LEAVE SAMOA—REACH TAHITI—GREY SHADOWS—DEATH OF QUEEN POMARE—LA LOIRE AND
HER PASSENGERS—A GENERAL DISPERSION—LIFE ASHORE AT PAPEETE—ADMIRAL SERRE
AND THE ROYAL FAMILY—FAMILIES OF SALMON AND BRANDER—ADOPTION.
H.B.M. CONSULATE, APIA,
_Sunday Evening, 30th September_.
It is finally settled that I am really going on to Tahiti. From what I
have told you, you can fully understand that Samoa would not be an
inviting place in which to lie stranded for an unlimited period; and
though I, individually, have received the greatest possible kindness
from many of the foreign residents, and from the Samoan chiefs of both
parties, still the whole atmosphere is tainted with lies and the
strivings of self-interest, and is altogether unwholesome. So I have
definitely accepted the invitation so repeatedly and heartily given, and
to-morrow I am to return on board the Seignelay.
I have just received letters from some, and messages from all on board,
expressing cordial pleasure at my decision, especially from M. de
Gironde, whose cabin I occupy; so I really feel that I shall be a
welcome guest.
The great difficulty will lie beyond Tahiti, but I must e’en trust to my
luck.
It is also decided that the bishop is to proceed at once to France, both
on Church business and for medical advice. It is a good thing that he is
so soon to leave this place, where he is terribly worried by the attempt
to reconcile so many conflicting interests. He looks much worse than
when we arrived.[31]
This morning he officiated at High Mass; and all the men and officers of
the Seignelay attended in full uniform. The service was choral, and of
course the church was crowded. I passed it on my way to a very small
Congregational chapel, where Dr Turner conducted an English service. We
met numbers of people on their way to the Protestant native churches;
and I was amused to observe how many carried their Bibles neatly folded
up in a piece of white _tappa_; just as an old wife in Scotland would
wrap hers in a white handkerchief!
In the afternoon my hostess accompanied me to the convent, where the
children sang prettily while we sat in the pleasant garden. The sisters
bade me good-bye quite sadly. “It has been _des adieux_ all day,” said
one.
ON BOARD LE SEIGNELAY,
_Monday, 1st October_.
M. de Gironde came at daybreak to escort me on board. All the Puletoa
chiefs crowded round to say good-bye—and I ran down the garden for a
last word with their “orator,” a fine young fellow, who was nursing his
new-born baby in the large native house. His wife is such a nice pretty
young woman. I felt quite sorry to leave them all, not knowing what may
be the next tidings of woe. We know that war may be renewed at any
moment.[32]
_Saturday, 6th October 1877._
(_Tossing a good deal._)
With a dreary waste of grey waters on every side of us, and no trace of
land save two inquisitive boobies, which have for some hours been flying
round us, it is hard to realise that to-morrow we are to enter the
far-famed harbour of Papeete, and that by this time to-morrow evening we
shall be ashore, listening to the _himènes_ of the multitude assembled
for the great feast which begins the next day—a great feast, by the
way—held in honour of the anniversary of the Protectorate! I wonder how
poor old Queen Pomare likes it!
We left Samoa on Monday, 1st October, and the next day was also called
Monday, October 1st, to square the almanacs, so that we can say we had
done the 1700 miles in just a week. The weather has been considerably
against us, but extra steam was put on to insure catching this mail, as
great stress is evidently laid on not losing a day in reporting the
proceedings at Samoa to the Home Government. The amount of reports
written since we started has been something prodigious!...
What with all this writing going on, and the extra motion of the vessel
from travelling at such unwonted speed, life has not been so tranquilly
pleasant as in the previous weeks. I have had quite to give up my cosy
studios on the big gun-carriage, or my quiet corner of the bridge.
