This etua was supposed to be a wonderful talisman, a kind of Aladdin’s lamp; it was the “Open Sesame” to all its worshippers’ hopes on earth and in the underworld life-to-be. I became deeply interested in those old mats, my susceptibilities being aroused much the same as are the susceptibilities of those who visit the ruins of ancient Rome and Pompeii. The mat-worshipper with whom I became acquainted was an aged chief who lived near Safata village. He possessed one of the aforesaid revered objects. There it hung, just over his sleeping-couch in his hut. Through being repeatedly kissed and rubbed by the chief and his ancestors, for Heaven only knows how many generations, it was dilapidated and threadbare. I recall the very light that shone in that aged chief’s eyes as he gazed on his sacred mat. Though very aged he was still a fine distinguished-looking old man. A vivid scar stained his well-curved, tawny shoulders, for he had been a great warrior in his early days. Throwing the tribal insignia of knighthood (a large tappa-cloth rug of beautiful design) over his shoulders, he drew himself up in a majestic manner, and gave me a half-critical glance of defiance as I held my nose—for that old mat smelt like the unclean hide of a mangy dog. It was, to him, the most romantic and sacred of relics and its odour exquisite incense! Young as I was, my curiosity was aroused.
“What is it for? Why so beautiful?” I inquired. Whereupon the old chief’s tattooed brow puckered up, looking like a piece of parchment covered with hieroglyphics. He gazed upon me half in pity, half in scorn. Once more he reverentially gazed upon the mat. Then in pigeon English, and with many half-childish gesticulations, he endeavoured to enlighten my profound ignorance as to the hidden virtues of that threadbare symbol of the beautiful.
“It am great god-mat, belonga to great chief only. You white man, but all-e-samee you fool, you not one great chief, you no got mat—eh?”
So saying, he reverently lifted the mat from the wall-nail and carried it outside the hut, where I discovered that it was not such a dirty old bit of rubbish after all. I quickly cast aside the assumed reverential aspect with which I had masked myself that I might hide my boyish levity. For, suddenly, I too gazed with genuine interest on that mouldy object. Lo! particles of its threadbareness glistened, shone in the sunlight! A tender feeling came to me for that dirty old bit of matting when I did exactly as the old native bade me—touched with my fingers the shining skeins that waved among its coarse fibres: it was the hair of some dead woman! It appeared that some ancestress of the old chief’s had imparadised that relic, for there shone her hair that had been delicately, cleverly woven into the fibres of his sacred mat.
I was greatly impressed by that old mat’s secret. Often in my world-wide travels I have been asked to inspect the heirlooms of great families and the relics of faded dynasties, but nothing seems to have affected me or aroused my admiration as that old mat and the pride of its possessor did.
It was about this period that I met another character whom I found quite as interesting as my friend who owned the sacred mat. This new character was a poet.
“Talofa! Tusitala!” said the wrinkled native poet when he welcomed me into his humble homestead.
Then I played him several heathen strains on my violin. His profile was of a Dantesque type, the nose finely curved, and the deep-set eyes full of intellect. He prostrated himself at my feet when I had finished playing to him. I can never feel grateful enough to the old mat-worshipper for introducing that mighty poet to me. The wonderful tales he told and the delight I derived from his friendship (for we went troubadouring together), have made me wealthy in many a memory since.
In Part II of this Volume I will endeavour to give an impression of my memory of O Le Langi, the pagan poet.