the larger peninsula--Orohena, Aorai, and Pirohitee--the land radiates
on all sides to the sea in sloping green ridges. Between these are
broad and shadowy valleys--in aspect, each a Tempe--watered with fine
streams, and thickly wooded. Unlike many of the other islands, there
extends nearly all round Tahiti a belt of low, alluvial soil, teeming
with the richest vegetation. Here, chiefly, the natives dwell.

Seen from the sea, the prospect is magnificent. It is one mass of
shaded tints of green, from beach to mountain top; endlessly
diversified with valleys, ridges, glens, and cascades. Over the
ridges, here and there, the loftier peaks fling their shadows, and
far down the valleys. At the head of these, the waterfalls flash out
into the sunlight, as if pouring through vertical bowers of verdure.
Such enchantment, too, breathes over the whole, that it seems a fairy
world, all fresh and blooming from the hand of the Creator.

Upon a near approach, the picture loses not its attractions. It is no
exaggeration to say that, to a European of any sensibility, who, for
the first time, wanders back into these valleys--away from the haunts
of the natives--the ineffable repose and beauty of the landscape is
such, that every object strikes him like something seen in a dream;
and for a time he almost refuses to believe that scenes like these
should have a commonplace existence. No wonder that the French
bestowed upon the island the appellation of the New Cytherea.
"Often," says De Bourgainville, "I thought I was walking in the
Garden of Eden."

Nor, when first discovered, did the inhabitants of this charming
country at all diminish the wonder and admiration of the voyager.
Their physical beauty and amiable dispositions harmonized completely