my england—its chief stronghold—the island race—barbaric customs—their code of morals—a tribalistic clash—an english spring
this chapter is written for the benefit of those natives who may come across my book in the south sea islands and elsewhere. of course i know england well, because i am an englishman. i escaped from my birthplace at an early age, shipped before the mast of a sailing ship and roamed the world. england is always the dear old homeland to me, and so it might interest my readers if i include reminiscences of my own country in this book.
my england is an island surrounded by open sea and channel. the climate is variable; atlantic winds blow over it and copious rains drench the population at frequent intervals. the “survival of the fittest” theory is finely illustrated by the athletic appearance of the native stock; the climate kills all weaklings at birth.
london is the chief stronghold; battalions of pale-faced native warriors tramp the tracks that divide the mighty forests of gloomy walls. they are a brave tribe, and ever on the warpath as they glide along, passing under historic arches and over the bridges that rib their old river, which is called the thames. at night, when the stars are out and the moon is high in the sky, you can stand on those bridges and see the monuments that have been erected to commemorate old tribal heroes. the spires of the vast city for miles and miles point to the heavens, under the pale, glittering stars, like outstretched fingers on the vast hands of pride.
the island race is a happy one, and hope springs eternal in the native breast. if no sun shines this summer, still they hope on till the next summer.
the common papalangi or serf class are warrior-like and cheerful folk, and not unlike the south sea island races in their habits. on tribal holidays they go off to various resorts, drink toddy and do war dances; many appear next morning before the high chiefs, who hear with solemn countenance of their misdeeds as they lean on the official war-club and fine them five dollars.
the aristocrats are similar to fijian and solomon islanders of royal blood, for they are cannibalistic; they do not eat human flesh, but they live on the blue blood that runs in their veins and on the vigour of the flesh of the common natives. their ancestry is similar to that of the south sea islanders—through some mighty deed, that when tested by the code of morals appears dubious, their line is famous for ever. they have a peerage and who’s who, which are genealogical and tell of the first high chief in the family, what he did and what they do now. their chief aim is to forget all else and produce sons, so as to keep the tribal name going. the camp fires have disappeared and the tribal den is now a mighty residence made of stone; on the walls hang ancestral weapons. these grandees sit beneath them, eat and drink well and no longer dye their bodies with woad.
they have a dreadful inquisition called respectability; once in its clutches the common natives lose their intellectual equilibrium, become hollow-throated and cough with a windy soullessness.
old tribal customs are fast disappearing, and the high chiefs losing their power and influence over the natives, who are becoming well educated and will soon own the country. human nature will still be the same, so there will be sixty or seventy million kings, as many kings as the population amounts to, and only god knows what will happen then.
the native women are white and have beautiful blue eyes, like the blue of your skies. they wear ridis that reach to their ankles. their morals are excellent, but, like their sisters in the far south seas, some of them still retain the old instincts and fall before the temptation of the white man, and the fallen maid takes all the blame.
if one stops a chief or his wife on the forest track and says, “aloha! mitai chipi,” and grasps their hand in true friendship, one is liable to be taken before the high chief and fined five hundred dollars.
the forest idols are gone, but the natives still kneel in amphitheatres, before stone images, where they hold festivals, and their old high priest accepts confessional bribes and then forgives them their sins—which are many.
the old-time convivial spirit has passed away; you cannot jump in the island lagoons unless fully dressed. many of the old barbaric customs are still in vogue, but are practised in secret. they have wild festivals, still play tom-toms, big drums and reeds, and whirl round and round in the old tribalistic siva dance, clinging to each other’s bodies and gazing lasciviously into each other’s blue eyes. their fantoes,[17] instead of being carried on their mothers’ backs in the old primitive basket, are wheeled along in vehicles to an advanced age; and dominate the native villages and the lives of the chiefs. there is no camping out now; free dens have disappeared. for camping in the forest as of old, one is liable to get fastened up between stone walls for six months. one cannot pick coco-nuts, yams and bread-fruit if one is hungry.
17. children.
there is an organization for starving natives, presided over by high chiefs with cheerless, glassy eyes. the elder natives have to apologise for being old when they go there; but most of them when they are hungry run for their lives, and starve to death sooner than approach the organization’s cave kindness. the poor-class natives drink a mysterious concoction made from a herb called the hop, and the high chiefs drink stuff called kava, or whisky. when those high chiefs are sober, they become solemn; and hold councils for putting down the drinking of hop-toddy. all the native girls aspire to marry chiefs. the code of morals is so peculiar that thousands of them die childless and mateless.
they are withal a brave, warrior-like race; and at present are engaged in one of their old tribalistic clashes with another tribe, of a group that lies not far from their own isle; a bloodthirsty race that are at heart still cannibalistic. the king of this other tribe is somewhat like old thakambau, the late fijian emperor of the cannibal isles; he pretends to have embraced christianity, but his real god is the high chief krupp. i feel sorry for him, for the islanders are sure to get hold of him and he will wish he had embraced their creed. several other warrior tribes are crashing away with the island natives; they charge well and sing fine old war-songs. it is much safer at present to live in the solomon isles.
the island country is very beautiful. in the springtime the landscapes and valleys are dotted with yellow things called primroses; other wild flowers grow on the hedgerow banks. little birds sing in old trees to the sunsets; the grass grows, and grows high ere they cut it down. the woods smell of peat; the native homesteads in the villages burn wood, and you can smell its delightful odour along the lanes as you tramp by. it is a beautiful country; but violin-playing, music and poetry are not appreciated by the natives as they are appreciated in the south seas.
but still i love the memory of the hedgerows, wild flowers and far-off hills, and the remains of the old forests wherein long ago their ancestors camped; by old hills where the young lambs bleat in the springtime and wild birds sing in leafy woods and hollows. i hope in the end i shall be buried somewhere near where the wind and the wild blackbird sing; and not very far from the shores of the sea, where their ships go down channel with sailors outbound for distant lands.
the end
