Herman Melville, Mariner and Mystic

by Raymond M. Weaver

Everybody knows how in 1769 the Royal Society, discovering that there would happen a transit of Venus, and that this interesting astronomical event would be best observed from some place in the Pacific, hit upon James Cook—Byron, Wallis and Cartaret all being in the Pacific at the time—master in the Royal Navy, to command the expedition. The Marquesas were chosen as the place for the observation; but while the expedition was being fitted out, Captain Wallis returned to England, bringing news of the discovery of Tahiti. So well known is the story of Captain Cook that few can boast the distinction of total ignorance of his three voyages to the Pacific,—the first in command of an astronomical expedition, the second in search of a Southern Continent, the third in quest of a Northwest Passage; of his discoveries and adventures in every conceivable part of the Pacific; of his repeated returns to Tahiti; of his finally being killed on the island called by him Owhyhee, murdered despite the fact that he had shown a power of conciliation granted to no other navigator in these seas. For, a long time ago, there lived, on the island of Hawaii, Lono the swine-god. He was jealous of his wife, and killed her. Driven to frenzy by the act, he went about boxing and wrestling with every man he met, crying, “I am frantic with my great love.” Then he sailed away for a foreign land, prophesying at his departure: “I shall return in after times on an island bearing cocoa-nut trees, swine, and dogs.” When, after a year’s absence, Cook returned to Hawaii, he arrived the day after a great battle, and the victorious natives were absolutely certain that Cook was the great swine-god, Lono, who long ages ago had departed mad with love, now, to add lustre to their triumph, returned on an island bearing cocoa-nut trees, swine, and dogs. This attribution of deity was hardly complimentary to Cook’s crew. And in time the islanders tired of their enthusiasm and the expense of entertaining strolling deities. After sixteen days of prodigal hospitality, the natives began stroking the sides and patting the bellies of the sailors, telling them, partly by signs, partly by words, it was time to go. They went. But a week afterwards the ship returned. There was a quarrel. Among some people a quarrel leads to a fight. In a fight somebody naturally gets killed. Or, it may have been,—Walter Besant suggests,—that perhaps it may have occurred to some native humourist to wonder how a god would look and behave with a spear stuck right through him. Cook fell into the water, and spoke no more.

