At the end of the year 1775, the Doctor’s eldest son, Captain James Burney, who, on board the Cerberus, had convoyed General Burgoyne to America, obtained permission from the Admiralty to return home, in order to again accompany Captain Cooke in a voyage round the world; the second circumnavigation of the young Captain; the third, and unhappily the last, of the great Captain Cooke.

Omiah, whom they were to restore to his country and friends, came now upon a leave-taking visit to the family of his favourite Captain Burney.

Omiah, by this time, had made some proficiency in the English language, and in English customs; and he knew the town so well, that he perambulated it for exercise and for visits, without either interpreter or guide.

But he owed quite as much assistance to attitude and gesture, for making himself understood, as to speech, for in that he was still, at times, quite unintelligible. To dumb shew he was probably familiar, the brevity and paucity of his own dialect making it necessarily a principal source of communication at Ulitea and at Otaheite. What he knew of English he must have caught instinctively and mechanically, as it is caught by children; and, it may be, only the faster from having his attention unencumbered with grammatical difficulties, or orthographical contrarieties: yesterday served for the past, in all its distances: tomorrow, for the future, in all its dependences.

The King allowed him a handsome pension, upon which he lived perfectly at ease, and very happily: and he entertained, in return, as gratefully loyal a devotion to his Majesty as if he had been a native born subject.

He was very lively, yet gentle; and even politely free from any forwardness or obtrusion; holding back, and keeping silent, when not called into notice, with as much delicacy and reserve, as any well bred European. And his confidence in the benevolence and honour of the strangers with whom he had trusted his person and his life, spoke a nature as intrepid as it was guileless.

Dr. Burney inquired of him whether he had lately seen the King?

“Yes,” he answered, “Yes. King George bid me, ‘Omy, you go home.’ O! dood man, King George! ver dood man!—not ver bad!”

He then endeavoured, very pleasingly, to discriminate between his joy at returning to his native land, and his grief in quitting England. “Lord Sandwich,” he said, “bid me—Mr. Omy, you two ships: one, two: you go home. Omy make ver fine bow;” which he rose to perform, and with grace and ease; “den Omy say, My lord, ver much oblige!”

The Doctor asked whether he had been at the Opera?

His answer was a violent and ear-jarring squeak, by way of imitating Italian singing. Nevertheless, he said that he began to like it a great deal better than he had done at first.

He now missed Richard, the Doctor’s youngest son,[1] and, upon being told that he was gone to school, clapped his hands, and cried, “O, learn book? ver well.” Then, putting his hands together, and opening and shutting them, to imitate turning over the leaves of a book, he attempted to describe the humour of some school that he had been taken to see. “Boys here;” he cried: “boys there; boys all over. Master call. One boy come up. Do so,—” muttering a confused jargon to imitate reading. “Not ver well. Ver bad. Master do so!”

He then described the master giving the boy a rap on the shoulder with the book. “Ha! ha!—Boy like ver bad! not ver well. Boy do so;” making wry faces. “Poor boy! not ver dood. Boy ver bad.”

When the Doctor wished to know what he thought of English horses, and the English mode of riding, he answered, “Omy like ver well.” He then tried to expatiate upon riding double, which he had seen upon the high road, and which had much astonished him. “First,” cried he, “go man; so!—” making a motion as if mounting and whipping a horse. “Then here!” pointing behind him; “here go woman! Ha! ha! ha!”

The Doctor asked when he had seen the beautiful Lady Townshend, who was said to desire his acquaintance.

He immediately made a low bow, with a pleased smile, and said, “Ver pret woman, Lady Townshend; not ver nasty. Omy drink tea with Lady Townshend in one, two, tree days. Lord Townshend my friend. Lady Townshend my friend. Ver pret woman, Lady Townshend: ver pret woman Mrs. Crewe: ver pret woman Mrs. Bouverie: ver pret woman, Lady Craven.”

Dr. Burney concurred, and admired his taste. He then said, that when he was invited anywhere they wrote, “Mr. Omy, you come—dinner, tea, supper.—Then Omy go, ver fast.”

Dr. Burney requested that he would favour us with a national song of Ulitea, which he had sung to Lord Sandwich, at Hinchenbrook.

He seemed much ashamed, and unwilling to comply, from a full consciousness now acquired of the inferiority of his native music to our’s. But the family all joined in the Doctor’s wish, and he was too obliging to refuse. Nevertheless, he was so modest, that he seemed to blush alike at his own performance, and at the barbarity of his South Sea Islands’ harmony; and he began two or three times before he could gather firmness to proceed.

Nothing could be more curious, or less pleasing than this singing. Voice he had none; and tune, or air, did not seem to be even aimed at, either by composer or performer. ’Twas a mere queer, wild and strange rumbling of uncouth sounds.

His music, Dr. Burney declared, was all that he had about him of savage.

He took great pains, however, to Englishize the meaning of his ditty, which was laughable enough. It appeared to be a sort of trio, formed by an old woman, a young woman, and a young man: the two latter begin by entertaining each other with praises of their mutual merits, and protestations of their mutual passion; when the old woman enters, and endeavours to allure to herself the attention of the young man; and, as she cannot boast of her personal charms, she is very busy in displaying her dress and decorations, and making him observe and admire her draperies. He stood up to act this scene; and shewed much humour in representing the absurd affectation and languishing grimaces of this ancient enamorata. The youth, next, turning from her with scorn, openly avows his passion for the young nymph: upon which, the affronted antique dame authoritatively orders the damsel away; and then, coming up, with soft and loving smiles, offers herself unreservedly to the young man; saying, to use his own words, “Come—marry me!” The young man starts back, as if from some venomous insect; but, half returning, makes her a reverence, and then humbly begs she will be so good as to excuse him; but, as she approaches to answer, and to coax him, he repels her with derision, and impetuously runs off.

Notwithstanding the singing of Omiah was so barbarous, his action, and the expression of his countenance, was so original, that they afforded great amusement, of the risible kind, to the Doctor and his family, who could not finally part from him without much regret; so gentle, so ingenuous, so artless, and so pleasing had been his conduct and conversation in his frequent visits to the house; nor did he, in return, finally quit them without strong symptoms even of sadness.

In the February of the ensuing year, 1776, Captain Burney set sail, with Captain Cooke and Omiah, on their watery tour.