45. CHAPTER XLV.
A MISSIONARY'S SERMON; WITH SOME REFLECTIONS.
Some degree of order at length restored, the service was
continued, by singing. The choir was composed of twelve or
fifteen ladies of the mission, occupying a long bench to the left
of the pulpit. Almost the entire congregation joined in.
The first air fairly startled me; it was the brave tune of
Old Hundred, adapted to a Tahitian psalm. After the graceless
scenes I had recently passed through, this circumstance,
with all its accessories, moved me forcibly.
Many voices around were of great sweetness and compass.
The singers, also, seemed to enjoy themselves mightily; some
of them pausing, now and then, and looking round, as if to
realize the scene more fully. In truth, they sang right joyously,
despite the solemnity of the tune.
The Tahitians have much natural talent for singing; and, on
all occasions, are exceedingly fond of it. I have often heard a
stave or two of psalmody, hummed over by rakish young
fellows, like a snatch from an opera.
With respect to singing, as in most other matters, the Tahitians
widely differ from the people of the Sandwich Islands;
where the parochial flocks may be said rather to bleat than
sing.
The psalm concluded, a prayer followed. Very considerately,
the good old missionary made it short; for the congregation
became fidgety and inattentive as soon as it commenced.
A chapter of the Tahitian Bible was now read; a text
selected; and the sermon began. It was listened to with more
attention than I had anticipated.
Having been informed, from various sources, that the discourses
of the missionaries, being calculated to engage the
attention of their simple auditors, were, naturally enough, of a
rather amusing description to strangers; in short, that they
had much to say about steamboats, lord mayor's coaches, and
the way fires are put out in London, I had taken care to provide
myself with a good interpreter, in the person of an intelligent
Hawaiian sailor, whose acquaintance I had made.
“Now, Jack,” said I, before entering, “hear every word,
and tell me what you can, as the missionary goes on.”
Jack's was not, perhaps, a critical version of the discourse;
and, at the time, I took no notes of what he said. Nevertheless,
I will here venture to give what I remember of it; and,
as far as possible, in Jack's phraseology, so as to lose nothing
by a double translation.
“Good friends, I glad to see you; and I very well like to
have some talk with you to-day. Good friends, very bad times
in Tahiti; it make me weep. Pomaree is gone—the island
no more yours, but the Wee-Wee's (French). Wicked priests
here, too; and wicked idols in woman's clothes, and brass
chains.[1]
“Good friends, no you speak, or look at them—but I know
you won't—they belong to a set of robbers—the wicked Wee-Wees.
Soon these bad men be made to go very quick.
Beretanee ships of thunder come, and away they go. But no
more 'bout this now. I speak more by by.
“Good friends, many whale-ships here now; and many bad
men come in 'em. No good sailors living—that you know
very well. They come here, 'cause so bad they no keep 'em
home.
“My good little girls, no run after sailors—no go where
they go; they harm you. Where they come from, no good
people talk to 'em—just like dogs. Here, they talk to Pomaree,
and drink arva with great Poofai.[2]
“Good friends, this very small island, but very wicked, and
very poor; these two go together. Why Beretanee so great?
Because that island good island, and send mickonaree[3]
to poor
kannaka.[4]
In Beretanee, every man rich: plenty things to buy;
and plenty things to sell. Houses bigger than Pomaree's, and
more grand. Every body, too, ride about in coaches, bigger
than hers;[5]
and wear fine tappa every day. (Several luxurious
appliances of civilization were here enumerated, and described.)
“Good friends, little to eat left at my house. Schooner
from Sydney no bring bag of flour; and kannaka no bring pig
and fruit enough. Mickonaree do great deal for kannaka;
kannaka do little for mickonaree. So, good friends, weave
plenty of cocoa-nut baskets, fill 'em, and bring 'em to-morrow.”
Such was the substance of great part of this discourse; and,
whatever may be thought of it, it was specially adapted to the
minds of the islanders; who are susceptible to no impressions,
except from things palpable, or novel and striking. To them,
a dry sermon would be dry indeed.
