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 Heat 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-wees’
(French). Wicked priests here, too; and wicked idols in woman’s
clothes, and brass chains.
“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.
“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 to poor kannaka In Beretanee, every man
rich: plenty things to buy; and plenty things to sell. Houses bigger
than Pomaree’s, and more grand. Everybody, too, ride about in coaches,
bigger than hers; 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, anything 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
Seas. 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 after 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.
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
labour, 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
hindrances to the strict moralities of Christianity.
Added to all this is a quality inherent in Polynesians; and more akin
to hypocrisy than anything 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
favour 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—Baiatair, I believe—the natives, for
special reasons, desired to commend themselves particularly to the
favour of the missionaries. Accordingly, during divine service, many of
them behaved in a manner, otherwise unaccountable, and precisely
similar to their behaviour 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.