In his life, as in his death, Cook enjoyed all the successes. Boswell dined with him at Sir John Pringle’s on April 2, 1776, and reported the glowing event to Dr. Johnson. A snuff-box was carved out of the planks of one of his vessels, and presented to James Fenimore Cooper. Fanny Burney records with pride her father’s meeting the famous navigator, whom she herself met in society and in her own home. Joseph Priestly contemplated accompanying Cook to the South Seas. An artist—W. Hodges—was officially appointed to accompany him to perpetuate his exploits in oil. He read learned papers before the Royal Society, for one of which the counsel adjudged him the Copley Gold Medal. Six times was his portrait painted, and once was it seriously proposed that Dr. Johnson be appointed his official biographer. Not even by Omai, a native of Tahiti that Captain Furneaux brought to England, was Captain Cook’s glory eclipsed. And Omai was received by the King, was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and was laden with gifts when he was taken back to Tahiti by Captain Cook on his third voyage. Omai, too, attended meetings of the Royal Society, and it is to his credit that he behaved himself fairly well. It was regretted by the Directors of the London Missionary Society that though “great attention was paid to him by some of the nobility, it was chiefly directed to his amusement, and tended rather to augment than to diminish his habitual profligacy.” In 1785-6, there was repeatedly performed at Covent Garden Theatre a pantomime named after him. The characters, besides Omai, were Towha, the Guardian Genius of Omai’s Ancestors; Otoo, Father of Omai; Harlequin, Servant to Omai. To give a blend of edification to romance, the performance included, so a surviving play-bill announces, “a Procession exactly representing the dresses, weapons and manners of the Inhabitants of Otaheite, New Zealand, Tanna, Marquesas, Friendly, Sandwich and Easter Islands, and other countries visited by Captain Cook.” In 1789, so vividly was the tragic end of Captain Cook still mourned, that at the Theatre-Royal, Covent Garden, was presented a spectacular tribute posted as The Death of Captain. It was “a Grand Serious Pantomimic Ballet, in Three Parts, as now exhibiting in Paris with uncommon applause, with the Original French Music, New Scenery, Machinery, and other Decorations.” This performance may have been inspired by an Ode on the Death of Captain Cook penned by Miss Seward, the Swan of Lichfield: an ode praised by her fellow-townsman, Dr. Johnson. In 1774 there appeared in London “An Epistle from Oberea, Queen of Otaheite, to Joseph Banks, Esq., translated by T. Q. Z., Esq., Professor of the Otaheite Language in Dublin, and of all the Languages of the Undiscovered Islands in the South Seas, enriched with Historical and Explanatory Notes,” and so novel and popular was the South Sea manner, that its author was mistaken for a wit, and his efforts at humour repeatedly and laboriously imitated. As a corrective to such levity, there appeared in 1779 an effusion in verse, adorned with vignette depicting Tahitian women dancing, entitled The Injured Islanders; or, The Influence of Art upon the Happiness of Nature. There is no lack of evidence to prove that the exploits of Captain Cook brought the South Seas, and especially Tahiti, into exuberant and irresponsible popularity. Nor did business enterprise nap during the festivities. Information which had been received of the great utility of the bread-fruit, induced the merchants and planters of the British West Indies to request that means might be used to transplant it thither. For this purpose a ship was benevolently commissioned by George the Third: the Bounty, commanded by Lieutenant Bligh. The voyage of the Bounty ended in a horrible tragedy and an intensely interesting romance. The story of the mutiny of the Bounty, and its astonishing sequels, joined further to vitalise the interest in the South Seas. A frigate, significantly called the Pandora, was sent out from England to Tahiti to seize the Bounty mutineers. Though the Pandora was despatched as a messenger of justice, the usual course of festivity, amusement and debaucheries was uninterrupted during the continuance of the ship at Tahiti. And the year following, with British doggedness, Captain Bligh returned to accomplish the purpose of his former voyage which had been frustrated by mutiny. In 1793, the Daedalus, Vancouver’s storeship, stopped at Tahiti, leaving behind a Swedish sailor with a taste for savagery. The same year an American whaler, the Matilda, was wrecked off Tahiti, and the crew, delighted at their good fortune, betrayed no inclination for an immediate departure.

But while the frivolous, the sentimental, and the ungodly were busy converting Tahitian savagery into a Georgian idyll, the well-starched Wesleyan conscience crackled in horror at the black unredemption of the South Sea heathen. “The discoveries made in the great southern seas by the voyages undertaken at the command of his present majesty, George the Third,” says a spokesman for the community, “excited wonderful attention, and brought, as it were, into light a world till then almost unknown. The perusal of the accounts of these repeated voyages could not but awaken, in such countries as our own, various speculations, according as men were differently affected. But when these islands were found to produce little that would excite the cupidity of ambition, or answer the speculations of the interested”—well, then it was that the protestant conscience bestirred itself, and on September 25, 1795, founded the London Missionary Society. It celebrated its first birthday by determining to begin work with the islands of the southern ocean, “as these, for a long time past, had excited peculiar attention. Their situation of mental ignorance and moral depravity strongly impressed on our minds the obligation we lay under to endeavour to call them from darkness into marvellous light. The miseries and diseases which their intercourse with Europeans had occasioned seemed to upbraid our neglect of repairing, if possible, these injuries; but above all, we longed to send to them the everlasting gospel, the first and most distinguished of blessings which Jehovah has bestowed upon the children of men.”