The Tahitians can hardly ever be said to reflect: they are
all impulse; and so, instead of expounding dogmas, the
missionaries give them the large type, pleasing cuts, and
short, and easy lessons of the primer. Hence, any thing like
a permanent religious impression, is seldom or never produced.
In fact, there is, perhaps, no race upon earth, less disposed,
by nature, to the monitions of Christianity, than the people of
the South Sea. And this assertion is made, with full knowledge
of what is called the “Great Revival at the Sandwich
Islands,” about the year 1836; when several thousands were,
in the course of a few weeks, admitted into the bosom of the
Church. But this result was brought about by no sober moral
convictions; as an almost instantaneous relapse into every kind
of licentiousness, soon afterward testified. It was the legitimate
effect of a morbid feeling, engendered by the sense of severe
physical wants, preying upon minds excessively prone to superstition;
and, by fanatical preaching, inflamed into the belief,
that the gods of the missionaries were taking vengeance upon
the wickedness of the land.[6]
It is a noteworthy fact, that those very traits in the Tahitians,
which induced the London Missionary Society to regard them
as the most promising subjects for conversion; and which led,
moreover, to the selection of their island as the very first field
for missionary labor, eventually proved the most serious obstruction.
An air of softness in their manners, great apparent
ingenuousness and docility, at first misled; but these were the
mere accompaniments of an indolence, bodily and mental; a
constitutional voluptuousness; and an aversion to the least
restraint; which, however fitted for the luxurious state of
nature, in the tropics, are the greatest possible hinderances to
the strict moralities of Christianity.
Added to all this, is a quality inherent in Polynesians; and
more akin to hypocrisy than any thing else. It leads them to
assume the most passionate interest, in matters for which they
really feel little or none whatever; but in which, those whose
power they dread, or whose favor they court, they believe to
be at all affected. Thus, in their heathen state, the Sandwich
Islanders actually knocked out their teeth, tore their hair, and
mangled their bodies with shells, to testify their inconsolable
grief at the demise of a high chief, or member of the royal
family. And yet, Vancouver relates, that, on such an occasion,
upon which he happened to be present, those apparently the
most abandoned to their feelings, immediately assumed the
utmost light-heartedness, on receiving the present of a penny
whistle, or a Dutch looking-glass. Similar instances, also, have
come under my own observation.
The following is an illustration of the trait alluded to, as
occasionally manifested among the converted Polynesians.
At one of the Society Islands—Raiatair, I believe—the
natives, for special reasons, desired to commend themselves
particularly to the favor of the missionaries. Accordingly,
during divine service, many of them behaved in a manner,
otherwise unaccountable, and precisely similar to their behavior
as heathens. They pretended to be wrought up to
madness by the preaching which they heard. They rolled
their eyes; foamed at the mouth; fell down in fits; and so,
were carried home. Yet, strange to relate, all this was deemed
the evidence of the power of the Most High; and, as such,
was heralded abroad.
But, to return to the Church of the Cocoa-nuts. The blessing
pronounced, the congregation disperse; enlivening the
Broom Road with their waving mantles. On either hand, they
disappear down the shaded pathways, which lead off from
the main route, conducting to hamlets in the groves, or to the
little marine villas upon the beach. There is considerable
hilarity; and you would suppose them just from an old-fashioned
“hevar,” or jolly heathen dance. Those who carry
Bibles, swing them carelessly from their arms, by cords of
sinnate.
The Sabbath is no ordinary day with the Tahitians. So
far as doing any work is concerned, it is scrupulously observed.
The canoes are hauled up on the beach; the nets
are spread to dry. Passing by the hen-coop huts, on the
roadside, you find their occupants idle, as usual; but less
disposed to gossip. After service, repose broods over the
whole island; the valleys reaching inland look stiller than
ever.
In short, it is Sunday—their “Taboo Day;” the very word,
formerly expressing the sacredness of their pagan observances,
now proclaiming the sanctity of the Christian Sabbath.
