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Rambles on Shore, and Strange Things and Ceremonies Witnessed There.

Variety is charming. No one laying claim to the smallest amount of that very uncommon attribute, common-sense, will venture to question the truth of that statement. Variety is so charming that men and women, boys and girls, are always, all of them, hunting after it. To speak still more emphatically on this subject, we venture to affirm that it is an absolute necessity of animal nature. Were any positive and short-sighted individual to deny this position, and sit down during the remainder of his life in a chair and look straight before him, in order to prove that he could live without variety, he would seek it in change of position. If he did not do that, he would seek it in change of thought. If he did not do that, he would die!

Fully appreciating this great principle of our nature, and desiring to be charmed with a little variety, Tim Rokens and Phil Briant presented themselves before Captain Dunning one morning about a week after the storm, and asked leave to go ashore. The reader may at first think the men were mad, but he will change his opinion when we tell him that four days after the storm in question the Red Eric had anchored in the harbour formed by the mouth of one of the rivers on the African coast, where white men trade with the natives for bar-wood and ivory, and where they also carry on that horrible traffic in negroes, the existence of which is a foul disgrace to humanity.

“Go ashore!” echoed Captain Dunning. “Why, if you all go on at this rate, we’ll never get ready for sea. However, you may go, but don’t wander too far into the interior, and look out for elephants and wild men o’ the woods, boys—keep about the settlements.”

“Ay, ay, sir, and thank’ee,” replied the two men, touching their caps as they retired.

“Please, sir, I want to go too,” said Glynn Proctor, approaching the captain.

“What! more wanting to go ashore?”

“Yes, and so do I,” cried Ailie, running forward and clasping her father’s rough hand; “I did enjoy myself so much yesterday, that I must go on shore again to-day, and I must go with Glynn. He’ll take such famous care of me; now won’t you let me go, papa?”

“Upon my word, this looks like preconcerted mutiny. However, I don’t mind if I do let you go, but have a care, Glynn, that you don’t lose sight of her for a moment, and keep to the shore and the settlements. I’ve no notion of allowing her to be swallowed by an alligator, or trampled on by an elephant, or run away with by a gorilla.”

“Never fear, sir. You may trust me; I’ll take good care of her.”

With a shout of delight the child ran down to the cabin to put on her bonnet, and quickly reappeared, carrying in her hand a basket which she purposed to fill with a valuable collection of plants, minerals and insects. These she meant to preserve and carry home as a surprise to aunts Martha and Jane, both of whom were passionately fond of mineralogy, delighted in botany, luxuriated in entomology, doted on conchology, and raved about geology—all of which sciences they studied superficially, and specimens of which they collected and labelled beautifully, and stowed away carefully in a little cabinet, which they termed (not jocularly, but seriously) their “Bureau of Omnology.”

It was a magnificent tropical morning when the boat left the side of the Red Eric and landed Glynn and Ailie, Tim Rokens and Phil Briant on the wharf that ran out from the yellow beach of the harbour in which their vessel lay. The sun had just risen. The air was cool (comparatively) and motionless, so that the ocean lay spread out like a pure mirror, and revealed its treasures and mysteries to a depth of many fathoms. The sky was intensely blue and the sun intensely bright, while the atmosphere was laden with the delightful perfume of the woods—a perfume that is sweet and pleasant to those long used to it, how much more enchanting to nostrils rendered delicately sensitive by long exposure to the scentless gales of ocean?

One of the sailors who had shown symptoms of weakness in the chest during the voyage, had begged to be discharged and left ashore at this place. He could ill be spared, but as he was fit for nothing, the captain agreed to his request, and resolved to procure a negro to act as cook’s assistant in the place of Phil Briant, who was too useful a man to remain in so subordinate a capacity. The sick man was therefore sent on shore in charge of Tim Rokens.