Instead of these, I have found a place of refuge and a hearty welcome in
_le carré_ (the gun-room), which does not dance so actively as the
captain’s cabin, over the screw. In it at this moment a select set are
either reading or writing their home letters, ready for the ’Frisco[33]
mail, which is supposed to sail from Tahiti on Monday morning....
(At this point, a wave breaking over the ship, trickled down on my head
through the skylight. Hence the smudge. I wonder how you would write
with the table alternately knocking your nose and then rolling you over
to the opposite side of the cabin!)
Every creature on board is rejoicing at the prospect of returning to the
Tahitian Elysium. To me this has been a dream ever since my nursery
days, when the big illustrated volumes of old voyages that lay in my
father’s dressing-room were the joy of many a happy hour, combined with
such sticks of barley-sugar as I can never find at any confectioner’s
nowadays! There we first read the romantic story of how Captain Cook
discovered those isles of beauty, and named them after the “Royal
Society” which had sent him to explore these unknown seas. The Tahiti of
to-day is doubtless a very different place from the Otaheite of 1774.
Of course, in a highly organised French colony much of the old romance
must have passed away with its dangers. But the natural loveliness of
the isle cannot have changed, and I look forward with great delight to
seeing it all.
Every one speaks in the highest terms of Mr Miller, our long-established
English consul, and his charming Peruvian wife (so Lord Pembroke
describes her). Both are intimate friends of Captain Aube and the
bishop, who will commit me to their care on arriving. I have also an
excellent introduction to Mr Green, the head of the London Mission; and
M. Vernier, of the French Protestant Mission, was once for some months
at Inveraray. I hear golden opinions both of Mrs Green and Mme. Vernier,
and of M. and Mme. Viennot, of the same mission. So amongst them all, I
have no doubt that I shall be all right.
But I cannot quite forget what a hideous future lies beyond. The total
distance I have travelled in this large comfortable steamer, from Fiji
to Tahiti, including trips from isle to isle, has been 2985 miles. From
Tahiti (after this good ship has sped on her way to Valparaiso) there
remain two courses before me—either to go to New Zealand, 3000 miles, or
to Honolulu, 3200 miles,—in either case in a small sailing vessel,
starting at some uncertain period. There is a monthly mail to San
Francisco, but that is only a schooner of about 120 tons; and _viâ_ San
Francisco would be rather a circuitous route to Sydney! where I expect
to meet Lady Gordon somewhere about Christmas. It is a hideous prospect,
but I have too much faith in my luck to be deeply concerned about it.
The worst of it all is, that I cannot possibly receive any letters till
I arrive in Sydney, which may, I fear, be some time hence.
[Illustration:
OPUNOHU BAY. ISLE MOOREA.
]
As my wardrobe will by that time be considerably the worse for wear, you
will do well to send out a box of sundry garments to await my arrival,
otherwise I shall be reduced to appearing in a graceful drapery of
_tappa_, with fringes of crimson dracæna leaves; but though the dress of
Oceania is very becoming to the young and beautiful, the world of Sydney
is hardly up to it,—and besides, I fear it would be scarcely suitable
for old grand-aunts (_presque grand’mère_), as one of my French friends
put it yesterday! It certainly is rather a shame to let you have all
this trouble, while I have the fun of exploring such strange lands; but
it is a sort of division of labour, whereby you pay your tax to the
family locomotive demon, who drives all the rest of us so hard, but
leaves you in peace in Britain, to do your share of wandering by deputy.
Now, as it is getting late, I must turn in, as I want to be up at grey
dawn to see beautiful Moorea (the Eimeo of our childhood), and we shall
sail close past it, as we make Papeete harbour. So good-night.
IN HARBOUR, PAPEETE, TAHITI,
_Sunday Morning, 7th Oct_.
