languidly; for now, seven of the best hands were
ill, and the negroes sent us fewer men than before.
The sailors were sulky, frightened, and quarrelsome;
and I think—if the fever had not spread
like a devouring fire every morning, claiming
some fresh victim—that they would have either
broken into the spirit room, or seized the ship
and steered home. One day the negroes took
alarm. I thought they would. They wormed
the fever-secret out of a drunken sailor by giving
him some gold-dust. One of them raised his
paddle as signal, and, suddenly dropping their
burdens, the rest leaped into their canoes and
paddled away up the river. They never came
near us again, and the drunken sailor, firing a
pistol after them, did not improve matters.
That night the captain was found dead in his
cabin, his arm resting on a letter beginning,
'Officers and men, I implore——'

"But how can I bear to recal that horrible
time? One by one every man sickened. Some,
while aloft, fell down pale and trembling. Others
while at table; others while on watch; others at
the galley fire; others in their hammocks; all
the same symptoms,—fever, cramp, convulsions,
and death. The cook died. Then I thought of
my father's words and the old negro woman.
Some died grappling and screaming as if death
was a real visible being that could be threatened
and driven away; others, as to a sleep, with
prayer and moan. One, a boy, talking of green
fields and primrose meadows; others with
allusions to crime and sin. One by one they passed
away, till the horrid conviction came over me
that I should be left alone there in the ship to
die of the fever, unpitied and alone. I was still
just strong enough to drag the last poor fellow
to the side and push him overboard in the
clothes that he had died in.

"O how horrible the loneliness of that first
night, as the shadows of the palms stretched
across the vessel, like the black feelers of some
devilish creature groping for its prey! The
fire of sunset died out over the swamps
and jungles, and the vessel grew dark.
Mosquitoes spread in clouds as if they had been
bred from the dead bodies. The bar sounded
louder. The beasts on shore howled as if
impatient at every life. The long white vapours
stole towards me like ghostly snakes. Heaven
knows how my brain escaped! but, I suppose,
the bore of life saved my reason. I went to
all the berths where the men had died that I
might catch the disease. I handled the spokes
of the wheel. I climbed aloft. I threw myself
into a hammock. I put on the doctor's clothes.
I threw myself into the captain's chair. I fell
on my knees in the lonely cabin and prayed for
forgiveness, for disobeying my father and insulting
the wretchedness of the aged and miserable
negro woman. I also prayed tor death.

"I passed a week thus—such a week as a
sane man, unjustly confined in a madhouse, may
spend. I used to go and sit aloft, looking up
the river for the negro-boat. Sometimes my
reason seemed to wander, and I fancied the dead
men were thrusting their heads up round the
ship and cursing me as the bringer of evil to
the ship. Sometimes I fancied I heard voices
in the cabins, or could see shadows pacing at the
watch or turning the wheel. But," continued
Blowhard, perhaps to releive the agony which
came over him even in telling the story, "I see a
shore-boat coming with the mail-bags, so I must
cut my tale short. Suffice it to say that the negro
king at last sent down a boat to me to propose
peace; gained courage at finding me still alive;
and, after much diplomacy, threats, entreaties, and
presents, put a negro crew on board to take the
vessel to Baragoon, where I got assistance from
the consul; reached home, and was at once
promoted. You may be sure I asked for that fetish
woman when I got back to Bristol; and,
curiously enough (you will call it a sailor's
superstition), I was told she died the very day our first
man was taken ill in the Mangrove River. We of
this age are deuced clever, but I don't think, in
spite of the Times and the Electric Telegraph,
that we have yet got to the bottom of everything.

"I was going to end with a yarn about a
monkey coming on board to steal a fowl that I
had killed and hung in the rigging, and how, when
I chased him, he took a ship's musket, fired into
the powder magazine, and blew me and the ship's
papers high and dry on shore; but I thought
that was pulling it rather to strong."

"Thank you, captain, for your story," we all
sang out in chorus.

"Mail-boat!" cried a voice from under our
quarter.

PRAY EMPLOY MAJOR NAMBY!

I HAVE such an extremely difficult subject to
write about, that I really don't know how to
begin. The fact is, I am a single lady—single,
you will please to understand, entirely because
I have refused many excellent offers. Pray
don't imagine from this that I am old. Some
women's offers come at long intervals, and other
women's offers come close together. Mine came
remarkably close together—so, of course, I
cannot possibly be old. Not that I presume
to describe myself as absolutely young, either;
so much depends on people's points of view. I
have heard female children of the ages of
eighteen or nineteen called young ladies. This
seems to me to be ridiculous—and I have held
that opinion, without once wavering from it, for
more than ten years past. It is, after all, a
question of feeling; and, shall I confess it? I
feel so young!

Dear, dear me! this is dreadfully egotistical;
and, besides, it is not in the least what I
want. May I be kindly permitted to begin
again?

The European war (now I have got the right
end of the thread at last) alarms me inexpressibly,
of course. And yet, strange as it may
seem, it is not my alarm exactly that sets me
writing at the present moment. I am urged,
rather, by a feeling of curiosity to know if