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Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of
sight of land; cruising after the sperm-whale beneath the scorching
sun of the Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling
Pacific—the sky above, the sea around, and nothing else!
Weeks and weeks ago our fresh provisions were all exhausted.
There is not a sweet potato left; not a single yam. Those glorious
bunches of bananas which once decorated our stern and
quarter-deck, have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious oranges
which hung suspended from our tops and stays—they, too, are
gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us
but salt-horse and sea-biscuit. Oh! ye state-room sailors, who
make so much ado about a fourteen days' passage across the
Atlantic; who so pathetically relate the privations and hardships
of the sea, where, after a day of breakfasting, lunching, dining
off five courses, chatting, playing whist, and drinking champaignpunch,
it was your hard lot to be shut up in little cabinets of mahogany
and maple, and sleep for ten hours, with nothing to disturb

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you but “those good-for-nothing tars, shouting and tramping over
head,”—what would ye say to our six months out of sight of land?

Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass—for a snuff
at the fragrance of a handful of the loamy earth! Is there
nothing fresh around us? Is there no green thing to be seen?
Yes, the inside of our bulwarks is painted green; but what a
vile and sickly hue it is, as if nothing bearing even the semblance
of verdure could flourish this weary way from land. Even the
bark that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been gnawed
off and devoured by the captain's pig; and so long ago, too, that
the pig himself has in turn been devoured.

There is but one solitary tenant in the chicken-coop, once a
gay and dapper young cock, bearing him so bravely among the
coy hens. But look at him now; there he stands, moping all
the day long on that everlasting one leg of his. He turns with
disgust from the mouldy corn before him, and the brackish water
in his little trough. He mourns no doubt his lost companions,
literally snatched from him one by one, and never seen again.
But his days of mourning will be few; for Mungo, our black
cook, told me yesterday that the world had at last gone forth, and
poor Pedro's fate was sealed. His attenuated body will be laid
out upon the captain's table next Sunday, and long before night
will be buried with all the usual ceremonies beneath that worthy
individual's vest. Who would believe that there could be any
one so cruel as to long for the decapitation of the luckless
Pedro; yet the sailors pray every minute, selfish fellows, that the
miserable fowl may be brought to his end. They say the captain
will never point the ship for the land so long as he has in
anticipation a mess of fresh meat. This unhappy bird can alone
furnish it; and when he is once devoured, the captain will come
to his senses. I wish thee no harm, Peter; but as thou art
doomed, sooner or later, to meet the fate of all thy race; and if
putting a period to thy existence is to be the signal for our

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deliverance, why—truth to speak—I wish thy throat cut this very
moment; for, oh! how I wish to see the living earth again!
The old ship herself longs to look out upon the land from her
hawse-holes once more, and Jack Lewis said right the other day
when the captain found fault with his steering.

“Why, d'ye see, Captain Vangs,” says bold Jack, “I'm as
good a helmsman as ever put hand to spoke; but none of us can
steer the old lady now. We can't keep her full and bye, sir:
watch her ever so close, she will fall off; and then, sir, when I
put the helm down so gently, and try like to coax her to the work,
she won't take it kindly, but will fall round off again; and it's
all because she knows the land is under the lee, sir, and she wont
go any more to windward.” Aye, and why should she, Jack?
didn't every one of her stout timbers grow on shore, and hasn't
she sensibilities as well as we?

Poor old ship! Her very looks denote her desires: how deplorably
she appears! The paint on her sides, burnt up by the
scorching sun, is puffed out and cracked. See the weeds she trails
along with her, and what an unsightly bunch of those horrid
barnacles has formed about her stern-piece; and every time she
rises on a sea, she shows her copper torn away, or hanging in
jagged strips.

Poor old ship! I say again: for six months she has been rolling
and pitching about, never for one moment at rest. But courage,
old lass, I hope to see thee soon within a biscuit's toss of
the merry land, riding snugly at anchor in some green cove, and
sheltered from the boisterous winds.

