I had occasion to see much of this excellent man.  He sailed with us from Tai-o-hae to Hiva-oa, a dead beat of ninety miles against a heavy sea.  It was what is called a good passage, and a feather in the Casco’s cap; but among the most miserable forty hours that any one of us had ever passed.  We were swung and tossed together all that time like shot in a stage thunder-box.  The mate was thrown down and had his head cut open; the captain was sick on deck; the cook sick in the galley.  Of all our party only two sat down to dinner.  I was one.  I own that I felt wretchedly; and I can only say of the other, who professed to feel quite well, that she fled at an early moment from the table.  It was in these circumstances that we skirted the windward shore of that indescribable island of Ua-pu; viewing with dizzy eyes the coves, the capes, the breakers, the climbing forests, and the inaccessible stone needles that surmount the mountains.  The place persists, in a dark corner of our memories, like a piece of the scenery of nightmares.  The end of this distressful passage, where we were to land our passengers, was in a similar vein of roughness.  The surf ran high on the beach at Taahauku; the boat broached-to and capsized; and all hands were submerged.  Only the brother himself, who was well used to the experience, skipped ashore, by some miracle of agility, with scarce a sprinkling.  Thenceforward, during our stay at Hiva-oa, he was our cicerone and patron; introducing us, taking us excursions, serving us in every way, and making himself daily more beloved.

Michel Blanc had been a carpenter by trade; had made money and retired, supposing his active days quite over; and it was only when he found idleness dangerous that he placed his capital and acquirements at the service of the mission.  He became their carpenter, mason, architect, and engineer; added sculpture to his accomplishments, and was famous for his skill in gardening.  He wore an enviable air of having found a port from life’s contentions and lying there strongly anchored; went about his business with a jolly simplicity; complained of no lack of results—­perhaps shyly thinking his own statuary result enough; and was altogether a pattern of the missionary layman.

CHAPTER VIII—­THE PORT OF ENTRY

The port—­the mart, the civil and religious capital of these rude islands—­is called Tai-o-hae, and lies strung along the beach of a precipitous green bay in Nuka-hiva.  It was midwinter when we came thither, and the weather was sultry, boisterous, and inconstant.  Now the wind blew squally from the land down gaps of splintered precipice; now, between the sentinel islets of the entry, it came in gusts from seaward.  Heavy and dark clouds impended on the summits; the rain roared and ceased; the scuppers of the mountain gushed; and the next day we would see the sides of the amphitheatre bearded with white