Even through Johnson's inarticulate speech,
his "O yes, there ain't no harm in them Kanakas," or "O
yes, that's a son of a gun of a fine island,
mountainious right down; I didn't never ought to have
left that island," there pierced a certain gusto of
appreciation; and some of the rest were master-talkers.
From their long tales, their traits of character and
unpremeditated landscape, there began to piece itself
together in my head some image of the islands and the
island life; precipitous shores, spired mountaintops,
the deep shade of hanging forests, the unresting surf
upon the reef, and the unending peace of the lagoon;
sun, moon, and stars of an imperial brightness; man
moving in these scenes scarce fallen, and woman
lovelier than Eve; the primal curse abrogated, the bed
made ready for the stranger, life set to perpetual
music, and the guest welcomed, the boat urged, and the
long night beguiled with poetry and choral song. A man
must have been an unsuccessful artist; he must have
starved on the streets of Paris; he must have been
yoked to a commercial force like Pinkerton, before he
can conceive the longings that at times assailed me.
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