On landing they were met by a Portuguese slave-dealer, an American trader, a dozen or two partially-clothed negroes, and a large concourse of utterly naked little negro children, who proved to demonstration that they were of the same nature and spirit with white children, despite the colour of their skins, by taking intense delight in all the amusements practised by the fair-skinned juveniles of more northern lands—namely scampering after each other, running and yelling, indulging in mischief, spluttering in the waters, rolling on the sand, staring at the strangers, making impudent remarks, and punching each other’s heads.

If the youth of America ever wish to prove that they are of a distinct race from the sable sons of Africa, their only chance is to become paragons of perfection, and give up all their wicked ways.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ailie, half amused, half frightened, as Glynn lifted her out of the boat; “oh! how funny! Don’t they look so very like as if they were all painted black?”

“Good-day to you, gentlemen,” cried the trader, as he approached the landing. “Got your foretop damaged, I see. Plenty of sticks here to mend it. Be glad to assist you in any way I can. Was away in the woods when you arrived, else I’d have come to offer sooner.”

The trader, who was a tall, sallow man in a blue cotton shirt, sailor’s trousers, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, addressed himself to Glynn, whose gentlemanly manner led him to believe he was in command of the party.

“Thank you,” replied Glynn, “we’ve got a little damage—lost a good boat, too; but we’ll soon repair the mast. We have come ashore just now, however, mainly for a stroll.”

“Ay,” put in Phil Briant, who was amusing the black children—and greatly delighting himself by nodding and smiling ferociously at them, with a view to making a favourable impression on the natives of this new country. “Ay, sir, an’ sure we’ve comed to land a sick shipmate who wants to see the doctor uncommon. Have ye sich an article in these parts?”

“No, not exactly,” replied the trader, “but I do a little in that way myself; perhaps I may manage to cure him if he comes up to my house.”

“We wants a nigger too,” said Rokens, who, while the others were talking, was extremely busy filling his pipe.

At this remark the trader looked knowing.

“Oh!” he said, “that’s your game, is it? There’s your man there; I’ve nothing to do with such wares.”

He pointed to the Portuguese slave-dealer as he spoke.

Seeing himself thus referred to, the slave-dealer came forward, hat in hand, and made a polite bow. He was a man of extremely forbidding aspect. A long dark visage, which terminated in a black peaked beard, and was surmounted by a tall-crowned broad-brimmed straw hat, stood on the top of a long, raw-boned, thin, sinewy, shrivelled, but powerful frame, that had battled with and defeated all the fevers and other diseases peculiar to the equatorial regions of Africa. He wore a short light-coloured cotton jacket and pantaloons—the latter much too short for his limbs, but the deficiency was more than made up by a pair of Wellington boots. His natural look was a scowl. His assumed smile of politeness was so unnatural, that Tim Rokens thought, as he gazed at him, he would have preferred greatly to have been frowned at by him. Even Ailie, who did not naturally think ill of any one, shrank back as he approached and grasped Glynn’s hand more firmly than usual.

“Goot morning, gentl’m’n. You was vish for git nigger, I suppose.”

“Well, we wos,” replied Tim, with a faint touch of sarcasm in his tone. “Can you get un for us?”

“Yees, sare, as many you please,” replied the slave-dealer, with a wink that an ogre might have envied. “Have great many ob ’em stay vid me always.”

“Ah! then, they must be fond o’ bad company,” remarked Briant, in an undertone, “to live along wid such a alligator.”

“Well, then,” said Tim Rokens, who had completed the filling of his pipe, and was now in the full enjoyment of it; “let’s see the feller, an’ I’ll strike a bargain with him, if he seems a likely chap.”

“You will have strike de bargin vid me,” said the dealer. “I vill charge you ver’ leetle, suppose you take full cargo.”

The whole party, who were ignorant of the man’s profession, started at this remark, and looked at the dealer in surprise.

“Wot!” exclaimed Tim Rokens, withdrawing his pipe from his lips; “do you sell niggers?”

“Yees, to be surely,” replied the man, with a peculiarly saturnine smile.

