GOOD FRIDAY IN FIJI—ISLE KORO—PLANTERS’ HOUSES—LABOUR—MAKING
NATIVE CLOTH—GREAT FEASTS—WEDDINGS—SALARIES OF WESLEYAN
MISSIONARIES AND TEACHERS.
NAMATHU, ISLE OF KORO, _Good Friday, 1876_.
DEAR NELL,—It is raining heavily, and the wind is foul, and the Jubilee
has had to run to safer anchorage, otherwise we were to have started
this afternoon, to spend Easter on another island. I cannot say I regret
the detention, as our surroundings here are pleasant and peaceful, and it
is time I sent you a report of my wanderings.
This day last year we were all in Paris, and spent the whole day in
solemn crowded churches—La Madelaine and St Roch,—and at the latter,
after the office of Les Ténébres, I followed the stream of people into
the small dark chapel of the Entombment, where the sole ray of light
falls on the sepulchre, and on the strangely lifelike groups of sculpture
on either side, representing the Crucifixion and the Entombment, all the
figures life-size. A most impressive scene.
Very different are our surroundings to-day, housed in a large cool
native house, the home of Isaaki, a fine old native minister, who has
charge of this beautiful island. It is an unusually nice house, having
actually two distinct rooms, so it is an easy matter to partition the
inner one, and thus we each have a really cosy little nest, which is the
more agreeable as this place is an important centre, and we have been
here for five days. Wonderful to tell, the house has wooden doors, but
it is a strange thing in a country so richly wooded as this to see that,
owing to the scarcity of planks, all the doors are made of old, battered,
and worm-eaten canoes; so also are the bridges, in those rare cases
where anything is provided more elaborate than the slippery stem of a
cocoa-palm. Stranger still is it to hear that in many of these beautiful
isles stone is so rare that, when some time ago a white settler had
procured a sandstone slab to place on a grave, the people came from miles
round to sharpen their knives on it! The principal charm of this house
is that it stands a little way apart from the village, on a quiet coral
shore, close by the sea, with palms and other trees round it, and in this
respect is a perfect paradise compared with some places, where our night
quarters have been in some stuffy overcrowded house, in the very heart of
the village.
There is a fine church here (just a large native house, thatched and
matted, with open doors all round it, which is by far the most suitable
style of architecture for this climate), and this morning there was a
crowded attendance. I stayed at home, knowing that the service would be
very long; and the sound of a voice, or voices, speaking continuously in
an unknown tongue, becomes exceedingly wearisome after a time, especially
when the novel interest of watching the undulating pavement of tawny
heads, brown backs, and white _sulus_ has worn off.
I told you how kindly the Langhams offered to call for me at Levuka,
and take me with them on this cruise in the mission-ship Jubilee, which
is a 50-ton schooner. We started from Nasova at daybreak on April 8th,
intending to go to the isle Nairai, but finding the wind favourable
for Koro came here instead. Mrs Langham and I were both very sick all
day, and very thankful when at sunset, we anchored off a village called
Nambuna, where the teacher gave us entire possession of his small but
tidy house, close to the sea, and embowered in tall plantains and
cocoa-palms, and, moreover, enclosed by a fence made of tree-fern stems.
Here we spent Palm Sunday, and had service under the shady _ndawa_
trees, which are like large walnut-trees, with young red leaves. It was
a very pretty scene. Also it was the first time I had been present at an
open-air celebration of the Holy Communion, and this devout congregation
of gentle savages, kneeling so reverently on the grassy sward, beside
the calm blue sea, made our Palm Sunday service for 1876 one much to
be remembered. In the evening we had an English service, to which came
several planters and their families; and we walked home with one lady
along the white shore in the clear bright moonlight. It was most lovely.
The foliage is much richer than on Ovalau; and there are such good paths
along the shore that riding would be delightful, if there were any horses.
We left Nambuna the following morning in a rowing-boat, but owing to
sundry delays lost the high tide, and only got on at all by most careful
steering through intricate patches of lovely coral. Every few minutes
we found ourselves in such shallow water that all the crew had to jump
overboard; Mr Langham and a friend did likewise, not expecting to go
above the knee, but before they could get in again they were over the
waist! Finally, we fairly stuck, and the boat had to wait for the tide,
while we were carried ashore, and walked on to the next village.
