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- 6238
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.152Z
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- 6158
- text
- 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.”
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