Episode 5

Stranger still,that prevalent Polynesian sound,the so-called catch,written with an apostrophe,and often or always the gravestone of a perished consonant,is to be heard in Scotland to this day.When a Scot pronounces water,better,or bottle -WA'ER,BE'ER,or BO'LE -the sound is precisely that of the catch;and Ithink we may go beyond,and say,that if such a population could be isolated,and this mispronunciation should become the rule,it might prove the first stage of transition from T to K,which is the disease of Polynesian languages.The tendency of the Marquesans,however,is to urge against consonants,or at least on the very common letter L,a war of mere extermination.A hiatus is agreeable to any Polynesian ear;the ear even of the stranger soon grows used to these barbaric voids;but only in the Marquesan will you find such names as HAAII and PAAAEUA,when each individual vowel must be separately uttered.

These points of similarity between a South Sea people and some of my own folk at home ran much in my head in the islands;and not only inclined me to view my fresh acquaintances with favour,but continually modified my judgment.A polite Englishman comes to-day to the Marquesans and is amazed to find the men tattooed;polite Italians came not long ago to England and found our fathers stained with woad;and when I paid the return visit as a little boy,I was highly diverted with the backwardness of Italy:so insecure,so much a matter of the day and hour,is the pre-eminence of race.It was so that I hit upon a means of communication which I recommend to travellers.When I desired any detail of savage custom,or of superstitious belief,I cast back in the story of my fathers,and fished for what I wanted with some trait of equal barbarism:

Michael Scott,Lord Derwentwater's head,the second-sight,the Water Kelpie,-each of these I have found to be a killing bait;the black bull's head of Stirling procured me the legend of RAHERO;and what I knew of the Cluny Macphersons,or the Appin Stewarts,enabled me to learn,and helped me to understand,about the TEVASof Tahiti.The native was no longer ashamed,his sense of kinship grew warmer,and his lips were opened.It is this sense of kinship that the traveller must rouse and share;or he had better content himself with travels from the blue bed to the brown.And the presence of one Cockney titterer will cause a whole party to walk in clouds of darkness.

The hamlet of Anaho stands on a margin of flat land between the west of the beach and the spring of the impending mountains.Agrove of palms,perpetually ruffling its green fans,carpets it (as for a triumph)with fallen branches,and shades it like an arbour.

A road runs from end to end of the covert among beds of flowers,the milliner's shop of the community;and here and there,in the grateful twilight,in an air filled with a diversity of scents,and still within hearing of the surf upon the reef,the native houses stand in scattered neighbourhood.The same word,as we have seen,represents in many tongues of Polynesia,with scarce a shade of difference,the abode of man.But although the word be the same,the structure itself continually varies;and the Marquesan,among the most backward and barbarous of islanders,is yet the most commodiously lodged.The grass huts of Hawaii,the birdcage houses of Tahiti,or the open shed,with the crazy Venetian blinds,of the polite Samoan -none of these can be compared with the Marquesan PAEPAE-HAE,or dwelling platform.The paepae is an oblong terrace built without cement or black volcanic stone,from twenty to fifty feet in length,raised from four to eight feet from the earth,and accessible by a broad stair.Along the back of this,and coming to about half its width,runs the open front of the house,like a covered gallery:the interior sometimes neat and almost elegant in its bareness,the sleeping space divided off by an endlong coaming,some bright raiment perhaps hanging from a nail,and a lamp and one of White's sewing-machines the only marks of civilization.On the outside,at one end of the terrace,burns the cooking-fire under a shed;at the other there is perhaps a pen for pigs;the remainder is the evening lounge and AL FRESCO banquet-hall of the inhabitants.To some houses water is brought down the mountains in bamboo pipes,perforated for the sake of sweetness.With the Highland comparison in my mind,I was struck to remember the sluttish mounds of turf and stone in which I have sat and been entertained in the Hebrides and the North Islands.Two things,Isuppose,explain the contrast.In Scotland wood is rare,and with materials so rude as turf and stone the very hope of neatness is excluded.And in Scotland it is cold.Shelter and a hearth are needs so pressing that a man looks not beyond;he is out all day after a bare bellyful,and at night when he saith,'Aha,it is warm!'he has not appetite for more.Or if for something else,then something higher;a fine school of poetry and song arose in these rough shelters,and an air like 'LOCHABER NO MORE'is an evidence of refinement more convincing,as well as more imperishable,than a palace.