We met a good many planters hereabouts,—all poor, many of them having
sunk quite large fortunes on their plantations when Fijian cotton was
selling at very high prices. Now they are sadly down-hearted; and many
seem grievously disappointed that annexation, so far from working
miracles of healing for shattered fortunes, appears for the present to
have only added to their difficulties in many ways. But all were very
kind to us, and seem cheered by even a glimpse of faces from the outer
world. We called at Mr Chalmers’s very pretty estate, and he showed us
all over his cocoa-nut fibre-works. He grows cotton and maize, but his
principal crop is red and white arrowroot, which we saw in all stages
of preparation. Then climbing a very steep path, we were welcomed by his
pretty refined wife and daughters—bright handsome girls. They gave us tea
with milk, though their goat only yields about a tumbler for the whole
family, including several children. Certainly life on a Fijian plantation
does not mean luxury, or rather it means such hardships as you, I am
certain, cannot realise. Butcher-meat unattainable; poultry and eggs too
precious for domestic use; fish-supply rare; fruit, as a rule, _nil_;
even flour and groceries apt to run short. Daily fare consists of native
vegetables, and perhaps a barrel of salt meat,—not an appetising diet,
nor one to tempt a jaded palate, nor yet easily varied. Of course the
importation of all sorts of preserved meats and fruits makes provisioning
an easy matter for occasional travellers, but their constant use in a
large family does not tend to economy.
We heard abundant instances of the invariable ill-luck which seems to
attend all efforts at improvement in this unfortunate country. At one
house where we called, the owner, Mr Morey, had recently imported some
valuable fowls. He discovered, when too late, that they were tainted with
disease, which rapidly spread, and his own stock of two hundred fowls
all died, besides turkeys, ducks, and guinea-fowl. We found his wife
suffering torture from a form of ophthalmia which is very common in this
country, known as _theeka_, from which, for the time, she was positively
blind. Happily Mr Langham’s medical skill proved useful in relieving her
agony. One gentleman whom we met was suffering severely from an illness
called _waanganga_, which causes the muscles of the arm to contract in
such a manner that for several days you cannot bend it.
At one plantation we found an unpleasant instance of a state of things
common enough hitherto, but now happily becoming impossible, as fast
as the new order of law can make it so: A plantation worked by foreign
labour, who declare that they were all kidnapped under circumstances of
varied brutality, from the isles of Santo, Solomon, &c., and who have
been illegally detained here for six years without receiving any pay.
(The law provides for their being sent home after three years, with full
pay.) Now an additional six months have slipped away, during which they
have been detained, week by week, buoyed up by vain promises, and seeing
men on neighbouring estates receiving a shilling a-week for every week
they are detained, waiting for a ship to take them home. Naturally they
are savage and sullen by turns, and repeatedly threaten the life of the
young man left in charge of the estate, in the absence of the principal.
He tells them that if they kill him they will be hanged for murder; but
they say they would just as soon be hanged as live on in slavery.
One says he left his wife and six children the morning he went with
his best pig to trade with the great ship; some say their canoes were
smashed by heavy weights dropped from the ship, which left them helpless
and at the mercy(!) of the white men; others say they were inveigled on
board to see machinery and other strange sights, and when they came on
deck the land lay miles behind them. Some weeks ago one of them threw a
spear at the young overseer. It was caught and checked by another man;
but on his threatening the culprit with a licking, the whole body rose
_en masse_, and in the dead of night came and took possession of his
verandah, where he heard them all night consulting whether to kill him
or not. Just before our arrival, two men rushed at him with knives, and
he had just time to retreat to his house and snatch up an (unloaded)
revolver, whereupon they retired. Now he has pacified them for the moment
by distributing _sulus_, off a bale of cloth sent up by his employer
to barter for _coppra_ (the men were literally naked); and he further
promises to take a number of them to Levuka next week to tell their
own story to the immigration agent. Do not such cases as these suggest
plainly enough what deep wrongs to be avenged have led to such grievous
results as the murder of Commodore Goodenough or Bishop Patteson?
Even with respect to the Fijians, I am sorry to say that the _niceness_
of the natives depends greatly on how _few_ whites they see. The
inhabitants of the isles frequented by whites are immeasurably inferior
to those in more remote districts, and far less trustworthy.
Our next halt was at Nasau, a very pretty village on the shore, beneath
palms and other foliage, with a steep wooded hill just behind it, and a
carefully kept burial-ground with red-leaved plants on the graves. But I
think the night was the most unpleasant we have spent in Fiji. The house
given to us was in the very middle of the village, and so small as to
have only one door and one small window, both of which were continually
blocked up by a crowd of gaping spectators, who, contrary to all Fijian
manners, would not go away even when we were vainly attempting to sleep.