“A slave-dealer?” exclaimed Briant, clenching his fists.

“Even so, sare.”

At this Briant uttered a shout, and throwing forward his clenched fists in a defiant attitude, exclaimed between his set teeth—

“Arrah! come on!”

Most men have peculiarities. Phil Briant had many; but his most striking peculiarity, and that which led him frequently into extremely awkward positions, was a firm belief that his special calling—in an amateur point of view—was the redressing of wrongs—not wrongs of a particular class, or wrongs of an excessively glaring and offensive nature, but all wrongs whatsoever. It mattered not to Phil whether the wrong had to be righted by force of argument or force of arms. He considered himself an accomplished practitioner in both lines of business—and in regard to the latter his estimate of his powers was not very much too high, for he was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, long-armed fellow, and had acquired a scientific knowledge of boxing under a celebrated bruiser at the expense of a few hard-earned shillings, an occasional bottle of poteen, and many a severe thrashing.

Justice to Phil’s amiability of character requires, however, that we should state that he never sought to terminate an argument with his fists unless he was invited to do so, and even then he invariably gave his rash challenger fair warning, and offered to let him retreat if so disposed. But when injustice met his eye, or when he happened to see cruelty practised by the strong against the weak, his blood fired at once, and he only deigned the short emphatic remark— “Come on,” sometimes preceded by “Arrah!” sometimes not. Generally speaking, he accepted his own challenge, and went on forthwith.

Of all the iniquities that draw forth the groans of humanity on this sad earth, slavery, in the opinion of Phil Briant, was the worst. He had never come in contact with it, not having been in the Southern States of America. He knew from hearsay that the coast of Africa was its fountain, but he had forgotten the fact, and in the novelty of the scene before him, it did not at first occur to him that he was actually face to face with a “live slave-dealer.”

“Let me go!” roared the Irishman, as he struggled in the iron grip of Tim Rokens; and the not less powerful grasp of Glynn Proctor. “Och! let me go! Doo, darlints. I’ll only give him wan—jist wan! Let me go, will ye?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Glynn, tightening his grasp.

“Wot a cross helephant it is,” muttered Rokens, as he thrust his hand into his comrade’s neckcloth and quietly began to choke him as he dragged him away towards the residence of the trader, who was an amused as well as surprised spectator of this unexpected ebullition of passion.

At length Phil Briant allowed himself to be forced away from the beach where the slave-dealer stood with his arms crossed on his breast, and a sarcastic smile playing on his thin lips. Had that Portuguese trafficker in human flesh known how quickly Briant could have doubled the size of his long nose and shut up both his eyes, he would probably have modified the expression of his countenance; but he didn’t know it, so he looked after the party until they had entered the dwelling of the trader, and then sauntered up towards the woods, which in this place came down to within a few yards of the beach.

The settlement was a mere collection of rudely-constructed native huts, built of bamboos and roofed with a thatch of palm-leaves. In the midst of it stood a pretty white-painted cottage with green-edged windows and doors, and a verandah in front. This was the dwelling of the trader; and alongside of it, under the same roof, was the store, in which were kept the guns, beads, powder and shot, etcetera, etcetera, which he exchanged with the natives of the interior for elephants’ tusks and bar-wood, from which latter a beautiful dye is obtained; also ebony, indiarubber, and other products of the country.

Here the trader entertained Tim Rokens and Phil Briant with stories of the slave-trade; and here we shall leave them while we follow Glynn and Ailie, who went off together to ramble along the shore of the calm sea.

They had not gone far when specimens of the strange creatures that dwell in these lands presented themselves to their astonished gaze. There were birds innumerable on the shore, on the surface of the ocean, and in the woods. The air was alive with them; many being similar to the birds they had been familiar with from infancy, while others were new and strange.

