37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE FRENCH PRIESTS PAY THEIR RESPECTS.
A day or two after the events just related, we were lounging
in the Calabooza Beretanee, when we were honored by a visit
from three of the French priests; and as about the only notice
ever taken of us by the English missionaries, was their leaving
their cards for us in the shape of a package of tracts, we could
not help thinking, that the Frenchmen, in making a personal
call, were at least much better bred.
By this time they had settled themselves down quite near
our habitation. A pleasant little stroll down the Broom Road,
and a rustic cross peeped through the trees; and soon you
came to as charming a place as one would wish to see: a soft
knoll, planted with old bread-fruit trees; in front, a savannah,
sloping to a grove of palms, and, between these, glimpses of
blue, sunny waves.
On the summit of the knoll, was a rude chapel, of bamboos;
quite small, and surmounted by the cross. Between the canes,
at nightfall, the natives stole peeps at a small portable altar; a
crucifix to correspond, and gilded candlesticks and censers.
Their curiosity carried them no further; nothing could induce
them to worship there. Such queer ideas as they entertained,
of the hated strangers! Masses and chants were nothing more
than evil spells. As for the priests themselves, they were no
better than diabolical sorcerers; like those who, in old times,
terrified their fathers.
Close by the chapel, was a range of native houses; rented
from a chief, and handsomely furnished. Here lived the
priests; and, very comfortably, too. They looked sanctimonious
enough abroad; but that went for nothing: since, at
home, in their retreat, they were a club of Friar Tucks; holding
priestly wassail over many a good cup of red brandy, and
rising late in the morning.
Pity it was, they couldn't marry—pity for the ladies of the
island, I mean, and the cause of morality; for what business
had the ecclesiastical old bachelors, with such a set of trim
little native handmaidens? These damsels were their first
converts; and devoted ones they were.
The priests, as I said before, were accounted necromancers:
the appearance of two of our three visitors might have justified
the conceit.
They were little, dried-up Frenchmen, in long, straight
gowns of black cloth, and unsightly three-cornered hats—so
preposterously big, that, in putting them on, the reverend
fathers seemed extinguishing themselves.
Their companion was dressed differently. He wore a sort
of yellow, flannel morning-gown, and a broad-brimmed Manilla
hat. Large and portly, he was also hale and fifty; with a
complexion like an autumnal leaf—handsome blue eyes—fine
teeth, and a racy Milesian brogue. In short, he was an Irishman;
Father Murphy, by name; and, as such, pretty well
known, and very thoroughly disliked, throughout all the Protestant
missionary settlements in Polynesia. In early youth,
he had been sent to a religious seminary in France; and, taking
orders there, had, but once or twice afterward, revisited his
native land.
Father Murphy marched up to us briskly; and the first words
he uttered were, to ask whether there were any of his countrymen
among us. There were two of them; one, a lad of sixteen—a
bright, curly-headed rascal—and, being a young Irishman,
of course, his name was Pat. The other, was an ugly,
and rather melancholy-looking scamp; one M'Gee, whose
prospects in life had been blasted by a premature transportation
to Sydney. This was the report, at least, though it might
have been scandal.
In most of my shipmates, were some redeeming qualities;
but about M'Gee, there was nothing of the kind; and forced
to consort with him, I could not help regretting, a thousand
times, that the gallows had been so tardy. As if impelled,
against her will, to send him into the world, Nature had done
all she could to insure his being taken for what he was. About
the eyes, there was no mistaking him; with a villainous cast in
one, they seemed suspicious of each other.
Glancing away from him at once, the bluff priest rested his
gaze on the good-humored face of Pat, who, with a pleasant
roguishness, was “twigging” the enormous hats (or “Hytee
Belteezers,” as land beavers are called by sailors), from under
which, like a couple of snails, peeped the two little Frenchmen.
Pat and the priest were both from the same town in Meath;
and, when this was found out, there was no end to the questions
of the latter. To him, Pat seemed a letter from home,
and said a hundred times as much.
After a long talk between these two, and a little broken English
from the Frenchmen, our visitors took leave; but Father
Murphy had hardly gone a dozen rods, when back he came,
inquiring whether we were in want of any thing.
“Yes,” cried one, “something to eat.” Upon this, he
promised to send us some fresh wheat bread, of his own
baking; a great luxury in Tahiti.
We all felicitated Pat upon picking up such a friend, and
told him his fortune was made.
The next morning, a French servant of the priest's made his
appearance, with a small bundle of clothing for our young
Hibernian; and the promised bread for the party. Pat, being
out at the knees and elbows, and, like the rest of us, not full
inside, the present was acceptable all round.
In the afternoon, Father Murphy himself came along; and,
in addition to his previous gifts, gave Pat a good deal of
advice: said he was sorry to see him in limbo, and that he
would have a talk with the consul about having him set free.
We saw nothing more of him for two or three days; at the
end of which time he paid us another call, telling Pat, that
Wilson was inexorable, having refused to set him at liberty,
unless to go aboard the ship. This, the priest now besought
him to do forthwith; and so escape the punishment which, it
seems, Wilson had been hinting at to his intercessor. Pat,
however, was stanch against entreaties; and, with all the ardor
of a sophomorean sailor, protested his intention to hold out to
the last. With none of the meekness of a good little boy
about him, the blunt youngster stormed away at such a rate,
that it was hard to pacify him; and the priest said no more.
How it came to pass—whether from Murphy's speaking to
the consul, or otherwise, we could not tell—but the next day,
Pat was sent for by Wilson, and being escorted to the village
by our good old keeper, three days elapsed before he returned.
Bent upon reclaiming him, they had taken him on board the
ship; feasted him in the cabin; and, finding that of no avail,
down they thrust him into the hold, in double irons, and on
bread and water. All would not do; and so he was sent back
to the Calabooza. Boy that he was, they must have counted
upon his being more susceptible to discipline than the rest.
The interest felt in Pat's welfare, by his benevolent countryman,
was very serviceable to the rest of us; especially as we
all turned Catholics, and went to mass every morning, much to
Captain Bob's consternation. Upon finding it out, he threatened
to keep us in the stocks, if we did not desist. He went
no farther than this, though; and so, every few days, we strolled
down to the priest's residence, and had a mouthful to eat, and
something generous to drink. In particular, Dr. Long Ghost
and myself became huge favorites with Pat's friend; and many
a time he regaled us from a quaint-looking traveling-case for
spirits, stowed away in one corner of his dwelling. It held
four square flasks, which, somehow or other, always contained
just enough to need emptying. In truth, the fine old Irishman
was a rosy fellow in canonicals. His countenance and his soul
were always in a glow. It may be ungenerous to reveal his
failings, but he often talked thick, and sometimes was perceptibly
eccentric in his gait.
I never drink French brandy, but I pledge Father Murphy.
His health again! And many jolly proselytes may he make in
Polynesia!