Unfortunately for us, a child died in a large house next door to us, and
the whole night was devoted to doing honour to the parents. So while
the mother and other women wailed at the top of their voices, the young
folk danced in a circle in front of the house, singing their usual
songs. This went on the whole night. You can fancy we did not sleep
much! In the morning I went to the door of the house, where the family
appeared as cheerful as usual, and pleasantly invited me to enter. In so
doing I narrowly escaped treading on a mat at the doorway, which I then
discovered was thrown over the dead child, a five-year-old little one.
School and church service being over, I walked along the shore with Mrs
Langham. It is a lovely coast, shaded by grand old trees, with here
and there rich masses of creepers, which climb all over them, so that
a group of a dozen _eevie_ trees appears like one gigantic mass of
lovely trailing foliage. We saw a whole valley clothed with the great
white convolvulus, which is excellent food for cattle. The leaves take
every shade of metallic green, yellow, and bronze, and this effect is
wonderfully lustrous.
Isaaki, the venerable grey-haired minister, came to meet and welcome
us. He is a very fine-looking old man, dignified and gentle, a striking
contrast to a large number of Kai Tholos—_i.e._, mountain people—who
were sent here as prisoners by the late Government, and who do look most
miserable objects now. They will soon be sent back to their own district.
The women are much and hideously tattooed round the mouth and all over
the lips and about the shoulders, and their only clothing is a fringe of
dried grass. The women of the coast happily indulge in an exceedingly
small display of tattooing. Some have slight patterns on the hands and
arms, which are considered attractive, but the majority only submitted to
so much as was compulsory.[30]
I have been much interested in watching various native manufactures.
In one village called Natheva—_i.e._, the South—the women were making
dresses of the streamers of pandanus, brightly dyed, and others were
plaiting mats made of tall flags or reeds, which they cut into strips
with a sharp shell. In another village I sat in the chief’s house
watching the girls rasping sandal-wood with which to powder their hair
and scent their hair-oil. One girl held the stick, and another had a
large piece of skin of the sting ray-fish, stretched over another stick
so rough as to act like a file as she rubbed it over the sandal-wood.
There was formerly a considerable amount of this fragrant wood in these
isles, but ruthless traders have swept the land so thoroughly, without
the slightest thought of sparing young saplings, that now the tree
scarcely exists, and the smallest fragment is dearly prized.
Wherever we go, we find the women busy preparing native cloth from the
bark of the paper mulberry tree, which they take off in long strips and
steep in water to make the fibre separate from the green outer bark,
which is scraped off with a sharp shell. Then the fibre is laid on a
wooden board and beaten with a mallet, which is grooved longitudinally.
A strip two inches wide can be beaten out to upwards of a foot in width,
when it becomes gauze-like, and is used for festal attire; or else,
dyed in burnt sugar and smoke-dried, it is a much-valued covering for
the hair. But for general use, two strips of the wet fibre are beaten
together, their own gluten causing them to adhere to one another; or if
very strong cloth is required, three or even four thicknesses may be
used. A number of such pieces are then neatly joined together with a glue
made from the _taro_, or from arrowroot, and thus a piece can be made of
any size or length required. Sometimes a great roll, a couple of hundred
yards long, is prepared for presentation to a chief; or else a double
square, twenty feet wide by perhaps thirty or forty in length, to be hung
up as mosquito-curtains. The _masi_ at this stage is of a creamy white
colour, very becoming to the brown creatures who wear it.
So far it simply answers to calico. If gorgeous apparel or handsome
furniture is required, it has next to be converted into painted _tappa_,
and this is the prettiest part of the process, and requires considerable
taste and skill. The patterns produced are exceedingly rich and handsome,
generally in shades of brown, sometimes with black or deep red. I have
seen pieces imported from Samoa in which a great deal of yellow is
introduced; but though the Samoan cloth is much stronger, it is less
tasteful. To sketch the design, the artist arranges thin strips of
bamboo upon a convex board, and between them the pattern is indicated by
curved bits of the midrib of a cocoa-nut leaf. The cloth is laid over
this board and rubbed with a dye, which displays the pattern below, and
thus the ground-work is prepared. Then the borders are very elaborately
painted by a sort of stencil-work, the pattern being cut out of a banana
leaf, heated over the fire, and laid on the _masi_. Then with a soft pad
of cloth, dipped either in vegetable charcoal and water, or red earth
liquefied with the sap of the candle-nut tree, or any other dye that
takes her fancy, the artist does her work with deft neat fingers. I have
succeeded in buying several small pieces of very beautiful design. The
larger ones are generally being made by the order of some chief, or for
some especial festivity.