A select committee of ministers, approved for evangelical principles and ability, was appointed to examine the candidates for the mission—who applied in great numbers—as to their views, capacity, and “knowledge in the mystery of godliness.” Thirty missionaries were chosen: four ministers, six carpenters, two shoemakers, two bricklayers, two tailors (one of whom, “late of the royal artillery”), two smiths, two weavers, a surgeon, a hatter, a cotton manufacturer, a cabinet maker, a harness maker, a tinsmith, a cooper, and a butcher. There were three women and three children also in the party. On August 10, 1796, on the ship Duff, commanded by Captain Wilson, who had been wonderfully converted to God, this band, in chorus with a hundred voices, sang “Jesus, at thy command—we launch into the deep” as they sailed out of Spithead. The singing, it is said, produced “a pleasing and solemn sensation.” On Sunday, March 5, 1797, after an uneventful voyage, the Duff dropped anchor at Tahiti. Seventy-four canoes came out to welcome the strangers and broke the Sabbath by crowding about the decks, “dancing and capering like frantic persons.” Nor was the first impression made upon the Missionaries entirely favourable; “their wild disorderly behaviour, strong smell of cocoa-nut oil, together with the tricks of the arreoies, lessened the favourable impression we had formed of them; neither could we see aught of that elegance and beauty in their women for which they had been so greatly celebrated.” Conversation with the natives was facilitated by the presence of two tattooed Swedes—one formerly of the crew of the Matilda, the other left by the Daedalus. During sermon and prayer the natives were quiet and thoughtful, “but when the singing struck up, they seemed charmed and filled with amazement; sometimes they would talk and laugh, but a nod of the head brought them to order.” Next day,—for they arrived on the Sabbath,—some of the missionaries landed and were presented with the house King Pomare had built for Captain Bligh. This important matter settled, the chief thought it time to enquire after entertainment; “first sky-rockets, next the violin and dancing, and lastly the bagpipe.” Lacking such diversions, the missionaries offered a few solos on the German flute,—and “it plainly appeared that more lively music would have pleased them better.”

Domestic arrangements established, to the great diversion of the natives, the missionaries tried to get some clothes on some of them. The queen had to rip open the garments, it is true, to get into them; but one Tanno Manoo, who was given a warm week-day dress, and a showy morning gown and petticoat for the Sundays, “when dressed, made a very decent appearance; taking more pains to cover her breasts, and even to keep her feet from being seen, than most of the ladies of England have of late done.” The natives were deeply perplexed by the proprieties of the Missionaries, and especially by what to them seemed the unnatural chastity of the men.

Since the Missionaries had resolved to distribute their blessings, they sent a party of brethren to make investigations on the Marquesas. The first visitors the ship received from the shore were “seven beautiful young women, swimming quite naked, except for a few green leaves tied round their middle; nor did our mischievous goats even suffer them to keep their green leaves, but as they turned to avoid them they were attacked on each side alternately, and completely stripped naked.” Such, too, was their “symmetry of features, that as models for the statuary and painter their equals can seldom be found.” As they danced about the deck, frequently bursting out into mad fits of laughter, or talking as fast as their tongues could go, surely they must have convinced more than one of the meditative brethren of the total depravity of man. Nor did these shameless savages confine their excursions to the decks. “It was not a little affecting to see our own seamen repairing the rigging, attended by a group of the most beautiful females, who were employed to pass the ball, or carry the tar-bucket, etc.; and this they did with the greatest assiduity, often besmearing themselves with the tar in the execution of their office. No ship’s company, without great restraints from God’s grace, could ever have resisted such temptations.”

Harris and Crook, two of the brethren, daring temptation, decided to stay at the Marquesas, and were moved ashore. But before the Duff sailed back to Tahiti, Harris was found on the shore about four o’clock one morning “in a most pitiable plight, and like one out of his senses.” It appears that the Marquesan chief Tenae, taking Crook upon an inland jaunt, had departed, conferring upon Harris all the privileges of domesticity. Tenae’s wife, sharing her husband’s ideas of hospitality, was troubled at Harris’ reserve. So, “finding herself treated with total neglect, became doubtful of his sex,” says the London Missionary Society in a report dedicated to George the Third, “and acquainted some of the other females with her suspicion, who accordingly came in the night, when he slept, and satisfied themselves concerning that point, but not in such a peaceable way but that they awoke him. Discovering so many strangers, he was greatly terrified; and, perceiving what they had been doing, was determined to leave a place where the people were so abandoned and given up to wickedness; a cause which should have excited a contrary resolution.” Harris was forty years old at the time, and by trade a cooper.

