ONE IS JUDGED BY THE COMPANY HE KEEPS
Although, from its novelty, life at Captain Bob’s was pleasant enough,
for the time; there were some few annoyances connected with it anything
but agreeable to a “soul of sensibility.”
Prejudiced against us by the malevolent representations of the consul
and others, many worthy foreigners ashore regarded us as a set of
lawless vagabonds; though, truth to speak, better behaved sailors never
stepped on the island, nor any who gave less trouble to the natives.
But, for all this, whenever we met a respectably-dressed European, ten
to one he shunned us by going over to the other side of the road. This
was very unpleasant, at least to myself; though, certes, it did not
prey upon the minds of the others.
To give an instance.
Of a fine evening in Tahiti—but they are all fine evenings there—you
may see a bevy of silk bonnets and parasols passing along the Broom
Road: perhaps a band of pale, little white urchins—sickly exotics—and,
oftener still, sedate, elderly gentlemen, with canes; at whose
appearance the natives, here and there, slink into their huts. These
are the missionaries, their wives, and children, taking a family
airing. Sometimes, by the bye, they take horse, and ride down to Point
Venus and back; a distance of several miles. At this place is settled
the only survivor of the first missionaries that landed—an old,
white-headed, saint-like man, by the name of Wilson, the father of our
friend, the consul.
The little parties on foot were frequently encountered; and, recalling,
as they did, so many pleasant recollections of home and the ladies, I
really longed for a dress coat and beaver that I might step up and pay
my respects. But, situated as I was, this was out of the question. On
one occasion, however, I received a kind, inquisitive glance from a
matron in gingham. Sweet lady! I have not forgotten her: her gown was a
plaid.
But a glance, like hers, was not always bestowed.
One evening, passing the verandah of a missionary’s dwelling, the dame,
his wife, and a pretty, blonde young girl, with ringlets, were sitting
there, enjoying the sea-breeze, then coming in, all cool and
refreshing, from the spray of the reef. As I approached, the old lady
peered hard at me; and her very cap seemed to convey a prim rebuke. The
blue, English eyes, by her side, were also bent on me. But, oh Heavens!
what a glance to receive from such a beautiful creature! As for the mob
cap, not a fig did I care for it; but, to be taken for anything but a
cavalier, by the ringleted one, was absolutely unendurable.
I resolved on a courteous salute, to show my good-breeding, if nothing
more. But, happening to wear a sort of turban—hereafter to be
particularly alluded to—there was no taking it off and putting it on
again with anything like dignity. At any rate, then, here goes a how.
But, another difficulty presented itself; my loose frock was so
voluminous that I doubted whether any spinal curvature would be
perceptible.
“Good evening, ladies,” exclaimed I, at last, advancing winningly; “a
delightful air from the sea, ladies.”
Hysterics and hartshorn! who would have thought it? The young lady
screamed, and the old one came near fainting. As for myself, I
retreated in double-quick time; and scarcely drew breath until safely
housed in the Calabooza.