Another process which I have watched with considerable interest is that
of the girls preparing _mandrai_, which is bread made of bananas and
bread-fruit. A Fijian baker’s oven is simply a pit lined with plantain
leaves and filled with bananas or bread-fruit, on which the girls tread
to compress them into a pulpy mass: this they then cover with a thick
layer of green leaves and stones, and leave it to ferment, a process
which begins about the third day. The indescribable stench which poisons
the air for half-a-mile round on the day when these dreadful pits are
opened is simply intolerable,—at least to the uneducated nose of us, the
_papalangi_ (_i.e._, foreigners); but the Fijian inhales it with delight,
therein scenting the bread and puddings in which he most delights.
These puddings are sometimes made on a gigantic scale, on the occasion
of any great gathering of the tribes. One has been described to me as
measuring twenty feet in circumference; and on the same occasion—namely,
the marriage of old King Tanoa’s daughter to Ngavindi, the chief of the
fisherman tribe—there was one dish of green leaves prepared, ten feet
long by five wide, on which were piled turtles and pigs roasted whole:
there was also a wall of cooked fish, five feet in height and sixty feet
long. The puddings are generally made of _taro_, cooked and pounded,
and made into small lumps, which are baked, and afterwards all heaped
in one great pit lined with banana leaves, and mixed up with sugar-cane
juice and pounded cocoa-nut. I have been told about one great feast for
which nineteen gigantic puddings were prepared, the two largest being
respectively nineteen and twenty-one feet in circumference. Verily our
familiar Scottish haggis must bow to those Fijian cousins, and confess
himself to be no longer the
“Great chieftain of the pudding race.”
Certainly the masses of food accumulated on these great days beat
everything we have heard of even at ancient Scottish funeral feasts.
Enormous ovens were prepared (they would be so still, at any great
gathering of chiefs). They are simply great pits, perhaps ten feet
deep and twenty in diameter, which are lined with firewood, on which
is arranged a layer of stones: when these are heated the animals to be
roasted are laid on them, with several hot stones inside each to secure
cooking throughout. Then comes a covering of leaves and earth, and the
baking process completes itself. This, on a smaller scale, is the manner
in which our daily pig is cooked. I have seen a bill of fare which
included fifty pigs roasted whole, seventy baked turtles, fifteen tons of
sweet pudding, fifty tons of yams and _taro_, and piles of yangona root,
besides many trifling dainties.[31]
Happily for us, the puddings are not all nasty; some are rather nice;
and one preparation of arrowroot bread is excellent. Our daily pork
is not served here with the same unerring regularity as it was on our
mountain trip, where we lived in an ever-present atmosphere of roast-pig,
fatted-pig, or sucking-pig, as the case might be,—pig it was always. Here
fish, and even fowl and occasional eggs, form a delightful variety; and
of course we always have tinned provisions in case of need.
One thing which I do not think I have yet mentioned, is that in every
village there is invariably one large house called the _buré_, where all
the young men sleep. It would be contrary to all notions of propriety
that they should occupy the same house as the women, even their nearest
relations. In fact, brothers and sisters, or brothers-in-law and
sisters-in-law, and various other near kinsfolk, are forbidden even to
speak to one another, or to eat from the same dish. For a man to eat
food left by a woman would be highly _infra dig._; and to unroll a mat
belonging to a woman, or to lie down upon it, would be the height of
impropriety. The laws of affinity in regard to marriage are very curious.
First cousins, who are children of brother and sister, may intermarry,
but the children of two men who are full brothers may on no account do
so, indeed, may hardly speak to one another. No word exists to express
uncle. All brothers are alike called father by their nephews, but the
nephew has various rights greater than those of a son. In the matter of
succession it is the brother, not the son, who succeeds as head of the
family, and _he_ is succeeded by _his_ brother; finally, the succession
reverts to the eldest son of the eldest brother. This order is, however,
liable to modification by the rank of the mother, or the personal
influence of the nephew, who enjoys most singular privileges. He is
called a _vasu_, and in certain districts is allowed the extraordinary
prerogative of claiming anything he wishes which belongs to his uncle or
the uncle’s vassals, especially the uncle on the mother’s side. If the
nephew is a _vasu levu_—_i.e._, the son of a high-born woman by a high
chief—there is practically no limit to the exactions to which he may
subject his unfortunate uncle. He may appropriate his new canoe, his best
garments, his valuable curtains, mats, club, necklace—whatever he covets;
and the uncle has no redress,—the action is _vaka Viti_ (custom of Fiji),
and that argument is unanswerable. I have even heard of a nephew of a
chief of Rewa who, having quarrelled with his uncle, exercised this right
to the extent of seizing his store of gunpowder, and employing it against
him.
