembled to see the big steamer. Here and there, among the bright dresses and pareus, were, conspicuous in white duck short coats and trousers, white shoes and white helmet or straw hats, a few French men and youths. Everyone, without distinction, was allowed on board, and in a few minutes the decks from stem to stern were full of Tahitian girls, all spotlessly clean, dressed only in loose white, or blue, or red, and a few in black, gowns to their feet, who laughed and talked Tahitian to passengers, officers, sailors, engineers, and firemen, and shook hands as if we were all longlost friends. Then, to attract attention and show off, they sang and danced-if one could call their ungraceful, lewd gestures dancing -to the sound of mouth organs, monotonously played for hours by their attendant swains in blouse and pareu. This monotonous noise and dancing goes on all day-all the time we are in port. By nine p.m. flesh and blood can stand it no longer, when, to the great relief of the passengers, the captain gives orders to clear the ship. The women behave moderately well on the saloon deck; but for'ard it is different.

Meantime it is refreshing to turn from "the niggers" to entertain and converse with the young French lads, who come on board sull of curiosity about the ship and passengers. French manners have a great charm. The bright politeness and sparkling vivacity of these youths, after a long course of English and Colonial-English boys, is very pleasant.

Leaving them and the ship with its noisy crowd, and sauntering under the trees along the shore, I am attracted by the sound of clanging Protestant bells; and as a slight shower of rain suddenly falls, I am not reluctant to step out of it into the French Protestant church, through the open doorways of which are entering crowds of natives holding up umbrellas in the warm rain, and gaily dressed in their Sunday best, light clothes as to hats and blouses, but in bare feet as usual. So I accost a French half-caste gentleman on the road, who-a thorough Frenchman in manners-politely takes off his hat, and shows me a little private doorway leading into pews by the side of the pulpit, where, entering, I find a few French and English people and the missionaries' families. I whisper,

in French, to a lady next me a hope that I am not intruding, and to my astonishment she whispers back in English that she does not speak French, and that I am quite welcome. I take this to mean that I can make myself understood much better in my own language! Rather staggered, I pick up a Bible, which I find to be French in one column, Tahitian in the other. As I sit in one of these side pews in front of me is a big pulpit, high and broad. At its foot a number of native boys and girls sit in a circle, where, with the minister looking down on them and the eyes of the minister's wife and of white friends raking them fore and aft, I shrewdly guess these uneasy urchins are much better placed than spread— a disturbing element-among the sedater members of the congregation. Not a word is spoken or sung in any language but Tahitian during the whole service. The minister mounts the pulpit, and after a prayer, gives out a hymn. There is no instrumental accompaniment, and, I understand, no keynote is struck. The hymn is instantly started and sustained throughout by a well-trained choir of native men and women, who sit in the front seats facing the pulpit and sing native hymns to (so-called) native tunes, quite in aristocratic, high Anglican manner, few among the congregation joining in The airs are exceedingly striking and quaint. To my mind they sound.

much more natural to the singers and the scene than would imported Sankey and Moodys in badly pronounced English words. Some of these native hymn tunes are in fugues begun by the women, who, in the first few bars, mount up to a very high note and sustain it till the men join in, gradually merging into queer harmony, through which predominates a buzzing, drone-like bass, somewhat after the style of Tongan sibis. I was eager to get copies of this music, or have it noted down for me; but the reverend French missionary, who has spent all his life here and in Moorea, and his intelligent, active English wife assured me that this was impossible. Copies were not to be had. The tunes had never been noted down, and no one there was capable of doing it.

They are not really indigenous airs. Of such, as I have already said, there are none. The tunes are learnt by ear and transmitted from choir to choir.

Looking round the church, and thrilled by the unaccustomed ancient rhythms and harmonies, and by the thought that they are now set to Christian words, I feel thoroughly steeped in the strange scene. There is not a pane of glass in the building, and there is very little wall space. We seem to be in the open air, for the shutters hung on the wide window frames are thrown back, and I look on

to bread-fruit and cocoanut trees glistening with raindrops, and feel the cool air blowing in upon me. The church is full. Crowding in the front seats, busy with copybooks and pencils taking notes of the sermon and keeping their large, expressive eyes fixed earnestly on the minister, are the pretty young Tahitiennes, mostly cool, in pink, long, loose robes, without belt or constraint of any sort, and

white straw hats. Flowers are tastefully arranged in their luxuriant black hair, the ends of which are carefully plaited, and hang down in a long thick coil. Their feet are bare, their small, shapely hands ungloved. Here and there among them are boys and men, but these are mostly at the back-tall, handsome, erect, and attentive, in coloured blouse and pareu. A dark baby which cries and is fussily carried out by an anxious mother lends to the scene that touch of nature which makes us all akin. Round the walls are

fixed modern kerosene lamps. The audience never stands or kneels. The whole service is gone through in a sitting posture, heads merely bent down when the minister prays-a sedate congregation on plain wooden pews all across the floor of the church-but not an impassive When the minister, who speaks fluently in the native language. and seems much in earnest, smiles, and as I guess from his manner makes a humorous or sarcastic sally, an audible, murmuring laugh goes round the whole church, and I think what an encouragement

such softly decorous demonstrations must be to the preacher. There is perfect silence while prayer is being made, but the long sermon is relieved by a constant murmur of voices talking low.

After service I have the pleasure of breakfasting with the preacher and another French minister, both of whom have spent the best part of their lives in the Society Islands, and we have much interesting conversation about the natives.

I wander through Papeëte-along the leafy, narrow streets where, on both sides among trees, are wooden houses, occupied mostly by natives and half-castes, across here and there broader avenues, along the narrow Rue de Rivoli, where the Government buildings and offices are, and a flag or two are flying and Frenchmen do