August 27.—­I made a more extended circuit in the vale with Brother Michel.  We were mounted on a pair of sober nags, suitable to these rude paths; the weather was exquisite, and the company in which I found myself no less agreeable than the scenes through which I passed.  We mounted at first by a steep grade along the summit of one of those twisted spurs that, from a distance, mark out provinces of sun and shade upon the mountain-side.  The ground fell away on either hand with an extreme declivity.  From either hand, out of profound ravines, mounted the song of falling water and the smoke of household fires.  Here and there the hills of foliage would divide, and our eye would plunge down upon one of these deep-nested habitations.  And still, high in front, arose the precipitous barrier of the mountain, greened over where it seemed that scarce a harebell could find root, barred with the zigzags of a human road where it seemed that not a goat could scramble.  And in truth, for all the labour that it cost, the road is regarded even by the Marquesans as impassable; they will not risk a horse on that ascent; and those who lie to the westward come and go in their canoes.  I never knew a hill to lose so little on a near approach:  a consequence, I must suppose, of its surprising steepness.  When we turned about, I was amazed to behold so deep a view behind, and so high a shoulder of blue sea, crowned by the whale-like island of Motane.  And yet the wall of mountain had not visibly dwindled, and I could even have fancied, as I raised my eyes to measure it, that it loomed higher than before.

We struck now into covert paths, crossed and heard more near at hand the bickering of the streams, and tasted the coolness of those recesses where the houses stood.  The birds sang about us as we descended.  All along our path my guide was being hailed by voices:  ‘Mikael—­Kaoha, Mikael!’ From the doorstep, from the cotton-patch, or out of the deep grove of island-chestnuts, these friendly cries arose, and were cheerily answered as we passed.  In a sharp angle of a glen, on a rushing brook and under fathoms of cool foliage, we struck a house upon a well-built paepae, the fire brightly burning under the popoi-shed against the evening meal; and here the cries became a chorus, and the house folk, running out, obliged us to dismount and breathe.  It seemed a numerous family:  we saw eight at least; and one of these honoured me with a particular attention.  This was the mother, a woman naked to the waist, of an aged countenance, but with hair still copious and black, and breasts still erect and youthful.  On our arrival I could see she remarked me, but instead of offering any greeting, disappeared at once into the bush.  Thence she returned with two crimson flowers.  ’Good-bye!’ was her salutation, uttered not without coquetry; and as she said it she pressed the flowers into my hand—­’Good-bye!  I speak Inglis.’  It was from a whaler-man,