Jarwin spoke, of course, in the native tongue, which we translate into his own language.
“Big Chief, small chiefs, and niggers in general,” he began, with a wave of his right hand, “you’ve called on me for a speech. Good. I’m your man, I’m a ‘Breetish tar,’ as your great chief says truly—that’s a fact; an’ I’m a Christian—I hope. God knows, I’ve sometimes my own doubts as to that same; but the doubts ain’t with reference to the Almighty; they’re chiefly as regards myself. Howsever, to come to the point, you’ve gone and burnt your idols—”
“Ho!” exclaimed the whole assembly, with a degree of energy that made a deep impression on the sailor—just as one might be impressed when he has been permitted to become the happy medium of achieving some great end which he had never dreamed of being privileged to accomplish.
“Well, then,” continued Jarwin, “that is a good thing, anyhow; for it’s a disgrace to human natur’, not to speak o’ common-sense an’ other things, to worship stocks an’ stones, w’en the Bible distinctly tolls ’ee not to do it. You’ve done right in that matter; an’ glad am I to hear from Big Chief that you intend, after this, to foller the truth. Old man, an’ niggers,” cried Jarwin, warming up, “to my mind, the highest thing that a man can dewot his-self to is, the follerin’ out an’ fallin’ in with the truth. Just s’pose that chemists, an’ ingineers, an’ doctors was to foller lies! W’y, wot would come of it? Confoosion wus confounded. In coorse, therefore, they carefully tries to foller wots true—though I’m bound for to say they do git off the track now an’ then. Well, if it’s so with such like, it’s much more so with religion. Wot then? W’y, stand by your colours, through thick an’ thin. Hold on to the Bible! That’s the watchword. That’s your sheet-anchor—though you haven’t seed one yet. It’s good holdin’ ground is the Bible—it’s the only holdin’ ground. ‘How does I know that?’ says you. Well, it ain’t easy for me to give you an off-hand answer to that, any more than it is to give you an off-hand answer to a complicated question in the rule o’ three. A parson could do it, no doubt, but the likes o’ me can only show a sort o’ reflected light like the moon; nevertheless, we may show a true light—though reflected. Chiefs an’ niggers, there’s asses in every generation (young asses chiefly) as thinks they’ve found out somethin’ noo in regard to the Bible, an’ then runs it down. An’ them fellers grow old, an’ sticks to their opinions; an’ they think themselves wise, an’ other people thinks ’em wise ’cause they’re old, as if oldness made ’em wise! W’y are they asses? W’y, because they formed their opinions early in life, in opposition to men wot has studied these matters all through their lives. Havin’ hoisted their colours, they nails ’em to the mast; an’ there they are! They never goes at the investigation o’ the subject as a man investigates mathematics, or navigation, or logarithms; so they’re like a ship at sea without a chart. Niggers, no man can claim to be wise unless he can ‘render a reason.’ He may be, p’raps, but he can’t claim to be. I believe the Bible’s true because o’ two facts. Fust of all, men of the highest intellec’ have found it true, an tried it, an’ practised its teachin’s, an’ rested their souls on it. In the second place, as the parsons say, I have tried it, an’ found it true as fur as I’ve gone. I’ve sailed accordin to the chart, an’ have struck on no rocks or shoals as yet. I’ve bin wery near it; but, thank God, I wasn’t allowed to take the wrong course altogether, though I’ve got to confess that I wanted to, many a time. Now, wot does all this here come to?” demanded Jarwin, gazing round on his audience, who were intensely interested, though they did not understand much of what he said, “wot does it come to? W’y that, havin’ wisely given up yer idols, an’ taken to the true God, the next best thing you can do is to go off at once to Raratonga, an’ git the best adwice you can from those wot are trained for to give it. I can’t say no fairer than that, for, as to askin’ adwice on religious matters from the likes o’ me, w’y the thing’s parfitly ridiklous!”
Jarwin sat down amid a murmur of applause. In a few minutes an old chief rose to reply. His words were to the effect that, although there was much in their white brother’s speech beyond their understanding—which was not to be wondered at, considering that he was so learned, and they so ignorant—there was one part of it which he thoroughly agreed with, namely, that a party should be sent to Raratonga to inform the Cookee missionaries as to what had taken place, to ask advice, and to beg one of the Cookees to come and live permanently on their island, and teach them the Christian religion. Another chief followed with words and sentiments to much the same effect. Then Big Chief gave orders that the canoes for the deputation should be got ready without delay, and the meeting broke up with loud shouts and other pleasant demonstrations.
Matters having been thus satisfactorily arranged, Jarwin returned to his hut with a grateful heart, to meditate on the happy turn that had taken place in his prospects. Finding the hut not quite congenial to his frame of mind, and observing that the day was unusually fine, he resolved to ramble in the cool shades of a neighbouring wood.
“Come, Cuff, my doggie, you an’ I shall go for a walk this fine day; we’ve much to think about an’ talk over, d’ee see, which is best done in solitary places.”
Need we say that Cuffy responded with intense enthusiasm to this invitation, and that his “spanker boom” became violently demonstrative as he followed his master into the wood.
Jarwin still wore, as we have said, his old canvas trousers, which had been patched and re-patched to such an extent with native cloth, that very little of the original fabric was visible. The same may be said of his old flannel shirt, to which he clung with affectionate regard long after it had ceased to be capable of clinging to him without patchwork strengthening. The remnants of his straw hat, also, had been carefully kept together, so that, with the exception of the paint on his face, which Big Chief insisted on his wearing, and the huge South-Sea club which he carried habitually for protection, he was still a fair specimen of a British tar.
Paroquets were chattering happily; rills were trickling down the hillsides; fruit and flower trees perfumed the air, and everything looked bright and beautiful—in pleasant accordance with the state of Jarwin’s feelings—while the two friends wandered away through the woods in dreamy enjoyment of the past and present, and with hopeful anticipations in regard to the future. Jarwin said something to this effect to Cuffy, and put it to him seriously to admit the truth of what he said, which that wise dog did at once—if there be any truth in the old saying that “silence is consent.”