To her immense delight Ailie saw many living specimens of the bird-of-paradise, the graceful plumes of which she had frequently beheld on very high and important festal occasions, nodding on the heads of Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane. But the prettiest of all the birds she saw there was a small creature with a breast so red and bright, that it seemed, as it flew about, like a little ball of fire. There were many of them flying about near a steep bank, in holes of which they built their nests. She observed that they fed upon flies which they caught while skimming through the air, and afterwards learned that they were called bee-eaters.

“Oh! look!” exclaimed Ailie in that tone of voice which indicated that a surprising discovery had been made. Ailie was impulsive, and the tones in which she exclaimed “Oh!” were so varied, emphatic, and distinct, that those who knew her well could tell exactly the state of her mind on hearing the exclamation. At present, her “Oh!” indicated surprise mingled with alarm.

“Eh! what, where?” cried Glynn, throwing forward his musket—for he had taken the precaution to carry one with him, not knowing what he might meet with on such a coast.

“The snake! look—oh!”

At that moment a huge black snake, about ten feet long, showed itself in the grass. Glynn took aim at once, but the piece, being an old flint-lock, missed fire. Before he could again take aim the loathsome-looking reptile had glided into the underwood, which in most places was so overgrown with the rank and gigantic vegetation of the tropics as to be quite impenetrable.

“Ha! he’s gone, Ailie!” cried Glynn, in a tone of disappointment, as he put fresh priming into the pan of his piece. “We must be careful in walking here, it seems. This wretched old musket! Lucky for us that our lives did not depend on it. I wonder if it was a poisonous serpent?”

“Perhaps it was,” said Ailie, with a look of deep solemnity, as she took her companion’s left hand, and trotted along by his side. “Are not all serpents poisonous?”

“Oh dear, no. Why, there are some kinds that are quite harmless. But as I don’t know which are and which are not, we must look upon all as enemies until we become more knowing.”

Presently they came to the mouth of a river—one of those sluggish streams on the African coast, which suggest the idea of malaria and the whole family of low fevers. It glided through a mangrove swamp, where the tree seemed to be standing on their roots, which served the purpose of stilts to keep them out of the mud. The river was oily, and sluggish, and hot-looking, and its mud-banks were slimy and liquid, so that it was not easy to say whether the water of the river was mud, or the mud on the bank was water. It was a place that made one involuntarily think of creeping monsters, and crawling objects, and slimy things!

“Look! oh! oh! such a darling pet!” exclaimed Ailie, as they stood near the banks of this river wondering what monster would first cleave the muddy waters, and raise its hideous head. She pointed to the bough of a dead tree near which they stood, and on which sat the “darling pet” referred to. It was a very small monkey with white whiskers; a dumpy little thing, that looked at them with an expression of surprise quite equal in intensity to their own.

Seeing that it was discovered, the “darling pet” opened its little mouth, and uttered a succession of “Ohs!” that rendered Ailie’s exclamations quite insignificant by comparison. They were sharp and short, and rapidly uttered, while, at the same time, two rows of most formidable teeth were bared, along with the gums that held them.

At this Ailie and her companion burst into a fit of irrepressible laughter, whereupon the “darling pet” put itself into such a passion—grinned, and coughed, and gasped, and shook the tree, and writhed, and glared, to such an extent that Glynn said he thought it would burst, and Ailie agreed that it was very likely. Finding that this terrible display of fury had no effect on the strangers, the “darling pet” gave utterance to a farewell shriek of passion, and, bounding nimbly into the woods, disappeared.

“Oh, what a funny beast,” said Ailie, sitting down on a stone, and drying her eyes, which had filled with tears from excessive laughter.

“Indeed it was,” said Glynn. “It’s my opinion that a monkey is the funniest beast in the world.”

“No, Glynn; a kitten’s funnier,” said Ailie, with a degree of emphasis that showed she had considered the subject well, and had fully made up her mind in regard to it long ago. “I think a kitten’s the very funniest beast in all the whole world.”

“Well, perhaps it is,” said Glynn thoughtfully.

