I remember that, after reading Whitman’s poems, I began to write words to the many melodies that I was continually composing. I was surprised at the ease with which poetical ideas seemed to come to me. My brain teemed with suitable poetic similes. But my workmanship was execrable. Many of my lyrics were inspired by home-sickness. I recall that I wrote about thirty songs. Probably three of them were good. I know that I set a high value on those sentimental lyrics and that I placed them in my tin box with my prized volume of E. Prout’s _Harmony and Counterpoint_, so that they might be safe until that day when I could submit them to a publisher. But no publisher’s musical editor ever had them inflicted upon him. My ship, a year later, was wrecked off the Solomon Isles; and I stood under the shore palms, with all my beloved inspirations at the bottom of the ocean, and passed in review, so I grimly imagined, by the tuneful mermaids of the coral seas. Many of the stranded sailors’ effects were washed ashore the next day, but were immediately snatched up by the thieving natives, who bolted off with them into the mountain villages. Perhaps those wild tattooed men got hold of my sacred tin box. And if any talented cannibal sings my old songs, and is well up in the mysteries of harmony and counterpoint, he has undoubtedly made greater headway in that difficult art than I had in those days. But still, it is something that I should be able to claim to be the first who introduced E. Prout’s volume of _Harmony and Counterpoint_ into the cannibal Solomon Isles.
I remember that O Le Langi asked me to translate the words of many of his legendary poems into my own language. My heathen poet’s face lit up with pride when I sang some of his songs in my own tongue, and with equal pride made a forcible accent on the rhymes so that he could hear how the lines went. O Le Langi at once enticed me to go with him round the coast to Mootua, so that I might let his rival scribes hear how nice his poems sounded when translated into the great Papalagi’s language. He was so delighted with the obvious jealousy that was expressed on the wrinkled faces of his rivals that he struck his chest thrice and flung one hand behind his back. I discovered that this act of Langi’s was a direct challenge to them to compose the words of a song as well as he. One of the older scribes, at once accepting the challenge, stepped forward and, swelling the magnificent hieroglyphic tattoo of his chest, chanted an impromptu legend. Though I could not understand all the words of this legendary improvization, I remember that the melody was so effective that I extemporized with ease an accompaniment on my violin. This brought forth a volley of applause from the whole tribe, who had rushed from their huts to listen to the wonderful magic wood-scraping of the white _Tusitala_ (maker of songs). For a while I quite expected there would be a fight between the rivals. But things smoothed down. I was finally awarded a calabash of kava, which I courteously placed to my lips, and then, whilst the chiefs were talking, poured the contents into the fern grass at my feet. At this moment the high chief’s daughter, a sea-blue-eyed maid with a veritable forest of bronze-hued hair, fell on one knee before me and started to sing a weird melody. For a moment I was considerably embarrassed. I soon, however, recovered my wits, and then I took her hand and bade her rise. My imagination clothed me with a majesty which I had gathered from my old novels. And I distinctly recall the admiration in the eyes of the onlookers as I slightly lifted my helmet hat and then bowed as though I were some mighty king paying court to a princess of a neighbouring dynasty. She handed me a beautifully carved tortoise-shell comb from her hair, and the glance that accompanied the gift cannot be divulged in mere words. I responded by diving my hand into my breast pocket, and then handed her a really valuable silver match-box. She blushed deeply, for the munificence of my return gift was obvious. That same night O Le Langi and myself were the chief guests at the festival board of the _fale fapule_ (chief house). And as I sat at the head of the long low table and the steam rose from the mighty dishes of roast pig and many indigenous fruit dishes, Essao’s eyes, for that was her name, gave me swift, bright glances that told all that a romantic Samoan maid’s eyes can tell when her heart warms to a stranger. But, notwithstanding my ardent nature and the lure of her bright eyes, I was saved from early matrimony, for when the head chief caught me bowing gallant acknowledgments to his daughter’s eyes, his brow wrinkled up into a tortuous map of disapproval.