At the boundary of the _Eleele Sa_, Europe ends, Samoa begins.

Here, then, is a singular state of affairs: all the money, luxury, and business of the kingdom centred in one place; that place excepted from the native government and administered by whites for whites; and the whites themselves holding it not in common but in hostile camps, so that it lies between them like a bone between two dogs, each growling, each clutching his own end.
Should Apia ever choose a coat of arms, I have a motto ready: "Enter Rumour painted full of tongues." The majority of the natives do extremely little; the majority of the whites are merchants with some four mails in the month, shopkeepers with some ten or twenty customers a day, and gossip is the common resource of all.

The town hums to the day's news, and the bars are crowded with amateur politicians.

Some are office- seekers, and earwig king and consul, and compass the fall of officials, with an eye to salary.

Some are humorists, delighted with the pleasure of faction for itself.