T IS a far cry to Fiji. Take ship from London, sail down the coasts of France and Spain, journey up the Mediterranean, by Scylla and Charybdis, and all the ancient world; reach Port Said, pass through the Gate ways of the East, and steam through the torrid Red Sea into the Indian Ocean — and as yet you have hardly started. A little further, and one comes to sun-baked Aden, and sees the India-bound passengers leave the Ship, con gratulating themselves that the long tiresome voyage is over now. Ceylon, and the magnificent East, lift like a splendid comet on the horizon, glow for one gorgeous day, and slip back into the past. Now the East lies behind, and the West is long forgotten, and what is there to come? The South is still to come — the Wide, free, wonderful world that lies below the Line, and that is as utterly unlike all things met with above, as the countries East of Suez are unlike the countries lying West, in outworn, unmysterious Europe.