A Lady's Cruise in a French Man-of-War/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
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.[1]
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.[2]
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 himénes 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[3] 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.
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; 
OPUNUHU BAY. ISLE MOOREA.
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,[4] 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 himénes, 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;[5] 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.[6]
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.[7] 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;[8] 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.[9]
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 suffiently 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.
- ↑ It is hard to have to think of that tender and loving heart as of a mere material relic. Yet, as the heart of the Bruce, enshrined in its golden casket, was carried by his true knight to that Holy Land which his feet might never tread, so has the heart of this saintly prelate—the first Bishop of Samoa—been borne by his faithful followers, to find its resting-place in the church where for so many years he pleaded for, and with, his people.
It was brought from France by Père Lamaze, now consecrated Bishop of the Isles. The heart is enclosed in a glass urn, with an outer case of gold, ornamented with precious stones, and supported by four angels. On the lid of this reliquary is a representation of a bishop appearing before the judgment-seat of our Lord.
On reaching Samoa, the casket was deposited at Vaea, while preparations for its reception were made at Apia. On the 24th May 1881, about six hundred Catholics assembled at sunrise at the church at Vaea, to pay a last tribute of respect and devotion to their loved bishop; then forming in solemn procession, they moved towards Apia. The children from the convent school at Savalalo walked first, followed by their teachers; next the Catholics of Apia and the surrounding districts. These were followed by the clergy, four of whom acted as pall-bearers, while four others carried the heart. Last of all came the Catholic chiefs, the catechists of Vaea College, and the natives residing at the mission-house at Apia.
On reaching the church, a sermon was preached by Bishop Lamaze, and the heart was then deposited in a niche in the wall, there to remain enshrined, as a perpetual memorial to the people of Samoa of the earnest and noble life that was spent in striving to exemplify the holiness he preached.
- ↑ The following paragraph is from a recent Hawaiian Gazette, showing the course of events in Samoa:—
"We learn, through the courtesy of Lieutenant Abbot of the Lackawanna, some interesting particulars in relation to the political condition of the Samoan archipelago. The chief Malietoa, whose name is identified with the sovereignty of Samoa, is dead, and his nephew and namesake has succeeded to his political authority and state; but a rival chief, Kepua Tomisasu, has been contesting the succession, and previous to the arrival of the Lackawanna there had been a series of desultory semi-barbarous war campaigns—not resulting in any decisive action or notable slaughter of men, but causing widespread ruin, robbery, and unrest. The American commander Gillis now presented his good offices in the way of reconciliation, and to establish between rival chiefs and peoples of the same land a more harmonious and patriotic spirit. And we are happy to say that, after many baffling discussions, a political unity and harmony on Samoa have been effected—Malietoa II. being proclaimed King of Samoa, and his rival, Kepua, the Premier of Samoa, with an authority on public questions somewhat like our former Kuhina Nui.
"The Samoan warriors have all dispersed and returned to peaceful pursuits. The terms of peace were drawn up and signed on board the Lackawanna in the harbour of Apia, and a royal salute of 21 guns was fired from the vessel in honour of the event.
"We are glad to recognise that in this instance the commander of an American man-of-war intervenes solely as a peacemaker, and to promote the best welfare of a Polynesian people."
- ↑ Colonial abbreviation for San Francisco.
- ↑ Capital of Fiji.
- ↑ An explanation which resulted in the complete exoneration of Captain Aube, and his appointment to the command of La Savoie,—a finer vessel than that from which he had been so summarily dismissed.
- ↑ The good bishop had the satisfaction of reaching la belle France, and there effectually pleading the cause of his friend, ere he laid down the burden of life, which he had borne with so much anxious care for the weal of his people. He died very shortly after his return to Europe.
- ↑ King Pomare II. was the first person who was publicly baptised in Tahiti. The service took place on 16th July 1819.
- ↑ Vahine, a woman.
- ↑ And in this year of 1882 still continue to crop up, greatly to the benefit of the lawyers, who find in the affairs of the Estate Brander, a harvest far too remunerative to be lightly abandoned.