“Hurra, my lads! It's a settled thing; next week we shape
our course to the Marquesas!” The Marquesas! What strange
visions of outlandish things does the very name spirit up!
Naked houris—cannibal banquets—groves of cocoa-nut—coral
reefs—tatooed chiefs—and bamboo temples; sunny valleys planted

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with bread-fruit-trees—carved canoes dancing on the flashing blue
waters—savage woodlands guarded by horrible idols—heathenish
rites and human sacrifices.

Such were the strangely jumbled anticipations that haunted
me during our passage from the cruising ground. I felt an irresistible
curiosity to see those islands which the olden voyagers
had so glowingly described.

The group for which we were now steering (although among
the earliest of European discoveries in the South Seas, having
been first visited in the year 1595) still continues to be tenanted
by beings as strange and barbarous as ever. The missionaries,
sent on a heavenly errand, had sailed by their lovely shores, and
had abandoned them to their idols of wood and stone. How interesting
the circumstances under which they were discovered!
In the watery path of Mendanna, cruising in quest of some region
of gold, these isles had sprung up like a scene of enchantment,
and for a moment the Spaniard believed his bright dream
was realized. In honor of the Marquess de Mendoza, then viceroy
of Peru—under whose auspices the navigator sailed—he
bestowed upon them the name which denoted the rank of his
patron, and gave to the world on his return a vague and magnificent
account of their beauty. But these islands, undisturbed
for years, relapsed into their previous obscurity; and it is only
recently that anything has been known concerning them. Once
in the course of a half century, to be sure, some adventurous
rover would break in upon their peaceful repose, and, astonished
at the unusual scene, would be almost tempted to claim the merit
of a new discovery.

Of this interesting group, but little account has ever been given,
if we except the slight mention made of them in the sketches of
South-Sea voyages. Cook, in his repeated circumnavigations of
the globe, barely touched at their shores; and all that we know
about them is from a few general narratives. Among these,

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there are two that claim particular notice. Porter's “Journal of
the Cruise of the U. S. frigate Essex, in the Pacific, during the
late War,” is said to contain some interesting particulars concerning
the islanders. This is a work, however, which I have
never happened to meet with; and Stewart, the chaplain of the
American sloop of war Vincennes, has likewise devoted a portion
of his book, entitled “A Visit to the South Seas,” to the same
subject.

Within the last few years American and English vessels engaged
in the extensive whale fisheries of the Pacific have occasionally,
when short of provisions, put into the commodious harbor
which there is in one of the islands; but a fear of the natives,
founded on the recollection of the dreadful fate which many white
men have received at their hands, has deterred their crews from
intermixing with the population sufficiently to gain any insight
into their peculiar customs and manners.

The Protestant Missions appear to have despaired of reclaiming
these islands from heathenism. The usage they have in every
case received from the natives has been such as to intimidate
the boldest of their number. Ellis, in his “Polynesian Researches,”
gives some interesting accounts of the abortive attempts
made by the Tahiti Mission to establish a branch Mission
upon certain islands of the group. A short time before my
visit to the Marquesas, a somewhat amusing incident took
place in connection with these efforts, which I cannot avoid relating.

An intrepid missionary, undaunted by the ill-success that had
attended all previous endeavors to conciliate the savages, and
believing much in the efficacy of female influence, introduced
among them his young and beautiful wife, the first white woman
who had ever visited their shores. The islanders at first gazed
in mute admiration at so unusual a prodigy, and seemed inclined
to regard it as some new divinity. But after a short time,

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becoming familiar with its charming aspect, and jealous of the
folds which encircled its form, they sought to pierce the sacred
veil of calico in which it was enshrined, and in the gratification
of their curiosity so far overstepped the limits of good breeding,
as deeply to offend the lady's sense of decorum. Her sex once
ascertained, their idolatry was changed into contempt; and there
was no end to the contumely showered upon her by the savages,
who were exasperated at the deception which they conceived
had been practised upon them. To the horror of her affectionate
spouse, she was stripped of her garments, and given to
understand that she could no longer carry on her deceits with
impunity. The gentle dame could not endure this, and, fearful
of further improprieties, she forced her husband to relinquish his
undertaking, and together they returned to Tahiti.