In the last few days there have been a great many weddings: and the
people here are much more elaborately got up for the occasion than our
friends in the mountains. Here both bride and bridegroom are swathed in
so many yards of beautifully painted native cloth, that it is scarcely
possible for them to move. As they could not walk any distance with this
inconvenient weight of magnificence, those who come from other villages
let their friends carry the wedding-garment, and then they dress under
the trees beside the sea—a process which I have often watched with much
interest. The cloth is rolled round the body in so many folds that the
victim is simply a walking bale of stuff; besides this, great loops and
folds are worn _en panier_, and a huge frill is so arranged as to stand
up like a fan at the back. A train of eight or ten yards is carried by
attendants; and the effect produced is really very handsome and becoming,
especially when several couples arrive at church simultaneously. Some
have come in the evening by torchlight—the torches made of bundles of
reeds, which blaze brightly—and the scene has been a very pretty one.
We went one evening to a wedding-feast, hoping to see some of the old
distinctive ceremonies, such as Mrs Langham remembers in old days. But
the graceful customs have been abandoned, together with the unseemly, and
the young couple simply sat together, partook of pig and yam, and washed
their hands in one bowl. The bride was the prettiest girl I have seen
in Fiji. Her hair was powdered with finely-grated sandal-wood, and her
wedding-dress consisted of folds of the finest gauze-like _masi_, crossed
over each shoulder and under the breasts. One of the couples seemed to
afford great amusement to the bystanders,—a very cheery little old maid
was marrying a kindly-looking old man. They seemed quite happy about it
themselves, so could afford to let the neighbours laugh. One poor young
couple were not allowed to marry, as, at the last moment, Mr Langham
discovered that the damsel was a minor, and her father absent.
We were amused to see several brides and bridegrooms reappear, in simple
attire, to take their place as scholars in the school-examinations, at
which one charming brown baby appeared, toddling about, dressed in the
cover of an old umbrella as its _sulu_! All the babies have the quaintest
shaven heads, with odd little tufts of hair left as fancy prompts. The
little girls generally have a long lock left on one side, forming a dozen
very line plaits; many are quite little dandies, in their small kilts
of fine white _masi_, or Turkey-red, and necklace of bright leaves,
or the orange seed of the pandanus. Some are very fully attired in a
scarlet pocket-handkerchief, tied across the breast, and forming a tiny
petticoat. But the jolliest baby of all had no clothes at all, and could
only just toddle; but it gravely followed the others, and tried to do
_méké_, and dance like the big ones, to the great delight of its parents.
When a Fijian woman carries her child, it invariably sits astride on her
hip, her arm clasping its little body.
Yesterday Mr Langham was busy the livelong day examining candidates for
baptism, and holding a quarterly meeting of school teachers, from all
parts of the isle. Mrs Langham had charge of all the wives; so Mr Morey
and his mother and sisters kindly came to fetch me in their boat, and
took me to a very pretty village, called Mundoo, beside the sea, and
backed by richly wooded cliffs. I got a sketch from a rocky headland,
commanding a fine view; and the old chief of the village sat by me,
watching my work with keen interest.
* * * * *
_Easter Day._
Last Easter morning we embarked at Marseilles. What a busy, bustling day
that was,—with all the inevitable fuss of a huge crowded ship starting on
a long voyage! I cannot say that this has been a very quiet day, though
peaceful enough.
There was a crowded early service in the church here; and after breakfast
Mr Morey brought his boat and took us all to Mundoo, the pretty village I
told you of. There Mr Langham held service, after which he returned here
for the afternoon work. I had a most lovely walk with the Moreys, and
arrived here in time for an English service. We are to embark to-morrow
at dawn, so I will only add Good night.—Your loving sister.
I am quite sorry to leave Koro, and dear old Isaaki laments our
departure quite pathetically; but we are to visit all the villages round
the coast, while the Jubilee takes a run to other isles, on some work for
the mission.
