one of their many prophets, condemned him to me as a writer of "stupid
stinks!" And therefore he may have made a mistake in imagining himself a
factor in the insoluble equation of Samoan affairs. It is to the natives
that he was more attached than to the vague ideals which form their
so-called political future. To them he was a great chief, "Tusitala
Talmita" by name, and many a native I have spoken to mentioned him with
real affection as a good friend and a man with a golden heart. Perhaps
this is the praise he himself would have chosen rather than that of the
white colony.

It is not my purpose, however, to dilate on his life in Samoa, nor indeed
would it be possible to gather, from the mass of conflicting evidence, any
rational account of his doings in his island home. It is of a pilgrimage
which I made to visit his library that I would give some short account.
The room was walled from floor to ceiling with books, and I began to
inspect them. To the left of the door were some "yellow backs," but few,
nor did I see in his library much trash of any description. Next came
books of travel in almost every country in the world, the bulk of them,
however, dealing with the Pacific. From Capt. Cook down, it would be hard
to name a Pacific travel book that has not found itself on the shelves at
Vailima. Next, I am bound to say, came my first disappointment. I had
always thought that Stevenson must have been a good classical scholar, and
had an idea formed, I know not how or whence, that a great style--and
surely his may be justly called so--necessitated a close and intimate
acquaintance with those classical authors who--

"Upon the stretched forefinger of all Time
Sparkle forever."

Yet I found classics, indeed, but, alas! in Mr. Bohn's edition, while on
the shelf beneath lay the originals uncut. It came to me as a positive
blow to find the pages of the "Odyssey" uncared for and unread, save in
some translation. Of Horace he had many and good editions, and they seemed
read and used; but of the Greek tragedians I found only "Sophocles" in
Prof. Campbell's translation, and no edition of his plays save a small
"OEdipus the King." This was a great shock to me, for even supposing
that Stevenson was only "a maker of phrases" (as many people will tell
you, above all here, "for a prophet is not without honor," etc.), still
phrases must have some basis in education, and a man who is evidently
careless of his masters of ancient l