Not thus shy of exhibiting her charms was the Island Queen
herself, the beauteous wife of Mowanna, the king of Nukuheva.
Between two and three years after the adventures recorded in
this volume, I chanced, while aboard of a man of war, to touch
at these islands. The French had then held possession of the
Marquesas some time, and already prided themselves upon the
beneficial effects of their jurisdiction, as discernible in the deportment
of the natives. To be sure, in one of their efforts at
reform they had slaughtered about a hundred and fifty of them
at Whitihoo—but let that pass. At the time I mention, the
French squadron was rendezvousing in the bay of Nukuheva,
and during an interview between one of their captains and our
worthy Commodore, it was suggested by the former, that we, as
the flag-ship of the American squadron, should receive, in state,
a visit from the royal pair. The French officer likewise represented,
with evident satisfaction, that under their tuition the
king and queen had imbibed proper notions of their elevated
station, and on all ceremonious occasions conducted themselves

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with suitable dignity. Accordingly, preparations were made to
give their majesties a reception on board in a style corresponding
with their rank.

One bright afternoon, a gig, gaily bedizened with streamers,
was observed to shove off from the side of one of the French
frigates, and pull directly for our gangway. In the stern sheets
reclined Mowanna and his consort. As they approached, we paid
them all the honors due to royalty;—manning our yards, firing a
salute, and making a prodigious hubbub.

They ascended the accommodation ladder, were greeted by the
Commodore, hat in hand, and passing along the quarter-deck, the
marine guard presented arms, while the band struck up “The
king of the Cannibal Islands.” So far all went well. The French
officers grimaced and smiled in exceedingly high spirits, wonderfully
pleased with the discreet manner in which these distinguished
personages behaved themselves.

Their appearance was certainly calculated to produce an effect.
His majesty was arrayed in a magnificent military uniform, stiff
with gold lace and embroidery, while his shaven crown was concealed
by a huge chapeau bras, waving with ostrich plumes.
There was one slight blemish, however, in his appearance. A broad
patch of tatooing stretched completely across his face, in a line
with his eyes, making him look as if he wore a huge pair of
goggles; and royalty in goggles suggested some ludicrous ideas.
But it was in the adornment of the fair person of his dark-complexioned
spouse that the tailors of the fleet had evinced the gaiety
of their national taste. She was habited in a gaudy tissue of
scarlet cloth, trimmed with yellow silk, which, descending a little
below the knees, exposed to view her bare legs, embellished with
spiral tatooing, and somewhat resembling two miniature Trajan's
columns. Upon her head was a fanciful turban of purple velvet,
figured with silver sprigs, and surmounted by a tuft of variegated
feathers.

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The ship's company crowding into the gangway to view the
sight, soon arrested her majesty's attention. She singled out
from their number an old salt, whose bare arms and feet, and
exposed breast, were covered with as many inscriptions in India
ink, as the lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus. Notwithstanding all
the sly hints and remonstrances of the French officers, she immediately
approached the man, and pulling further open the bosom
of his duck frock, and rolling up the leg of his wide trowsers, she
gazed with admiration at the bright blue and vermillion pricking
thus disclosed to view. She hung over the fellow, caressing him,
and expressing her delight in a variety of wild exclamations and
gestures. The embarrassment of the polite Gauls at such an unlooked-for
occurrence may be easily imagined; but picture their
consternation, when all at once the royal lady bent eagerly forward
to display the hieroglyphics on her own sweet form, and
the aghast Frenchmen retreated precipitately, and tumbling into
their boat, fled the scene of so shocking a catastrophe.