“Did you ever see three kittens together?” asked Ailie.

“No; I don’t think I ever did. I doubt if I have seen even two together. Why?”

“Oh! because they are so very, very funny. Sit down beside me, and I’ll tell you about three kittens I once had. They were very little—at least they were little before they got big.”

Glynn laughed.

“Oh, you know what I mean. They were able to play when they were very little, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Go on.”

“Well, two were grey, and one was white and grey, but most of it was white; and when they went to play, one always hid itself to watch, and then the other two began, and came up to each other with little jumps, and their backs up and tails curved, and hair all on end, glaring at each other, and pretending that they were so angry. Do you know, Glynn, I really believe they sometimes forgot it was pretence, and actually became angry. But the fun was, that, when the two were just going to fly at each other, the third one, who had been watching, used to dart out and give them such a fright—a real fright, you know—which made them jump, oh! three times their own height up into the air, and they came down again with a fuff that put the third one in a fright too; so that they all scattered away from each other as if they had gone quite mad. What’s that?”

“It’s a fish, I think,” said Glynn, rising and going towards the river, to look at the object that had attracted his companion’s attention. “It’s a shark, I do believe.”

In a few seconds the creature came so close that they could see it quite distinctly; and on a more careful inspection, they observed that the mouth of the river was full of these ravenous monsters. Soon after they saw monsters of a still more ferocious aspect; for while they were watching the sharks, two crocodiles put up their snouts, and crawled sluggishly out of the water upon a mud-bank, where they lay down, apparently with the intention of taking a nap in the sunshine. They were too far off, however, to be well seen.

“Isn’t it strange, Glynn, that there are such ugly beasts in the world?” said Ailie. “I wonder why God made them?”

“So do I,” said Glynn, looking at the child’s thoughtful face in some surprise. “I suppose they must be of some sort of use.”

“Oh! yes, of course they are,” rejoined Ailie quickly. “Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane used to tell me that every creature was made by God for some good purpose; and when I came to the crocodile in my book, they said it was certainly of use too, though they did not know what. I remember it very well, because I was so surprised to hear that Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane did not know everything.”

“No doubt Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane were right,” said Glynn, with a smile. “I confess, however, that crocodiles seem to me to be of no other use than to kill and eat up everything that comes within the reach of their terrible jaws. But, indeed, now I think of it, the very same may be said of man, for he kills and eats up at least everything that he wants to put into his jaws.”

“So he does,” said Ailie; “isn’t it funny?”

“Isn’t what funny?” asked Glynn.

“That we should be no better than crocodiles—at least, I mean about eating.”

“You forget, Ailie, we cook our food.”

“Oh! so we do. I did not remember to think of that. That’s a great difference, indeed.”

Leaving Glynn and his little charge to philosophise on the resemblance between men and crocodiles, we shall now return to Tim Rokens and Phil Briant, whom we left in the trader’s cottage.

The irate Irishman had been calmed down by reason and expostulation, and had again been roused to great indignation several times since we left him, by the account of things connected with the slave-trade, given him by the trader, who, although he had no interest in it himself, did not feel very much aggrieved by the sufferings he witnessed around him.

“You don’t mane to tell me, now, that whalers comes in here for slaves, do ye?” said Briant, placing his two fists on his two knees, and thrusting his head towards the trader, who admitted that he meant to say that; and that he meant, moreover, to add, that the thing was by no means of rare occurrence—that whaling ships occasionally ran into that very port on their way south, shipped a cargo of negroes, sold them at the nearest slave-buying port they could make on the American coast, and then proceeded on their voyage, no one being a whit the wiser.

“You don’t mean it?” remarked Tim Rokens, crossing his legs and devoting himself to his pipe, with the air of a man who mourned the depravity of his species, but did not feel called upon to disturb his equanimity very much because of it.

Phil Briant clenched his teeth, and glared.

