In the daytime, Po-Po’s house was as pleasant a lounge as one could wish. So, after strolling about, and seeing all there was to be seen, we spent the greater part of our mornings there; breakfasting late, and dining about two hours after noon. Sometimes we lounged on the floor of ferns, smoking, and telling stories; of which the doctor had as many as a half-pay captain in the army. Sometimes we chatted, as well as we could, with the natives; and, one day—joy to us!—Po-Po brought in three volumes of Smollett’s novels, which had been found in the chest of a sailor, who some time previous had died on the island. Amelia!—Peregrine!—you hero of rogues, Count Fathom!—what a debt do we owe you! I know not whether it was the reading of these romances, or the want of some sentimental pastime, which led the doctor, about this period, to lay siege to the heart of the little Loo. Now, as I have said before, the daughter of Po-Po was most cruelly reserved, and never deigned to notice us. Frequently I addressed her with a long face and an air of the profoundest and most distant respect—but in vain; she wouldn’t even turn up her pretty olive nose. Ah! it’s quite plain, thought I; she knows very well what graceless dogs sailors are, and won’t have anything to do with us. But thus thought not my comrade. Bent he was upon firing the cold glitter of Loo’s passionless eyes. He opened the campaign with admirable tact: making cautious approaches, and content, for three days, with ogling the nymph for about five minutes after every meal. On the fourth day, he asked her a question; on the fifth, she dropped a nut of ointment, and he picked it up and gave it to her; on the sixth, he went over and sat down within three yards of the couch where she lay; and, on the memorable morn of the seventh, he proceeded to open his batteries in form. The damsel was reclining on the ferns; one hand supporting her cheek, and the other listlessly turning over the leaves of a Tahitian Bible. The doctor approached. Now the chief disadvantage under which he laboured was his almost complete ignorance of the love vocabulary of the island. But French counts, they say, make love delightfully in broken English; and what hindered the doctor from doing the same in dulcet Tahitian. So at it he went. “Ah!” said he, smiling bewitchingly, “oee mickonaree; oee ready Biblee?” No answer; not even a look. “Ah I matai! very goody ready Biblee mickonaree.” Loo, without stirring, began reading, in a low tone, to herself. “Mickonaree Biblee ready goody maitai,” once more observed the doctor, ingeniously transposing his words for the third time. But all to no purpose; Loo gave no sign. He paused, despairingly; but it would never do to give up; so he threw himself at full length beside her, and audaciously commenced turning over the leaves.