* * * * *
NATAULOA, CHIEF TOWN IN THE ISLE NAIRAI, _April 21st_.
We were ready before dawn, but had to walk a couple of miles along the
coast to the point where the Jubilee was lying, and there found a native
teacher, with his family and all their goods, waiting to be taken on
board; and as there was only one tiny boat, it was 11 A.M. ere we sailed.
Outside the reef there was a good deal of sea on, and we were both very
sick all day, and could not get near Nairai. We spent a wretched night;
for though there is a small cabin, it is so very stuffy that we prefer
just lying on deck and making the best of it. At dawn we were still off
the coast of beautiful Koro. We neared Nairai in the afternoon, but the
wind fell, and we could not make the difficult passage through the reef,
which is six miles from the island; so we had a second night lying on the
deck, vainly seeking for a soft plank, and longing for the mats of the
native houses. Happily the night was faultlessly lovely, and every cloud
and star was mirrored in the glassy ocean. We lay watching the Southern
Cross and the Great Bear; and Venus sank as Jupiter rose, casting long
reflections of sparkling light. It does seem strange to look up night
after night and see the old familiar stars, remembering how very nearly
we are standing sole to sole,—at least we are within a week’s run of New
Zealand, which is the exact antipodes of Britain. You see we have gained
twelve hours on you, and often think of you as just sitting down to
breakfast when we are turning in for the night!
The singing at evening prayer on deck was actually pretty,—the Fijian
teachers and the Rotumah crew having nice voices. Our captain (Martin by
name) comes from Heligoland. His opinion of life in Fiji is not high.
“Ay! it _is_ the country for makeshifts!”
As the mention of our crew being Rotumans probably conveys no definite
idea to your mind, I may as well mention that Rotumah is a little
independent island lying by itself about three hundred miles to the north
of Fiji, which is the nearest inhabited land.[32] It is a volcanic isle,
with several long-extinct craters, now clothed with rich vegetation.
It has a population of about four thousand; but owing to the strong
propensity of the people for a seafaring life, a large proportion of
these are generally absent. They are a small race, and of a clear
copper colour. The story of how the first tidings of Christianity were
carried to this isle by Tongan teachers,—of the vigorous hold which the
new faith quickly took—of the virulent persecution that ensued—of the
strongly rooted determination with which the converts held their ground,
so that, when first visited by a white teacher, it was found that half
the population were already professed Christians, who eagerly hailed his
coming,—this story, I say, is one of the most remarkable episodes in the
progress of Christianity in any part of the world. So I looked on these
Rotumah men with especial interest as representatives of this people.
The beautiful night wore away, and in the morning a kindly breeze sprang
up and brought us straight to the passage, when, with a few tacks, we
made this anchorage. The village is pretty enough, shadowed by large
trees, actually on the shore; but the people seemed unhealthy, and the
flies multitudinous, and the house prepared for us is buried in poor
plantains, and is stuffy and damp.
After due inspection, we determined on sleeping in the large matted
church, close to the teacher’s house, offered us. Of course it is
otherwise quite empty,—save for a pulpit adorned with white shells. So
we curtained off one end of it and there slept in peace, while just
beyond our screens, Mr Langham was holding a meeting of all the native
teachers on the island,—such a fine sensible body of men. Next night
there were four weddings, and so many friends assembled that we did not
venture on rigging up our quarters till the very tedious ceremony was
over,—tedious because of the amount of inquiry and cross-questioning
involved, and dismally dark, as our one lantern was the sole light in the
large dark church. So many strangers assembled from other villages that
the teacher’s house, where we were by way of living, was crammed; so we
had our breakfast in church, where I am now writing to you while waiting
till the Jubilee is ready to sail,—the delay being caused by shipping the
native minister and all his family, who go to another isle. We brought
their successors with us. Also we take half-a-dozen lads, whose parents
give them to the mission for special training at one of the institutions;
then if they prove to be good stuff they will be promoted to the training
college, and gradually advance to be teachers, and perhaps eventually
native ministers in charge of large districts. The organisation is most
perfect, and spreads like a web over every remote corner of the isles,
always excepting the still heathen mountain districts.