“Indeed I do mean it,” reiterated the trader. “Would you believe it, there was one whaler put in here, and what does he do but go and invite a lot o’ free blacks aboard to have a blow-out; and no sooner did he get them down into the hold then he shut down the hatches, sailed away, and sold ’em every one.”

“Ah! morther, couldn’t I burst?” groaned Phil; “an’ ov coorse they left a lot o’ fatherless children and widders behind ’em.”

“They did; but all the widders are married again, and most of the children are grown up.”

Briant looked as if he did not feel quite sure whether he ought to regard this as a comforting piece of information or the reverse, and wisely remained silent.

“And now you must excuse me if I leave you to ramble about alone for some time, as I have business to transact; meanwhile I’ll introduce you to a nigger who will show you about the place, and one who, if I mistake not, will gladly accompany you to sea as steward’s assistant.”

The trader opened a door which led to the back part of his premises, and shouted to a stout negro who was sawing wood there, and who came forward with alacrity.

“Ho! Neepeelootambo, go take these gentlemen round about the village, and let them see all that is to be seen.”

“Yes, massa.”

“And they’ve got something to say to you about going to sea—would you like to go?”

The negro grinned, and as his mouth was of the largest possible size, it is not exaggeration to say that the grin extended from ear to ear, but he made no other reply.

“Well, please yourself. You’re a free man—you may do as you choose.”

Neepeelootambo, who was almost naked, having only a small piece of cloth wrapped round his waist and loins, grinned again, displaying a double row of teeth worthy of a shark in so doing, and led his new friends from the house.

“Now,” said Tim Rokens, turning to the negro, and pointing along the shore, “we’ll go along this way and jaw the matter over. Business first, and pleasure, if ye can get it, arterwards—them’s my notions, Nip—Nip—Nippi—what’s your name?”

“Coo Tumble, I think,” suggested Briant.

“Ay, Nippiloo Bumble—wot a jaw-breaker! so git along, old boy.”

The negro, who was by no means an “old boy,” but a stalwart man in the prime of life, stepped out, and as they walked along, both Rokens and Briant did their best to persuade him to ship on board the Red Eric, but without success. They were somewhat surprised as well as chagrined, having been led to expect that the man would consent at once. But no alluring pictures of the delights of seafaring life, or the pleasures and excitements of the whale-fishery, had the least effect on their sable companion. Even sundry shrewd hints, thrown out by Phil Briant, that “the steward had always command o’ the wittles, and that his assistant would only have to help himself when convanient,” failed to move him.

“Well, Nippi-Boo-Tumble,” cried Tim Rokens, who in his disappointment unceremoniously contracted his name, “it’s my opinion—private opinion, mark’ee—that you’re a ass, an’ you’ll come for to repent of it.”

“Troth, Nippi-Bumble, he’s about right,” added Briant coaxingly. “Come now, avic, wot’s the raisin ye won’t go? Sure we ain’t blackguards enough to ax ye to come for to be sold; it’s all fair and above board. Why won’t ye, now?”

The negro stopped, and turning towards them, drew himself proudly up; then, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, he advanced a step and held up his forefinger to impose silence.

“You no tell what I go to say? at least, not for one, two day.”

“Niver a word, honour bright,” said Phil, in a confidential tone, while Rokens expressed the same sentiment by means of an emphatic wink and nod.

“You mus’ know,” said the negro, earnestly, “me expec’s to be made a king!”

“A wot?” exclaimed both his companions in the same breath, and very much in the same tone.

“A king.”

“Wot?” said Rokens; “d’ye mean, a ruler of this here country?”

Neepeelootambo nodded his head so violently that it was a marvel it remained on his shoulders.

“Yis. Ho! ho! ho! ’xpec’s to be a king.”

“And when are ye to be crowned, Bumble?” inquired Briant, rather sceptically, as they resumed their walk.

“Oh, me no say me goin’ to be king; me only ’xpec’s dat.”

“Werry good,” returned Rokens; “but wot makes ye for to expect it?”

