In at least one of the villages of Nuieue a singular custom prevails. One day in the year is fixed as a day of judgment. Every soul, man, woman, and child, gathers together on the village green. Votes are cast for a whipper, and a jury, composed of half Christians and half heathens, is chosen. One by one the people come forward and publicly confess their sins, while the jury fixes the punishment, which is whipping or an equivalent fine. The fines may be paid in goods of any sort, the value of the article offered being rated at the price originally paid for it. For instance, a man fined a dollar may bring the unwearable remains of a tattered hat that cost him a dollar the year before. The elected officials do not escape punishment by virtue of their position. After the jury has confessed and fixed its own punishment, the whipper must do the same, and, if whipping is his doom, must proceed to whip himself. So, next day, every soul starts afresh with consciences sponged clean, ready for a new record of sins. The confessions seem to be genuine and sometimes cause the utmost surprise and consternation to those who have been sinned against.
The desire to own an island is still burning in my breast. In this neighbourhood, nearer Samoa, is just the island I want, owned, unfortunately, by a man in Tahiti. It is called Nassau and is said to be uninhabited.
Last night an immense rat ran over me in bed, and Mr. Henderson had the same unpleasant experience. In the hold of the _Janet_ are a number of pure white rats with red eyes, which appeared of themselves quite mysteriously. The captain will not allow them to be harmed, which I think is very nice and sentimental of him. It was amusing to see our dog's perplexity when we came to anchor, and he put his head out of a port-hole to have a look at Auckland. His very tail expressed alarmed surprise. Our second steward (a white man) is in a state of wild delight. He took his "billet" under the head steward from a romantic hope of seeing Samoa, of which he had once read a description in a newspaper. Every little while I hear his voice, quivering with excitement: "What do you think of it, Mrs. Stevens?" One moment he is thrusting sugar-cane into my hand: "Taste it, Mrs. Stevens, it's sugar stick! I never saw it before!" and the next is: "_Cocoanut! cocoanut!_ It's _green cocoanut_, Mrs. Stevens; I never saw it before in my life!" It is of no use to tell him that it is all an old story to me; he hears nothing but babbles on with shining eyes. I have just overheard this from a white stoker who had also never been in the tropics before: "He's been and swindled me, that native! There's nothing inside this green cocoanut but some kind of water."