The work of a native teacher is no sinecure. To begin with, he may be
sent to a distant island, where the dialect is so different from his own
that he has to begin by learning the language of the people. In this the
men of Bau have a great advantage over all others, their speech being
the standard of pure Fijian, in which, consequently, the Scriptures are
published, so they are understood by all the people; but the Bau men are
themselves sometimes sorely puzzled, just as you might be if addressed in
broad Yorkshire or Somerset. There are about sixteen distinct dialects
spoken in the group, some of which are as different as Spanish is from
Portuguese. Once appointed to a district, the teacher has to hold
school three mornings a-week for children, three evenings for adults,
one week-day service with address, two Sunday services with sermon,
and early prayer-meeting in church. He must conduct daily morning and
evening prayer in several houses; must visit the sick; pray and read the
Scriptures with them; look after the people generally; bury the dead, and
travel once a-week to report himself to the native minister, who perhaps
lives at a considerable distance.
His pay varies from ten to twenty shillings, paid quarterly _in kind_.
Should the value of the gifts exceed the sum to which he is entitled
(decided by stewards in each village), the surplus, which may be a few
shillings, goes to eke out the pay of a man in a poorer place. He is
provided with a free house, and works in his own garden. His dinner is
provided for him on Sunday. Once a-month an offering of food is made by
the village, perhaps sufficient to last for a couple of days. And once
a-year there may perhaps be an extra offering of yams.
A native minister is entitled to receive twenty-five shillings a-quarter,
and possibly a hundred yams as his annual offering, but this is rarely
paid in full. He is subject to the law of the Wesleyan Mission Society,
which forbids a missionary to possess any land as private property, or to
do any act of trade—_i.e._, buying to sell again. The salary he receives
from the Society is £5 a-year, which is raised to £15 after fifteen
years’ service. I think it may interest you to see a sample of the manner
in which the quarterly contributions for teachers is paid. For instance,
here is a table of the offertory in each village on the isle of Ngau, one
of the richer districts. Others, such as the Ra coast, give much less.
The sum here represented is the quarterly salary of both native minister
and schoolmaster.
+-----------+-----------+---------+----------+---------+------------+
| | Pieces | | | | |
| Bottles | of native | Whales’ | Hanks of | | Total |
| of oil. | cloth. | teeth. | sinnet. | Money. | value. |
+-----------+-----------+---------+----------+---------+------------+
| | | | |_s._ _d._| £ _s._ _d._|
| | | | | | |
| 2 | 12 | 9 | 8 | 16 0 | 1 10 0 |
| | | | | | |
| — | 7 | — | — | — | 0 3 6 |
| | | | | | |
| 5 gallons.| 5 | 1 | — | 1 6 | 0 8 0 |
| | | | | | |
| 7 | 2 | 2 | 1 basket.| — | 0 13 0 |
| | | | | | |
| — | 2 | 1 | 3 | 2 0 | 0 8 0 |
| | | | | | |
| 5 gallons.| 12 | — | 2 | — | 0 15 0 |
| | | | | | |
| — | 1 | 3 | 2 | 12 6 | 0 18 0 |
| | | | | | |
| 1 | 1 | 7 | — | 6 0 | 0 15 0 |
| | | | | | |
| — | 2 | 4 | 1 | 8 0 | 0 15 0 |
| | | | | | |
| 3 | 4 | 6 | — | 15 6 | 1 3 0 |
| | | | | | |
| 3 | 1 | 2 | — | 6 0 | 0 8 0 |
| | | | | | |
| — | 1 | — | 1 | 6 6 | 0 7 0 |
+-----------+-----------+---------+----------+---------+------------+
I cannot say that a practical acquaintance with mission pay proves it
to be of the very “fattening” character commonly supposed. All white
missionaries, from the superintendent downwards, alike receive from the
Society £180 per annum. For every child they are allowed £12, 12s. a-year
till they are sixteen years of age, and an educational grant of £12,
12s. from eight till sixteen years. The Society pays the extra insurance
premium charged for Fiji up to £500 (_i.e._, £5 out of £16). And the
insurance must be paid, being the sole provision for a widow. Thirty
shillings a-year is allowed for medical stores for the whole family; and
for these the natives are continually asking, and are never refused. £3
extra is given in the event of a confinement. No yam-garden is allowed,
but a free house is furnished, and about £12 is allowed to keep up a boat
and crew for mission purposes. Goods are delivered in Levuka freight
free, and brought thence by the mission schooner Jubilee. After ten
years’ service a retiring pension of £40 a-year is allowed, rising to £60
after twenty years, when a gift of £50 is made to furnish a house. Forty
years’ service entitles a man to a pension of £140 a-year. A missionary
may receive _no_ offerings from the people for his own use. Marriage and
baptism fees, which are respectively 4s. and 1s., are all handed over
to the general fund for circuit expenses, such as providing canoes, &c.
