Thence a few hours’ sail brought us here to Bau, the native capital. It is a tiny island, lying close to the great isle of Viti Levu, with which indeed it is connected by a low neck of land, which is fordable at low tide. Small as it is, it holds a very important place in the estimation of a Fijian, being the home of the great chief Thakombau and all his family, and of nobles before whom the tribes of other districts bow in humblest deference, and to whom they grant special privileges. Its chief takes precedence of all other chiefs; and the mere fact of belonging to Bau gives a man a definite position. Moreover, the language of Bau is to the isles of Fiji as the Latin tongue is to the civilised world—the one language which all are bound to understand, however different may be that of each country. The town has great historic interest, but what with the ravages of fire and the pulling down of all the old temples (whose high-pitched roofs formerly gave some character to the town), it now possesses no architectural features whatever—the house of Thakombau, the ex-king (or, as he prefers to be called by his hereditary title, the Vuni Valu, or Root of War), being as simple a thatched cottage as any other round the beach. So this regal town consists only of a cluster of cottages on the water-level, overshadowed by several large trees. Each member of the royal family has his or her own house. There is the king’s house and the queen’s house, the king’s kitchen (which I think is rather larger than either), and the homes of their sons. The mission-station at Bau occupies the flat summit of the green hill which composes the island, and is a good illustration of how differently men estimate things. According to our views it is by far the best site on the island, but the missionaries were only allowed to build there because no native cared to leave the water-level, and the summit of the hillock was the receptacle for all the rubbish and filth of the town, and was, consequently, so undesirable a place of residence, that only the policy of securing a footing in the actual capital induced the mission to accept this site. But it was Hobson’s choice,—that or none. It must have been indeed a hateful home in those days, when you could not look down from the windows to the town below without witnessing scenes of unspeakable horror, the very thought of which is appalling; when the soil was saturated with blood, and the ovens were never cool, by reason of the multitude of human victims continually brought to replenish them.