Well, we have reached Tahiti, but really I am beginning to fear that,
like most things to which we have long looked forward, this is likely to
prove disappointing. We came in this morning in a howling storm, _un
gros coup de vent_, and everything looked dismal. Though we coasted all
along Moorea, the envious clouds capped the whole isle, only showing a
peak here and there. Certainly such glimpses as we did catch were
weirdly grand; huge basaltic pinnacles of most fantastic shape towering
from out the sea of billowy white clouds, which drifted along those
black crags. And below the cloud canopy lay deep ravines, smothered in
densest foliage, extending right down to the grey dismal sea, which
broke in thunder on the reef. With strong wind and tide against us as we
crossed from Moorea to Tahiti, you can fancy what a relief it was when,
passing by a narrow opening through the barrier-reef, we left the great
tossing waves outside, and found ourselves in this calm harbour, which
to-day is sullen and grey as a mountain-tarn. At first we could see
literally nothing of the land; but it is now a little clearer, and
through the murky mist we see a fine massive mountain rising above a
great gorge beyond the town. But in general effect of beauty this is
certainly not equal to Ovalau, and even the town looks little better
than Levuka,[34] though it is certainly more poetic, the houses being
all smothered in foliage. But then it is fine-weather foliage—all
hybiscus and bread-fruit,—the former, of that very blue-green tint,
which in rain looks as grey as an olive-grove; while each glossy leaf of
the bread-fruit is a mirror, which exactly reflects the condition of the
weather—glancing bright in sunlight, but to-day only repeating the dull
hue of the leaden clouds.
For indeed it is a dreary grey day, sea and sky alike dull and
colourless, all in keeping with the sad news with which the pilot
greeted us as he came on board—namely, that Queen Pomare died a
fortnight ago (on the 17th September); so we have just missed seeing the
good old queen of my infantile romantic visions. Her eldest son, Prince
Ariiaue, has been proclaimed king under the hereditary name, and is
henceforth to be known as Pomare V.
But the people are all in deepest dule, and instead of the great
rejoicings and balls, and _himènes_, and varied delights of the _fête
Napoléon_ (or rather its republican substitute, the anniversary of the
Protectorate), on the 9th October, for which we had expected to find
joyous crowds assembled—always ready for an excuse for music and
dancing—a festival to which my friends have been looking forward all the
voyage,—instead of this, we see the crowds pouring out of the native
church, all dressed in the deepest mourning, from their crape-trimmed
black hats, to their black flowing robes, which are worn from the
throat, and with sleeves down to the wrist; they trail on the ground in
sweeping trains, and are so long in front that even the bare feet are
covered.
There are no flowers, no fragrant wreaths, no arrowroot crowns, no snowy
plumes of _reva-reva_—even the beautiful raven tresses of the women have
all been cut off. This is mourning with a vengeance; and the Court
circular has commanded that the whole nation shall wear the garb of woe
for six months. I do hope that at least the commoners will disobey this
injunction! At present all the men appear like black crows. Apparently
many are disfigured by foreign dress-coats; and even those who retain
the national _pareo_ (which is the Tahitian word for _sulu_ or
waist-cloth) are wearing black _tappa_ or black calico; and their heads
are closely cropped. So sadly disfiguring! and so terribly subversive of
all our preconceived visions of Papeete, as the very ideal of light, and
mirth, and soft sunlit colour.
The even tenor of life in Tahiti has received several startling shocks
since the 24th August, when the French Admiral Serre arrived here in the
steam-frigate Magicienne, bringing the new governor, M. Brunnet Millet.
But, sad to say, Madame Brunnet Millet died on the voyage from sheer
sea-sickness; and her poor husband, who adored her, became positively
imbecile from grief, so that he had to resign office immediately on his
arrival.
