rank as chiefs, but, as a general rule, it consists of certain
families of the more common order, which we have just mentioned, and
some titled chief, to whom the village looks up as their political
head and protector. It is usual, in the courtesies of common
conversation, for all to call each other chiefs. If you listen to the
talk of little boys even, you will hear them addressing each other as
_chief_ this, that, and the other thing. Hence, I have heard a
stranger remark, that the difficulty in Samoa is, not to find who is a
chief, but to find out who is a common man.

As the chief can call to his aid, in any emergency, other chiefs
connected with the same ancient stock from which he has sprung, and as
he looks upon the entire village as his children, and feels bound to
avenge their wrongs, it is thought essential to have some such head in
every settlement. If anything in the clubbing way is to be done, no
one but the chief, or his brother, or his son, dare do it. With few
exceptions, he moves about, and shares in every-day employments, just
like a common man. He goes out with the fishing party, works in his
plantation, helps at house-building, and lends a hand at the native
oven. There are still, however, although not at first sight to a
European eye, well-defined marks of his chieftainship. If you listen
to the conversation of the people, or attend a meeting of the heads of
families for any village business, you hear that he is addressed with
such formalities as might be translated into our English Earl, Duke,
Prince, or King So-and-so; and, instead of the plebeian _you_, it is,
your Highness, your Grace, your Lordship, or your Majesty. When the
ava-bowl is filled, and the cup of friendship sent round, the first
cup is handed to him. The turtle, too, the best joint, and anything
choice, is sure to be laid before the chief. Then again, if he wishes
to marry, the heads of families vie with each other in supplying him