LEAVES FJIOM A LOG. 29 



singing to a short and not unpleasing Creole air, with mellow voices 

 the following brief strain : 



" Longtime* tlem put in a mill, mule, horse and mare, 

 But dis time,t the buckra put dam raskil there." 



To understand the humour, such as it is, of this couplet, the 

 reader must be informed that the tread-mill had just been introduced 

 into the island. 



Day broke ; the bell of the estate, and those of the neighbourhood, 

 called their respective field-gangs to work. The driver blew his 

 shell in reply ; at which signal the negroes slowly left their dwellings 

 and passed my house in their way to the field, each saluting me with 

 " morrow, massa." 



Having got through the business of the morning and given the 

 overseer orders what should be done during the day, I attempted to 

 take my breakfast, but attempted in vain. The recollection of the 

 porter-cup, sangaree bowl, and 'spatch cock that played so conspi- 

 cuous a part in my dream, also reminded me that I had the night 

 .before departed from my usual temperate habits, and that late sup- 

 pers and libations destroy the morning appetite ; of this I am so con- 

 Sdnced, that were I under the necessity of advertising for an overseer, 

 instead of the advertisement running in the usual way, " Wanted an 

 overseer who can bring unexceptionable testimonies of sobriety," it 

 should run thus, " Wanted an overseer who can give satisfactory 

 proofs of his being a good breakfast-eater." After taking a cup of 

 tea, I mounted my horse Bolivar, and set out on my long journey to 

 a Spaniard, with the brief appellation of Don Josef-Maria-Henrico- 

 Hospedero Hedalgon, I did not expect to reach him before night, 

 but having a score of friends and acquaintance on the road, of whose 

 hospitality I could partake, I felt no apprehension touching the pro- 

 phecy of Quaco, about my " going to bed without my dinner !" 

 My road was pleasant enough, it being that delightful part of the 

 Trinidad year, the commencement of the dry season, which some 

 have called the spring. 



I now passed the estate belonging to Monsieur Bonnemaison ; the 

 field-gang were cutting canes, and the muleteers loading their 

 animals, all were chaunting a short song. Negro songs are always 

 short ; it was what on French estates is called a " belle air," a kind 

 of Creole chaunt, almost agreeable enough to merit its appellation. 

 Here I found on inquiry that the master was gone to town. I, there- 

 fore, proceeded to the Conucco (small plantation) of Mr. Bavard 

 Cordillac, a native of the south of France, who had been an officer in 

 Napoleon's army. He was a stout little man, remarkably active, and 

 on several occasions had proved himself a hero in miniature ; but he 

 was so fond of talking of his own prowess that he might lead one 

 unacquainted with him to doubt his courage ; however, this was ex- 

 cusable, for he was a Gascon. He who conceives every Frenchman 

 that boasts too much of his courage a coward, will generally form 

 erroneous estimates. 



Formerly. t Now. 



