He turned out to be Tonoi, the chief of the fishermen: who, one day,
when exhilarated with brandy, tore his meagre tappa from his loins,
and gave me to know that he was allied by blood with Pomaree herself;
and that his mother came from the illustrious race of pontiffs, who,
in old times, swayed their bamboo crosier over all the pagans of
Imeeo. A regal, and right reverend lineage! But, at the time I speak
of, the dusky noble was in decayed circumstances, and, therefore, by
no means unwilling to alienate a few useless acres. As an equivalent,
he received from the strangers two or three rheumatic old muskets,
several red woollen shirts, and a promise to be provided for in his
old age: he was always to find a home with the planters.

Desirous of living on the cosy footing of a father-in-law, he frankly
offered his two daughters for wives; but as such, they were politely
declined; the adventurers, though not averse to courting, being
unwilling to entangle themselves in a matrimonial alliance, however
splendid in point of family.

Tonoi's men, the fishermen of the grove, were a sad set. Secluded, in
a great measure, from the ministrations of the missionaries, they
gave themselves up to all manner of lazy wickedness. Strolling among
the trees of a morning, you came upon them napping on the shady side
of a canoe hauled up among the bushes; lying on a tree smoking; or,
more frequently still, gambling with pebbles; though, a little
tobacco excepted, what they gambled for at their outlandish games, it
would be hard to tell. Other idle diversions they had also, in which
they seemed to take great delight. As for fishing, it employed but a
small part of their time. Upon the whole, they were a merry,
indigent, godless race.