Surprised at this, I asked Samuela the reason, as soon as I could disengage him for a few moments from the caresses of his friends.  He informed me that the ladies’ reluctance to favour us with their society was owing to their being in native dress, which it is punishable to appear in among white men, the punishment consisting of a rather heavy fine.  Even the men and boys, I noticed, before they ventured to climb on board, stayed a while to put on trousers, or what did duty for those useful articles of dress.  At any rate, they were all clothed, not merely enwrapped with a fold or two of “tapa,” the native bark-cloth, but made awkward and ugly by dilapidated shirts and pants.

She was a busy ship for the rest of that day.  The anchor down, sails furled and decks swept, the rest of the time was our own, and high jinks were the result.  The islanders were amiability personified, merry as children, nor did I see or hear one quarrelsome individual among them.  While we were greedily devouring the delicious fruit, which was piled on deck in mountainous quantities, they encouraged us, telling us that the trees ashore were breaking down under their loads, and what a pity it was that there were so few to eat such bountiful supplies.

We were, it appeared, the first whale-ship that had anchored there that year, and, in that particular bay where we lay, no vessel had moored for over two years.  An occasional schooner from Sydney called at the “town” about ten miles away, where the viceroy’s house was, and at the present time of speaking one of Godeffroi’s Hamburg ships was at anchor there, taking in an accumulation of copra from her agent’s store.  But the natives all spoke of her with a shrug—­“No like Tashman.  Tashman no good.”  Why, I could not ascertain.

Our Kanakas had promised to remain with us till our departure for the south, so, hard as it seemed to them, they were not allowed to go ashore, in case they might not come back, and leave us short-handed.  But as their relatives and friends could visit them whenever they felt inclined, the restriction did not hurt them much.  The next day, being Sunday, all hands were allowed liberty to go ashore by turns (except the Kanakas), with strict injunctions to molest no one, but to behave as if in a big town guarded by policemen.  As no money could be spent, none was given, and, best of all, it was impossible to procure any intoxicating liquor.

Our party got ashore about 9.30, but not a soul was visible either on the beach or in the sun-lit paths which led through the forest inland.  Here and there a house, with doors wide open, stood in its little cleared space, silent and deserted.  It was like a country without inhabitants.  Presently, however, a burst of melody arrested us, and borne upon the scented breeze came oh, so sweetly!—­the well-remembered notes of “Hollingside.”  Hurriedly getting behind a tree, I let myself go, and had a perfectly lovely, soul-refreshing cry.