Chapter 12

Landing To Visit Hivohitee The Pontiff, They Encounter An
Extraordinary Old Hermit; With Whom Yoomy Has A Confidential
Interview, But Learns Little

Gliding on, suddenly we spied a solitary Islander putting out in his
canoe from a neighboring cove.

Drawing near, the stranger informed us, that he was just from the face
of the great Pontiff, Hivohitee, who, having dismissed his celestial
guests, had retired to his private sanctuary. Upon this, Media
resolved to land forthwith, and under the guidance of Mohi, proceed
inland, and pay a visit to his Holiness.

Quitting the beach, our path penetrated into the solitudes of the
groves. Skirting the way were tall Casaurinas, a species of cypress,
standing motionless in the shadows, as files of mutes at a funeral.
But here and there, they were overrun with the adventurous vines of
the Convolvulus, the Morning-glory of the Tropics, whose tendrils,
bruised by the twigs, dropped milk upon the dragon-like scales of the
trees.

This vine is of many varieties. Lying perdu, and shunning the garish
sun through the day, one species rises at night with the stars;
bursting forth in dazzling constellations of blossoms, which close at
dawn. Others, slumbering through the darkness, are up and abroad with
their petals, by peep of morn; and after inhaling its breath, again
drop their lids in repose. While a third species, more capricious,
refuse to expand at all, unless in the most brilliant sunshine, and
upon the very tops of the loftiest trees. Ambitious flowers! that will
not blow, unless in high places, with the bright day looking on and
admiring.

Here and there, we passed open glades in the woods, delicious with the
incense of violets. Balsamic ferns, stirred by the breeze, fanned all
the air with aromas. These glades were delightful.

Journeying on, we at length came to a dark glen so deftly hidden by
the surrounding copses, that were it not for the miasma thence wafted,
an ignorant wayfarer might pass and repass it, time and again, never
dreaming of its vicinity.

Down into the gloom of this glen we descended. Its sides were mantled
with noxious shrubs, whose exhalations, half way down, unpleasantly
blended with the piny breeze from the uplands. Through its bed ran a
brook, whose incrusted margin had a strange metallic luster, from the
polluted waters here flowing; their source a sulphur spring, of vile
flavor and odor, where many invalid pilgrims resorted.

The woods all round were haunted by the dismal cawings of crows; tap,
tap, the black hawk whetted his bill on the boughs; each trunk stalked
a ghost; and from those trunks, Hevaneva procured the wood for his
idols.

Rapidly crossing this place, Yoomy's hands to