of spray and great masses of water, driving and hurling it against any obstacle, such as our little vessel, with inconceivable fury.  As I stood on deck, gasping for breath, my eyes literally unable to keep themselves open, and only by glimpses getting a view of this most grand and terrible sight, it seemed as if a furious snow-storm was raging over a swelling, heaving, dark mass of waters.  When anything could be seen beyond the first or second line of waves, the sky and sea appeared to meet in one cataract of rain and spray.  A few birds were driving about like spirits of the storm.  It was, as Shakspeare calls it, a regular hurly.  Add to this the straining of the masts, the creaking of the planks, the shrill whistle of the wind in the ropes and cordage, the occasional crash of a heavy sea as it struck us with a sharp sound, and the rush of water over the decks, down the companion and hatches, that followed, and you have a notion of a gale of wind.  And yet this was far from all the wind and sea can do, and we were never in any danger, I believe.  That is, an unlucky sea at such a time may be fatal, and if anything about the schooner had been unsound it might have been awkward.  At prayers, the Bishop read the prayer to be used in a storm, but I never myself entertained the idea of our being really in peril, nor did I suffer anything like the anxiety that I did when we were rounding Cape Palliser on our way to Wellington with the Judge.  Here we had sea room and no fear of driving upon rocks.  It is blowing a good deal now, as you see by my writing.  I have a small ink-bottle of glass, made like an eel-pot (such as tax-gatherers use), tied to my buttonhole, and with this I can scribble away in almost any sea.  Dear me! you could not sit still a minute, even now.  I was qualmish on Saturday, and for a minute sick, but pretty comfortable on Sunday, though wearied by the constant pitching and rolling.’

The day after this, namely May 15, the Bishop and Mr. Patteson rowed into Cascade Bay, Norfolk Island, amid a heavy surf, but they saw no cascade, as there had been no rain for a long time; and there were only rocks surmounted by pine trees, no living creature, no landing-place, as they coasted along.  At last they saw a smooth-looking rock with an iron staple, and concluding that it was the way of approach, they watched their time, and through the surf which broke over it they leapt on it, and dashed ashore before the returning swell caught them.  They walked inland, and met a man, one of twelve convicts who had been left behind to receive the Pitcairners, who had not yet arrived, but were on their way from their original island in H.M.S.  ‘Juno.’  The vegetation and climate struck them as beautiful; there were oranges, lemons, sweet potatoes, and common potatoes, and English vegetables, and the Norfolk Island pine growing to a great height:  ‘but,’ writes Coley, ’it is coarser in the leaf and less symmetrical in shape than I had expected.  I thought to have seen the tree of Veitch’s nursery garden on a scale three or four times as large, and so I might have done in any of the gardens; but as they grow wild in the forest, they are not so very different from the more common fir tribe.’