His natural successor would have been M. La Barbe, who, however, had
made himself generally obnoxious to the Tahitians, and to the queen in
particular, by the injudiciously severe penalties which he enforced for
some of her son’s peccadilloes. She therefore wrote to the admiral to
say that if La Barbe became governor, she would at once leave Tahiti and
retire to Moorea, thus leaving all business at a dead-lock. Thereupon
the admiral promised that her will should be respected, and announced
that he would himself assume the office of governor, till such time as a
fresh appointment could be made in Paris. La Barbe remonstrated. The
admiral bade him be silent. He persisted, and was immediately placed
under arrest for fourteen days, at the end of which time his sword was
returned to him, and he had to put it on, and go to thank the admiral
formally for his goodness in restoring it! But as his presence in the
Isles would thenceforth have been unpleasant, he and his wife and
grown-up son, together with M. Brunnet Millet, have been shipped as
passengers on board La Loire, which is now lying alongside of us, on the
eve of sailing for France. She is a great big line-of-battle ship,
transformed into a transport, for the conveyance of convicts from France
to New Caledonia, but returns comparatively empty. So far, her passenger
list does not sound cheerful!
The moment we reached our moorings, a boat was despatched in hot haste
to convey to the admiral the despatches concerning the little episode in
Samoa. I fear our kind captain is not free from misgivings as to the
light in which that unlucky business may be viewed by his superior
officer.
H.B.M. CONSULATE, PAPEETE,
_Sunday Evening_.
Alas! alas! the wretched Samoan adventure has indeed ended most
lamentably. The admiral, who from all accounts is a very severe stern
man, had no sooner read Captain Aube’s report, than he signalled for him
to go on board La Magicienne, and informed him, that as _he_ was quite
incapable of understanding his line of action at Samoa, the only thing
he could do was to send him back to France, as a passenger in La Loire,
that he might himself explain his motives at headquarters;[35] in short,
he removed him from his command of the Seignelay.
Ten minutes later, the fine old sailor returned on board the vessel that
was no longer his, to announce this dreadful news to his officers, on
whom the blow fell like a thunderbolt. For, as I have told you, they
have all lived together on the most cordial terms; and no family, losing
a dearly loved father, could be more utterly wretched than are all on
board, both officers and men. Many fairly broke down; and I am sure I do
not wonder, for it is a lamentable break-up of _such_ a happy
ship-family. What a _bouleversement_ of all the pleasant pictures we
were conjuring up only last night! Certainly this is a very heavy
penalty for what was, at the worst, an error in judgment.
The regret on shore is almost as great as on the vessel; for Commandant
Aube is well known here, and exceedingly popular with all the foreign
residents, who had hoped that he would be appointed Governor of Tahiti.
This is a grievous ending to our delightful voyage, and I need not tell
you how downhearted I feel about it all. I could almost wish that we had
never gone near miserable Samoa, with all its jars and hatreds.
I must close this letter, as the little mail-schooner Nautilus sails for
San Francisco in the morning, taking as passengers Monseigneur Elloi and
M. Pinart. They hope to be able so to represent matters at Washington
and in Paris as to put the Samoan episode in the best possible light.
I grieve to say the bishop is very ill; all these worries are very
trying to him, and he loses ground daily. The prospect of so long a
voyage in a little schooner of about 200 tons, with very mixed society,
is anything but pleasant for an invalid, and a trying change from the
comforts of the big ship. The actual distance is 4000 miles, and the
voyage may be made in twenty-five days. But with contrary winds, the
distance is sometimes increased to 6000 miles, and the voyage occupies
six weeks! So I cannot tell at what date this letter will reach
you.—Good-bye.[36]
_Chez_ THE REV. JAMES GREEN,
LONDON MISSION, _9th Oct._
To-day has concluded the tragedy. Last night (after a farewell dinner
with his officers, and a few touching last words to his men, who wept
bitterly, sobbing aloud like children, and who cheered him lustily as he
left the ship) Commandant Aube came ashore to take leave of his friends
here, and at the British consulate. He was accompanied by his faithful
dog, Fox, a poor sickly hound, on whom he has lavished infinite care and
kindness throughout the voyage, but which he will leave here in charge
of a Tahitian; so he starts on this sad voyage without even his dog as a
companion. We escorted him to the shore, and sorrowfully watched his
boat making for La Loire, the old line-of-battle ship, which sailed this
morning with so sad a company. The poor Seignelay had the odious task of
towing her out of harbour; and, as the ships parted, all the men burst
into uncontrollable shouts of “Vive notre commandant!”—a spontaneous
demonstration, which must have been more satisfactory to its hero than
to the stern admiral.
