498 MYSTIC ISLES 



humming resonantly, a deep, booming bass. The surf 

 beating on the reef, the wind in the cocoanut-trees, en- 

 tered into the volume of sound, and were mingled in the 

 emmeleia, a resulting magnificence of accord that re- 

 minded me curiously of a great pipe-organ. 



The himene was the offspring of the original efforts 

 of the Polynesians to adapt the songs of the sailormen, 

 the national airs of the adventurers of many countries, 

 the rollicking obscenities and drinking doggerel of the 

 navies, and the religious hymns drilled into their ears by 

 the missionaries, English and French. Now the words 

 and the meanings were inextricably confused. A leader 

 might begin with, "I am washed in the blood of the 

 Lamb," or, "The Son of Man goes forth to war, a golden 

 crown to gain; His blood-red banner streams afar — 

 who follows in his train?" But those striking in might 

 prefer such a phrase as, "The old white pig ran into the 

 sea," or, "Johnny Brown, I love your daughter," or 

 something not possible to write down. It was mostly 

 in the old Tahitian language, almost forgotten, and thus 

 unknown to the foreign preachers. Sex and religion 

 were as mingled here as in America. 



The airs were as wild as they were melodious ; here a 

 rippling torrent of ra, ra, ra-ra-ra, and la, la, la-la-la 

 breaking in on the sustained verses of the leaders; fal- 

 setto notes, high and strident, savage and shrilling, 

 piercing the thrumming diapason of the men; long, 

 droning tones like bagpipes, bubbling sounds like water 

 flowing; and all in perfect time. The clear, fascinating 

 false soprano of the woman leader had a cadence of 

 ecstasy, and I marked her under a lamp. Her head 

 was thrown back, her eyes were closed, and her features 



