We attended service at the church, where we found but a small
congregation; and after what I had seen in Papeetee, nothing very
interesting took place. But the audience had a curious, fidgety look,
which I knew not how to account for until we ascertained that a
sermon with the eighth commandment for a text was being preached.
It seemed that there lived an Englishman in the district, who, like
our friends, the planters, was cultivating Tombez potatoes for the
Papeetee market.
In spite of all his precautions, the natives were in the habit of
making nocturnal forays into his inclosure, and carrying off the
potatoes. One night he fired a fowling-piece, charged with pepper and
salt, at several shadows which he discovered stealing across his
premises. They fled. But it was like seasoning anything else; the
knaves stole again with a greater relish than ever; and the very next
night, he caught a party in the act of roasting a basketful of
potatoes under his own cooking-shed. At last, he stated his
grievances to the missionary; who, for the benefit of his
congregation, preached the sermon we heard.
Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people of the
valley were bribed to be honest.