“Aha! Me berry clebber fellow—know most ebbery ting. Me hab doo’d good service to dis here country. Me can fight like one leopard, and me hab kill great few elephant and gorilla. Not much mans here hab shoot de gorilla, him sich terriferick beast; ’bove five foot six tall, and bigger round de breast dan you or me—dat is a great true fact. Also, me can spok Englis’.”

“An’ so you expec’s they’re goin’ to make you a king for all that?”

“Yis, dat is fat me ’xpec’s, for our old king be just dead; but dey nebber tell who dey going to make king till dey do it. I not more sure ob it dan the nigger dat walk dare before you.”

Neepeelootambo pointed as he spoke to a negro who certainly had a more kingly aspect than any native they had yet seen. He was a perfect giant, considerably above six feet high, and broad in proportion. He wore no clothing on the upper part of his person, but his legs were encased in a pair of old canvas trousers, which had been made for a man of ordinary stature, so that his huge bony ankles were largely exposed to view.

Just as Phil and Rokens stopped to take a good look at him before passing on, a terrific yell issued from the bushes, and instantly after, a negro ran towards the black giant and administered to him a severe kick on the thigh, following it up with a cuff on the side of the head, at the same time howling something in the native tongue, which our friends of course did not understand. This man was immediately followed by three other blacks, one of whom pulled the giant’s hair, the other pulled his nose, and the third spat in his face!

It is needless to remark that the sailors witnessed this unprovoked assault with unutterable amazement. But the most remarkable part of it was, that the fellow, instead of knocking all his assailants down, as he might have done without much trouble, quietly submitted to the indignities heaped upon him; nay, he even smiled upon his tormentors, who increased in numbers every minute, running out from among the bushes and surrounding the unoffending man, and uttering wild shouts as they maltreated him.

“Wot’s he bin doin’?” inquired Rokens, turning to his black companion. But Rokens received no answer, for Neepeelootambo was looking on at the scene with an expression so utterly woe-begone and miserable that one would imagine he was himself suffering the rough usage he witnessed.

“Arrah! ye don’t appear to be chairful,” said Briant, laughing, as he looked in the negro’s face. “This is a quare counthrie, an’ no mistake;—it seems to be always blowin’ a gale o’ surprises. Wot’s wrong wid ye, Bumble?”

The negro groaned.

“Sure that may be a civil answer, but it’s not o’ much use. Hallo! what air they doin’ wid the poor cratur now?”

As he spoke the crowd seized the black giant by the arms and neck and hair, and dragged him away towards the village, leaving our friends in solitude.

“A very purty little scene,” remarked Phil Briant when they were out of sight; “very purty indade, av we only knowed wot it’s all about.”

If the surprise of the two sailors was great at what they had just witnessed, it was increased tenfold by the subsequent behaviour of their negro companion.

That eccentric individual suddenly checked his groans, gave vent to a long, deep sigh, and assuming a resigned expression of countenance, rose up and said— “Ho! It all ober now, massa.”

“I do believe,” remarked Rokens, looking gravely at his shipmate, “that the feller’s had an attack of the mollygrumbles, an’s got better all of a suddint.”

“No, massa, dat not it. But me willin’ to go wid you now to de sea.”

“Eh? willin’ to go? Why, Nippi-Too-Cumble, wot a rum customer you are, to be sure!”

“Yis, massa,” rejoined the negro. “Me not goin’ to be king now, anyhow; so it ob no use stoppin’ here. Me go to sea.”

“Not goin’ to be king? How d’ye know that?”