Just then an accident happened, which might have proved very serious. La
Loire accidentally slipped a great tow-rope, which got entangled in the
screw of the Seignelay; and, misunderstanding the signal to lower sail,
the ponderous old vessel nearly ran down the lighter steam-ship, which
could neither work her screw nor answer to her helm, but had to hoist
sail and run before the wind. Being unable to turn, she had to sail
straight out to sea for some hours, far out of sight.
I watched this inexplicable movement from the semaphore—a high station
commanding a magnificent view of town and harbour, and of the distant
isle of Moorea. The old sailor in charge was as much perplexed as
myself. He decided that the Seignelay must have been despatched to the
Marquesas or elsewhere, with secret orders; while I decided that she
must have “revolutioned,” and gone off to France. However, this evening
she returned, under sail, and was able to go to the assistance of a
vessel that had drifted on to the reef; so, on the whole, it was rather
a fortunate episode, as it helped to distract the thoughts of all on
board.
Most of the residents here, bitterly as they regret the whole business,
seem to agree that the admiral has really taken the wisest course, both
as preventing (in the sense of _prévenant_) any possible remonstrance
from England—in case she should espouse the cause of that very shady
Anglo-American Fijian-Samoan house, with its convenient variety of
flags—and perhaps, also, as saving M. Aube from harder judgment in
France. But of course none of the officers can realise what a foolish
episode that night’s work appears to every one here.
I have not yet told you anything of my own movements. On Sunday
afternoon, M. de Gironde escorted me to the British consulate, there
duly to report myself to Mr Miller, who for thirty years has been
England’s popular representative here; indeed he has never left Tahiti
since the day he first landed here, with his bright, sensible, little
Peruvian bride. Now they have three grown-up sons, and a pleasant
daughter, married to M. Fayzeau, a French naval officer, in charge of
native affairs. He is a charming musician, and most graceful artist, and
has promised to make my way easy for several sketching expeditions.
I had not been an hour ashore, when (on the strength of a letter of
introduction from Dr Turner of Malua) I received the very kindest
invitation from Mr and Mrs Green to come and stay with them in this
their lovely home, just out of the town, and close to the consulate—a
delightful nest, embowered in mango and bread-fruit trees, with
oleanders and hybiscus to lend colour to the whole. It is only separated
from the sea by the pleasant garden and a belt of turf; so there is
nothing to impede the view of the beautiful harbour and blue peaks of
Moorea, while the valley behind the house runs up to a background of
fine hills, which all to-day have been bathed in soft sunlight—that
clear shining that comes after rain.
On one side of the little lawn stands a noble old banyan-tree, from the
very heart of which grows a tall cocoa-palm,—a curious tree-marriage,
greatly admired by the people; but in an evil hour an idiotic surveyor
ascended this tree to take observations, and fastened a wire to the
primary fronds, thereby of course cutting them, and so killing the palm,
which now remains a poor dead monument of ignorant stupidity. The banyan
suffers from another cause. The Tahitians believe that a decoction of
its brown filaments and rootlets is a certain remedy for some forms of
illness. They are therefore continually appealing to Mr Green for
permission to cut them; and thus the growth of the tree is considerably
checked. However, it covers a sufficient space to form a famous
playground for the children, of whom there are a cheery little flock,
though here, as in most remote colonies, the absence of all the elder
ones forms the chief drawback to the happiness of their parents. But
education in all its aspects has to be sought elsewhere than in
beautiful Tahiti, by those who do not wish their families to become
altogether insular; and my host and hostess retain far too loving
memories of their own early homes in Wiltshire and Devon to allow their
children to grow up estranged from their English kinsfolk.
