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Page 58
In a far-off island, thousands of miles from the mainland, and
unconnected with the world by cable, stands this inscription. It
was set up at the corner of a new road, cut through a tropical
jungle, and bears at its head the title of this article, signed by
the names of ten prominent chiefs. This is the story of the road,
and why it was built:
Some years ago a Scotchman, broken in health and expecting an early
death, sought out this lonely spot, because here the climate was
favourable to the disease from which he suffered. He settled here
for what remained to him of life.
He bought an estate of several hundred acres, and threw himself
earnestly into the life of the natives of the island. There was
great division among the many chiefs, and prolonged warfare. Very
soon the chiefs found that this alien from a strange land was their
best friend. They began coming to him for counsel, and invited him
to their most important conferences.
Though he did not bear that name, he became a missionary to them.
He was their hero, and they loved and trusted him because he tried
to lead them aright. They had never had such a friend. And so it
came about that when the wars ceased, the chiefs of both sides
called him by a name of their own, and made him one of their own
number, thus conferring upon him the highest honour within their
power.
But many of the chiefs were still in prison, because of their
political views or deeds, and in constant danger of being put to
death. Their sole friend was the Scotchman, whom they called
Tusitala. He visited them, comforted them, repeated passages from
the history of Christ to them, and busied himself incessantly to
effect their release.
At length he obtained their freedom, and then, glowing with
gratitude, in despite of age, decrepitude, and loss of strength,
they started directly for the estate of their benefactor, and
there, in the terrible heat, they laboured for weeks in building
him a road which they knew he had long desired. Love conquered
weakness, and they did not cease their toil until their handiwork,
which they called "The Road of the Loving Heart," was finished.
Not long after this the white chief suddenly died. At the news the
native chiefs flocked from all parts of the island to the house,
and took charge of the body. They kissed his hand as they came in,
and all night sat in silence about him. One of them, a feeble old
man, threw himself on his knees beside the body of his benefactor,
and cried out between his sobs:
"I am only a poor black man, and ignorant. Yet I am not afraid to
come and take the last look of my dead friend's face. Behold,
Tusitala is dead. We were in prison and he cared for us. The day
was no longer than his kindness. Who is there so great as Tusitala?
Who is there more loving-compassionate? What is your love to his
love?"
So the chiefs took their friend to the top of a steep mountain
which he had loved, and there buried him. It was a mighty task.
The civilised world mourns the great author. The name of Robert
Louis Stevenson is lastingly inwrought into English literature. But
the Samoans mourn in his loss a brother, who outdid all others in
loving-kindness, and so long as the island in the Pacific exists,
Tusitala will be gratefully remembered, not because he was so
greatly gifted, but because he was a good man.
The phrase, "The Road of the Loving Heart," is a gospel in itself.
"The day is not longer than his kindness" is a new beatitude. Fame
dies, and honours perish, but "loving-kindness" is immortal.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Editorial in old copy of _Youth's Companion_.]
Joyce finished and looked up inquiringly. She still did not see what
connection the road could have with Betty's distress over the measles.
"Now, don't you see?" asked Betty, tremulously, "It is for godmother
that I wanted to build that road, for ever since I came she has been
like Tusitala to me. 'The day is no longer than her kindness.' Oh,
Joyce, nobody knows how good she has been to me!" Then between her sobs
she told Joyce again the story of the gold beads, and the many things
her godmother had done to make her visit a continual delight. Mrs.
Sherman, outside the door, felt her eyes grow dim and her cheeks wet, as
the child babbled on, reciting a long list of little kindnesses that she
had treasured in her memory, and that her godmother had either done
unconsciously, or had forgotten long ago.
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