Once we were assembled on the public court ground of Turtle Town, 2000 strong, the occasion being the reception of an ambassador from a neighbouring tribe. We were all comfortably seated on the green sward, and the duties of the day were proceeding in a regular and orderly way, when suddenly, as if thrilled by an electric shock, a group of 200 persons sprang to their feet, uttering, as they did so, loud cries of “ah! ah! ah!” in rapid staccato, and accompanied with looks and gestures indicative of imminent danger. This was too much for the majority, who were ignorant of the cause, and the whole crowd rose in wild excitement to rush helter skelter into uncontrollable confusion, and perhaps a needless fight. One glance, however, at a little knoll which could not well be hid, turned aside this calamity. There sat a body of chiefs, perfectly cool and self-possessed, though equally in darkness with all but the 200 as to the cause of the stir. This act of the chiefs was an instantaneous and mighty rebuke; for it is an almost unpardonable offence in cannibal-land to stand in the presence of great chiefs at any time without leave, but more especially so when those chiefs themselves are seated. The calmness of the chiefs, therefore, with a shout or two from a stentorian voice of “down! down! your chiefs are sitting down,” brought the heaving mass of humanity to itself again. Whereupon the cause of all the disturbance was found to be that the 200 people who were seated opposite a grove of banana trees, had observed a man with a bow and arrows quietly trying to pass on his way under cover of those trees. The crowd, as in duty bound by its characteristically suspicious nature, rushed to the conclusion that what they saw must be the first act of some tragic and savage plot.
A chief seldom laughs—never in the presence of strangers or in counsel assembled. It would be unchiefly to do so. This virtue of not laughing is both well illustrated and encouraged by a tale of one Keelai, a spirit guarding one of the ways to the interior of the spirit-world. He is in truth an armed constable, a kind of Cerberus, though not of the canine species, whose duty it is to see that none but the spirits of chiefs of great distinction pass along that sacred road. But how shall he know a chief from a common man? for there are fine-looking men among the lower orders of Cannibal-land as elsewhere. According to Fijian reasoning, therefore, it would not be wrong to suppose that the spirits of such men are at least as fine as their bodies were, and for this reason not much inferior to the spirits of men of higher rank.
Keelai, however, is at no loss for an easy and eminently successful test. He is armed with a club, which, to the cannibal soldier, is of the most laughable shape imaginable. Who, that is acquainted with the arms of war, can look on that club and not split his sides with laughter? Thus armed, the boneless watcher is ever ready for duty.
Nor has he long to wait for the sound of a fresh footfall. It is the tramp of a spirit just freed from fleshy bonds. As the stranger draws near, Keelai steps out into the middle of the path to give the challenge. The paths in Fiji’s spirit-land are like those in Fiji itself, very narrow, and fit only for marching in single file, so that when two travellers meet, one must stand aside to let the other pass. Holding up in warlike attitude his ridiculous club, Keelai utters a wild laugh like the neighing of a spirited horse, and fixes his steady but fire-flashing eye on that of the new arrival. Should this candidate for immortality laugh, Keelai smites him down with a blow
“That leaveth him
A corse most vilely shatter’d.”
But, if he presses boldly on, with a straight, stern face, and princely bearing, the officer steps out of his way and subsides.
The high-born chief is a perfect study. Whether you see him stretched on his cool, scarlet-fringed mat in dreamy and tropical laziness, smoking his cigarette, or out working in his garden planting taro and trimming banana trees, like one of his serfs; or strolling through the village or along the beach; or sailing in his favourite clipper canoe, often with the outrigger dangerously balanced just above the water, and scudding along like a flying-fish on nothing, to show you how cleverly he can sail without capsizing her; or in the presence of his subjects on some state occasion—in comparison with most of his countrymen you are bound to declare him every inch a chief. In national gatherings particularly it is impossible to mistake him, and almost equally impossible to counterfeit him. Good-looking, when out of their coating of red and black paint, good-tempered and chief-like as were many of these first-rank men, they nevertheless had in an exaggerated degree all the vices of feudal lords in general.
One of the most curious social customs of the country is that of the Vasu, or Nephew, who has the right of “requisitioning” the property of all to whom he is related. His influence is in proportion to the height of his position, which is fixedly his mother’s rank. If she were a lady of high station in her husband’s tribe, her children would be vasus of the highest order, but their power would be limited to that tribe. Whereas, if the mother were a lady of another tribe or kingdom, her children, though a shade lower as vasus, would yet have far more influence there than in their father’s tribe. According to the Fijian idea, the Prince Royal of Prussia, having taken to wife the Princess Royal of England, the children of the marriage are vasus to England; and the Prince of Wales, having married the Princess Alexandria of Denmark, the young princes and princesses are vasus to Denmark. This custom was a terrible tax on the people, as the following illustration will show.
Suppose a young lord of London marries a daughter of an old lord of Manchester, the children being vasus to Manchester, the eldest son takes the train one fine morning for the great northern city, and, after spending a few pleasant days there, goes back laden with any amount of wealth obtained from the rich manufacturers. How did he get it? Ex officio, by the simple exercise of his rights and privileges as their vasu. He went in and out boldly among his mother’s kinsfolk and townsfolk, putting his hands on this, that, and the other, taking the trouble to say as he did so, “mine, and mine, and mine.” When he reappeared at the West End, he was looked upon as not much inferior to Sindbad, the rich and lucky sailor. This state of things naturally ended in Manchester insisting on having vasus to London. Marriages were arranged with that view, and the evil was intensified.