This, like the majority of houses here, is a wooden bungalow, one storey
high, with verandah, on to which all rooms alike open—by far the coolest
and most suitable form of building for the tropics. But there are a
number of two and three-storeyed houses in the town, inhabited by French
officials and foreign merchants—notably the French governor’s house, and
the unfinished “palace,” which has been in slow progress for many years.
At the former, Admiral Serre now holds the reins. Stern though he be in
public matters, he is wonderfully kind and pleasant socially, and seems
to guide his iron hand with much wisdom in carrying out the course of
action he has marked out for himself. As you know, he had scarcely
determined on taking the government into his own hands when Queen Pomare
died quite suddenly, to the exceeding grief of her people. Great was
their anxiety as to what course the French would now adopt,—the royal
family being so much at sixes and sevens that there was very good reason
to fear that even the semblance of the ancient rule would henceforth be
dispensed with.
Instead of this, the admiral devoted his whole energies to bringing
together its various branches—healing their breaches, inculcating
sobriety (with marvellous success so far), and generally getting them
into a satisfactory condition. Queen Pomare’s two eldest sons, Ariiaue
and Tamatoa, have been very naughty boys, in most respects. The former
has married a very handsome girl, aged seventeen—Marau Salmon; but
hitherto the marriage has not proved happy. Tamatoa was for a while King
of Raiatea; but was apt to carry on such dangerous games when he was
drunk, that his subjects drove him out of the island. He is, however,
very clever and amusing, and is blessed with an adoring wife—a very
charming and excellent woman, as good as she is bonnie; Moë is her
pretty name. Queen Pomare’s third son, Joinville, died leaving a son.
The fourth, Tevii Tapunui, is a very good fellow, but sadly lame.
Well, by dint of coaxing and reasoning, and by turns assuming the part
of father and “governor,” the admiral first of all persuaded Ariiaue and
Marau to make up the peace, and then proclaimed them King and Queen as
Pomare V. and Marau Pomare—a ceremony of which I have just read full
particulars in the ‘Messager de Tahiti,’ which, under the heading, “Le
prince royal Ariiaue est salué roi des Iles de la Société et
dépendances,” gives a detailed account of the meeting of the Legislative
Assembly of Tahiti, convened by “M. le Contre-Amiral Serre
Commandant-en-chef, Commandant provisoire des Etablissements français de
l’Océanie, pour reconnaître et acclamer le nouveau souverain de Tahiti.”
The Legislative Assembly received with acclamation the decisions of the
omnipotent admiral, who not only proclaimed Ariiaue king, but has
further settled the succession for two generations to come. Queen Marau
being half English, any child to which she may give birth is excluded
from the throne in favour of the little Princess Teriivaetua, daughter
of the king’s brother Tamatoa, and the charming Moë, ex-King and Queen
of Raiatea—thus securing the pure Tahitian blood-royal. Failing issue of
the little Princess Vaetua, the succession is to pass to her cousin,
Prince Terriihinoiatua, commonly called Hinoi—a very handsome boy, son
of the third royal brother, now deceased, who was known as the Prince de
Joinville.
These decisions are said to have given great satisfaction to the
Tahitians, who, with very good reason, had feared that, on the death of
the old queen, the French would take the nominal power as well as the
real, which they have so long held.
Pomare’s proud independent spirit must have chafed sorely under their
tutelage; but she contrived to endure it for thirty-five years. She was
just sixty-five when she died, having been born on the 28th February
1813.
She was the only daughter of King Pomare II., who was the very first
friend of the missionaries when they attempted to get a footing in these
isles, and proved their stanch supporter to the end of his days.[37] His
daughter’s name was Aimata. In the year 1822 she married the young chief
of Tahaa, who had received the name of Pomare as a mark of special
favour from the old king. Thus Aimata became known as Pomare-Vahine;[38]
the correct designation for a married woman being thus to append the
term for wife to the name of the husband. In January 1827 she succeeded
her brother, Pomare III., and reigned supreme till 1843, when the French
assumed the Protectorate.
