FIJI ISLANDS. 
95 
centre ; while the natives of Kandavu show a decided approach to the more advanced type 
found in Tonga, Samoa, and New Zealand. 
On the 2nd of August we returned to Kandavu. This island, 
about thirty miles long, consists of two portions, both mountainous, 
joined to each other by a narrow low isthmus, which forms the 
northern boundary of the harbour of Ngaloa. At the extreme 
western end of Kandavu stands a huge block of mountain, the 
highest on the island, which some American patriot has styled 
Mount Washington. Its native appellation is Buke-levu, and its 
height 3800 feet. Ngaloa is the name of the island which occupies 
the centre of the southern bay of Kandavu. As the “ Challenger ” 
was anchored but a few hundred yards from its shores, it was the 
favourite resort of all on board. Amongst its richly wooded hills, at the end of a narrow 
inlet of the sea, lies the village of Ngaloa—a fair specimen of the land recently added to the 
British dominions. 
Encouraged by recent experience, we unceremoniously entered the native dwellings, 
even the chief’s house, sometimes rousing the inmates from their afternoon siesta. The ridge 
of the roof is formed by a huge piece of timber projecting over the gable, and giving by its 
weight stability to the whole structure. The interior, but dimly seen by the light which 
gains an entrance at the narrow low door, affords a cool retreat from the fierce rays of the 
noonday sun. The floor is thickly covered with matting, and the inmates use no other bed. 
Suspended along the walls, or stowed away among the rafters, are weapons—spears, clubs, 
&c., the custom from time immemorial amongst primitive races ; and the only kitchen 
utensils visible are large wooden bowls. A slender palisading, probably intended rather to 
mark the boundary than as a means of defence, surrounds the part of the village where 
the chief resides, and access is gained by stepping over a stile. The shells of cocoa-nuts 
are piled in numerous heaps. In such a spot, I posted myself conveniently on a grassy 
slope, a number of dark faces looking over my shoulder to watch the progress of my sketch. 
Here, as on other islands in the Pacific, I have been struck with the rapidity with which 
the natives—whom, unthinkingly, we call savages—identify the object represented by a few 
hasty outlines. When, too, in the eagerness of curiosity, some young Fijian or Tongan 
would obstruct my view, he was always peremptorily ordered out of the way by his 
seniors. How often do we see people considered to be not only civilised, but polite, look 
at a sketch without the power of distinguishing the top from the bottom, or even interpose 
their person between the artist and his view! 
A fair maiden of Ngaloa, with that charming bravoure which is the universal attribute 
of her sex, stepped upon the platform of a canoe and leisurely traversed the scene of my 
sketch, as if conscious that a picture of Ngaloa would be very imperfect did it not include 
the pride of the village. The addition was received with a chorus of approval from the 
good-humoured crowd around. It was a day of brilliant sunshine; the sea, the hills, the 