The yams, &c., given at school examinations are given to poor teachers,
or to the lads at the training institution. It is compulsory on every
missionary to pay £6, 6s. a-year to the Superannuated Preachers’ Fund,
and £1, 1s. a-year to the Educational Fund. Servants must be clothed and
fed, and constant gifts of cloth, medicine, &c., made to poor teachers
and others.
You may judge from these particulars that a missionary’s income is not on
that excessively luxurious scale which you might suppose from reading the
comments made by many travellers, who have been hospitably entertained
at mission stations as much-honoured guests, for whom even the fatted
calf has not been spared, and who (seeing the air of bright comfort and
neatness prevailing around) have failed to give honour due to the careful
and excellent housekeeping which could produce such admirable results
with smaller means than are squandered in many a slatternly and slovenly
household.
Many even make this comfort the text for a discourse on the superiority
of the Romish missions, on the self-denial and ascetic lives of the
priests, quite forgetting that in teaching such races as these, one of
the most important objects is to give them the example of a happy loving
home, bright with all pleasant influences of civilised life.
To me one of the strangest things here is the unaccountable jealousy of
the missionaries, and their marvellous influence with the people, which
pervades all classes of white men, old residents and new-comers alike. To
understand the position, you must recollect that, forty years ago, two
missionaries landed on these isles, to find them peopled by cannibals
of the most vicious type. Every form of crime that the human mind can
conceive reigned and ran riot; and the few white settlers here were the
worst type of reprobates, who could find no other hiding-place; for the
earliest founders of this colony were a number of convicts, who, about
1804, escaped from New South Wales, and managed to reach Fiji, where,
by free use of firearms, they made themselves dreaded, and the chiefs
courted them as useful allies in war. So these desperadoes gained a
footing in the isles, and amazed the Fijians themselves by the atrocity
of their lives. One man, known as Paddy Connor, left fifty sons and
daughters to inherit his virtues!
Such men as these had certainly not done much to smooth the way for
Christian teachers; yet in the forty years which have elapsed since the
Wesleyan missionaries landed here, they have won over a population of
upwards of a hundred thousand ferocious cannibals. They have trained an
immense body of native teachers—established schools in every village.
The people themselves have built churches all over the isles, each of
which has a crowded congregation; and there is scarcely a house which has
not daily morning and evening family prayer—a sound never heard in the
white men’s houses; and of course the old vile customs are dropped, and
Christian manners take their place. Such is the system of supervision by
the teachers, that any breach of right living must be at once known, and
visited by the moral displeasure of those whom the people most respect.
This (and the fact that besides feeding and clothing the native teachers,
each village once a-year contributes to the general support of the
mission) is the ground which white men take as an excuse for decrying the
excellent missionaries. You hear of “their inordinate love of power” and
“greediness;” their excellent moral influence is simply “priestcraft;”
and though the speakers are invariably compelled to acknowledge the
good work they have hitherto done, I have actually heard men in high
position (who have never been beyond Levuka, nor set foot in a native
church) speak as if that work was now finished, and it was high time the
contributions of the people should be diverted from the support of the
mission to the Government treasury; in fact, as if every shilling paid
to their teachers was so much of which Government is being defrauded. It
is the old story of kicking over the ladder by which you have climbed.
For most certainly, but for the missionaries and their work here,
England would have had small share in Fiji to-day. A questionable gain,
I confess! I must say I am greatly disgusted by the tone in which I hear
this matter discussed,—not by any of our own party, however, for they,
one and all, hold the mission in the very highest honour, and constantly
attend the native services.
As you may possibly hear echoes of the anti-mission howl on the subject
of ecclesiastical exactions, you may remember that it is invariably
raised by men whose own poverty is certainly not due to the extent of
their almsgiving; also that the actual working expenses of this great
mission (with its 900 churches and 1400 schools, filled with ex-cannibals
or their offspring) are between £4000 and £5000 a-year, a sum of which
not above half has ever been collected in the isles, at the annual
missionary meetings; and in no case is there any offertory in church.
Of course, in the earlier years the mission was entirely supported by
England and the colonies, and Fiji gave no help at all; but, naturally,
the parent society expects each fully established church to become
self-supporting, and to do something in its turn to establish new
missions in districts or isles yet more remote, that so the little grain
may expand and become a wide-spreading tree.