“’Cause dat oder nigger, him be made king in a berry short time. You mus’ know, dat w’en dey make wan king in dis here place, de peeple choose de man; but dey not let him know. He may guess if him please—like me—but p’raps him guess wrong—like me! Ho! ho! Den arter dey fix on de man, dey run at him and kick him, as you hab seen dem do, and spit on him, and trow mud ober him, tellin’ him all de time, ‘You no king yet, you black rascal; you soon be king, and den you may put your foots on our necks and do w’at you like, but not yit; take dat, you tief!’ An’ so dey ’buse him for a littel time. Den dey take him straight away to de palace and crown him, an’, oh! arter dat dey become very purlite to him. Him know dat well ’nuff, and so him not be angry just now. Ah! me did ’xpec, to hab bin kick and spitted on dis berry day!”

Poor Neepeelootambo uttered the last words in such a deeply touching tone, and seemed to be so much cast down at the thought that his chance of being “kicked and spitted upon” had passed away for ever, that Phil Briant burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and Tim Rokens exhibited symptoms of internal risibility, though his outward physiognomy remained unchanged.

“Och! Bumble, you’ll be the death o’ me,” cried Briant. “An’ are they a-crownin’ of him now?”

“Yis, massa. Dat what dey go for to do jist now.”

“Troth, then, I’ll go an’ inspict the coronation. Come along, Bumble, me darlint, and show us the way.”

In a few minutes Neepeelootambo conducted his new friends into a large rudely-constructed hut, which was open on three sides and thatched with palm-leaves. This was the palace before referred to by him. Here they found a large concourse of negroes, whose main object at that time seemed to be the creation of noise; for besides yelling and hooting, they beat a variety of native drums, some of which consisted of bits of board, and others of old tin and copper kettles. Forcing their way through the noisy throng they reached the inside of the hut, into which they found that Ailie Dunning and Glynn Proctor had pushed their way before them. Giving them a nod of recognition, they sat down on a mat by their side to watch the proceedings, which by this time were nearly concluded.

The new king—who was about to fill the throne rendered vacant by the recent death of the old king of that region—was seated on an elevated stool looking very dignified, despite the rough ordeal through which he had just passed. When the noise above referred to had calmed down, an old grey-headed negro rose and made a speech in the language of the country, after which he advanced and crowned the new king, who had already been invested in a long scarlet coat covered with tarnished gold lace, and cut in the form peculiar to the last century. The crown consisted of an ordinary black silk hat, considerably the worse for wear. It looked familiar and commonplace enough in the eyes of their white visitors; but, being the only specimen of the article in the district, it was regarded by the negroes with peculiar admiration, and deemed worthy to decorate the brows of royalty.

Having had this novel crown placed on the top of his woolly pate, which was much too large for it, the new king hit it an emphatic blow on the top, partly with a view to force it on, and partly, no doubt, with the design of impressing his new subjects with the fact that he was now their rightful sovereign, and that he meant thenceforth to exercise all the authority, and avail himself of all the privileges that his high position conferred on him. He then rose and made a pretty long speech, which was frequently applauded, and which terminated amid a most uproarious demonstration of loyalty on the part of the people.

If you wish to gladden the heart of a black man, reader, get him into the midst of an appalling noise. The negro’s delight is to shout, and laugh, and yell, and beat tin kettles with iron spoons. The greater the noise, the more he enjoys himself. Great guns and musketry, gongs and brass bands, kettledrums and smashing crockery, crashing railway-engines, blending their utmost whistles with the shrieks of a thousand pigs being killed, all going at once, full blast, and as near to him as possible, is a species of Elysium to the sable son of Africa. On their occasions of rejoicing, negroes procure and produce as much noise as is possible, so that the white visitors were soon glad to seek shelter, and find relief to their ears, on board ship.

But even there the sounds of rejoicing reached them, and long after the curtain of night had enshrouded land and sea, the hideous din of royal festivities came swelling out with the soft warm breeze that fanned Ailie’s cheek as she stood on the quarterdeck of the Red Eric, watching the wild antics of the naked savages as they danced round their bright fires, and holding her father’s hand tightly as she related the day’s adventures, and told of the monkeys, crocodiles, and other strange creatures she had seen in the mangrove-swamps and on the mud-banks of the slimy river.