Young Queen Marau Pomare is one of a large family of very handsome
half-whites—children of a high chiefess of Tahiti, who married a much
respected English Jew, Mr Salmon. She has three stalwart sons and five
most comely daughters, whose rich olive complexion, black silken
tresses, mellifluous voices, and foreign intonation in speaking English,
are all suggestive of Italy.
The eldest daughter, who owns the formidable title of
Tetuanuireiaiteruiatea—though, happily, known to her personal friends by
the more euphonious name of Titaua—is herself a very high chiefess both
of Tahiti and Moorea, on each of which she owns several large estates.
At the early age of fourteen she married a wealthy Scotch merchant—Mr
Brander—who died a few months ago, leaving to his young widow a heavy
weight of care, in that her two eldest daughters have married Germans,
whose mercantile interests are diametrically opposed to those of the
house of Brander; and who, having vainly striven to wrest the business
from her, are now pressing for immediate division of property—a process
which necessitates a most exasperating amount of legal discussion, in
which questions of English law, native law, and, above all, the Code
Napoléon, which is the law of the Protectorate, crop up by turns.[39]
Moetia, the second daughter of Mrs Salmon, married the American Consul,
Mr Attwater. Marau, as you already know, married her royal kinsman;
while Lois (commonly called Prie, which is a contraction of Beretanie—a
name adopted out of compliment to Britain) and Manihinihi, the two
youngest sisters (who both fully sustain the beauty of their race), live
with their mother—a very fine old lady, whose long native name I cannot
tell you, but her ordinary signature is Ariitaimai. She was a cousin of
the late queen, and is said greatly to resemble her.
Her three sons are Taati, Naarii, and Ariipaea—all tall and
powerfully-built men.
The system of adopting children, which prevails here, is very confusing
and very peculiar. Every family seems to have at least one belonging to
some other family. A child is generally bespoken before it is born, and
as soon as it is weaned it may be claimed by its adoptive parents, who
give it a new name, by which it is thenceforth known, and who become
responsible for it in every respect—for its feeding and its education.
The child is at perfect liberty to pass unquestioned from one home to
another; so if its second father or mother chance to annoy it, it goes
and takes up its abode with its real parents till it feels inclined to
return to the others. When these die, it inherits their property on
equal terms with their real children. You can imagine that where
relationships are very intricate to begin with, these additional
blendings of families create a most bewildering interweaving.
Then all the intermarriages of the principal families add to the
confusion. Every one on Tahiti, Eimeo, Bora-Bora, and the Society Isles
generally, seems to be related to every one else, at least among the
high chiefs. In no corner of the earth is there a greater respect for
good ancestry—nowhere is “a lang pedigree” more prized. The most
singular point, however, is, that whereas in a proposed marriage between
two persons, both having Tahitian blood (whether pure or partial does
not matter), the greatest anxiety is manifested to prove that blood
sufficiently blue, and any suggestion on the part of a high chief of
wishing to wed a maiden of low degree calls forth a storm of indignation
from all his relations; yet if a Tahitian woman of the highest class
chooses to marry a European of very dubious rank by birth, not a voice
is raised in opposition. I believe the solution of this curious point
lies in the fact that here, as in Fiji, a child takes rank from his
mother, so that he is in many instances a much more important person
than his father. It is the same peculiarity which I pointed out to you,
when writing from Fiji, respecting the customs of its chiefs.
I have just heard that a very leaky ship is to sail for Sydney
to-morrow, and a better one starts for New Zealand next week; so in
order to lose no chance of a letter reaching you, I shall despatch this
_viâ_ Sydney, and send you another _viâ_ New Zealand. Meanwhile,
good-bye.