Crook, however, remained in the Marquesas for eighteen months, where, alone, he tried to enlighten and improve the natives. The Marquesas had a bad reputation among whalemen, and though they had been occasionally visited by enterprising voyagers—by Fanning, Krusenstern, Porter, and Finch—they for long remained especially virulent in their native depravity. It is true that Crook returned after many years to place among the Marquesans four converted natives from the Society Islands. In 1834, two missionaries from England, accompanied by Darling from Tahiti and several converted natives, recommenced the arduous work of evangelising this ferocious people. During four years the faithful Stallworthy patiently toiled at his station, when in 1838 a French frigate landed two Catholic priests in the very and the only spot then cultivated by an English protestant labourer. These fellow-workers in Christ competed for the souls of heathens. Though, in 1839, to even the odds, Stallworthy received a reinforcement of one of his English brethren, after two years the English missionaries found it impossible “to maintain usefully their ground against the united influence of heathen barbarism, popish craft, French power, and French profligacy.” Thus “ravished from the Protestant charity that had so long watched for its salvation,” the Marquesans, when discovered by Melville, were in large part virgin in their barbarism.

At Tahiti, the brethren of the London Missionary Society continued to work unrestingly, and against incredible discouragement. The natives were, as Captain Cook discovered, “prodigious expert” as thieves. One snatcher-up of unconsidered trifles, when by way of punishment chained to a pillar with a padlock, not only contrived to get away, but to steal the padlock. Yet, by the representation of the London Missionary Society, “their honesty to one another seems unimpeachable,” and they cultivated a Utopian sense of property: “They have no writing or records, but memory or landmarks. Every man knows his own; and he would be thought of all characters the basest, who should attempt to infringe on his neighbour, or claim a foot of land that did not belong to him, or his adopted friend.” Indeed, despite the reprobation dealt out to them in tracts compiled for Sunday-school edification (Mrs. F. L. Mortimer’s The Night of Toil being a typically diverting libel), the London Missionary Society, in its official reports, was—paradoxically enough—their most convincing apologist. The natural beauties of their country were again expatiated upon to the glory of the First Artist. So prodigal was the natural abundance of Tahiti that the brethren glorified it by converting it into a temptation. One of the brethren wrote in his journal: “O Lord, how greatly hast thou honoured me, that thousands of thy dear children should be praying for me, a worm! Lord, thou hast set me in a heathen land, but a land, if I may so speak, with milk and honey. O put more grace and gratitude into my poor cold heart, and grant that I may never with Jeshurun grow fat and kick.” The natives themselves were untroubled by any such compunctions. “Their life is without toil,” the brethren reported, “and every man is at liberty to do, go and act as he pleases, without the distress of care or apprehension of want: and as their leisure is great, their sports and amusements are various.” Their personal beauty, their almost ostentatious cleanliness, their boundless generosity, were by the London Missionary Society insisted upon. The best of them, however, lived “in a fearfully promiscuous intercourse,” and emulated the classical Greeks in infanticide and other reprehensible practices. Yet do the brethren allow that “in their dances alone is immodesty permitted; it may be affirmed, they have in many instances more refined ideas of decency than ourselves. They say that Englishmen are ashamed of nothing, and that we have led them to public acts of indecency never before practised among them.” But then, as the London Missionary Society says in another place: “Their ideas, no doubt, of shame and delicacy are very different from ours; they are not yet advanced to any such state of civilisation and refinement.” At their departure from native custom, however, they were untroubled by contrition. When asked “what is the true atonement for sin?” they answered, “Hogs and pearls.” When the pleasant novelty of being exhorted and preached to wore off, they did not behave impeccably during the devotions of the brethren. They often cried out “lies” and “nonsense” during the sermon. At other times they tried to make each other laugh by repeating sentences after the brethren, or by playing antics, and making faces. Many of the natives used to lie down and sleep as soon as the sermon began, while “others were so trifling as to make remarks upon the missionaries’ clothes, or upon their appearance. Thus Satan filled their hearts with folly, lest they should believe and be saved.” All the best inducements the brethren could hold out to tempt them into “the divine life” moved them not. “You talk to us of salvation, and we are dying,” they said; “we want no other salvation than to be cured of our diseases and to live here always, and to eat and talk.” So unappreciative were they of the efforts of the brethren that they explained the presence of the missionaries in Tahiti as growing out of a sensible desire to escape from the ugliness and worry and brutality of European civilisation. As for the lacerated solicitude and strange unselfishness of the brethren to confer upon each of them a soul with all of its pestering responsibilities: that, they found totally incomprehensible.