Strangely, the larger numbers are shorter. Twenty thousand is tini.
Should I wish to say “once,” meaning at one time, I say, mamua mamua mamua; more anciently kakiu kakiu kakiu kakiu; “a very long time ago,” tini tini tini tini; “quite a long time ago,” tini hahaa tini hahaa tini hahaa tini hahaa; but “always” is anatu and “soon” epo. This last word is a custom as well as a word, for it is like the Spanish mañana and the Hawaiian mahope, the Tahitian ariana, or our own dilatory “by and by.”
The variations between the dialects in the different groups is great, and even in the same group, or on the same island, meanings are not the same. In the Marquesas, the northwestern islands have a distinct dialect from the southeastern. Valleys close together have different words for the same object. These changes consist of dropping or substituting consonants, t for k, l for r, etc., but to the beginner they are baffling. Naturally, the letters, as written, have the Latin value. Thus, Tahiatini is pronounced Tah-heea-teenee, and Puhei, Poo-hay-ee.
For me words have color, form, character: They have faces, ports, manners, gesticulations;—they have moods, humours, eccentricities:—they have tints, tones, personalities.
Lafcadio Hearn might have written that about the Maori tongue.
The Marquesan language is sonorous, beautiful, and picturesque, lending itself to oratory, of which the Polynesians are past masters. Without a written tongue until the last century, they perfected themselves in speaking. It was a treat to hear a Marquesan in the full flood of address, recalling the days of old and the glories departed, or a preacher telling the love of God or the tortures reserved for the damned. They were graceful and extremely witty. They kept their audience laughing for minutes or moved them quickly to tears. Their fault was that shared by most European and American orators, long-windedness. The Marquesans have many onomatopes, or words imitating natural sounds, and they are most pleasing and expressive. The written words hardly convey the close relation they bear to the reality when spoken. The kivi, a bird, says, “Kivi! kivi! kivi!” The cock says, “Kokoao! va tani te moa! Kokoao!” The god that entered the spirit of the priestess made a noise in doing so that was like this: “A u u u u u u u u u a! A u u u u u a!”
When the pig eats, the sound he makes is thus: “Afu! afu! afu! afu! afu! afu! afu! apu! apu! apu! apu! apu! apu! apu!” In repeating these sounds the native abates no jot of the whole. The pig’s afus are just so many; no more, no fewer.
When the cocoanut falls to the ground the sound is “tu!” The drinker who takes a long draft makes the noise, “Aku! aku! aku! aku! aku! aku!”
Moemoe is “the cry one makes of joy after killing any one.”
It is notable that in English the names for edible animals when alive are usually the foundational Saxon, but when dead and ready for food they are Norman. Ox, steer, bull, and cow are Saxon. Beef and viand are Norman. Calf is Saxon, but veal is Norman; sheep is Saxon, mutton Norman. Probably the caretaker of these animals, the Saxon villain who tended them, made his names for them stick in the composite language, while the sitters at table, the Normans and those who aped their tongue, applied the names of the prepared meat as they plied their knives. Pig and hog, the latter meaning a gilded pig, are English, but pork is Norman.