A SOUTH EASTEE. 803 



see their huge, clumsy wagons, dragged by oxen 

 almost innumerable, approaching the town, over 

 a high ridge at its back. They brought in wool, 

 ostrich feathers, lion's skins, beef, butter, and 

 many other articles, which form the export trade 

 of the port. Long, slow-moving trains they were, 

 looking to us like vast serpents crawling along. 



So we were not to go ashore. This vexed my 

 ill satisfied shipmates, who would have been glad 

 enough to desert here, had there been the slightest 

 opportunity. Not that they had not been in worse 

 vessels. Not that the voyage was unbearably 

 long. Not that the labor during our stay in port 

 was likely to be exhausting. But simply because 

 they had by this time found out all about the ves- 

 sel and her officers. They had exhausted the 

 excitement of novelty on board, and their restless 

 spirits pined for more. It is so always, at sea. I was 

 possessed with this spirit, as well as my shipmates. 

 And to me, as to them, it was a bane to true con- 

 tentment. 



It was on the third day after our arrival in the 

 roads, that a regular South Easter blew up. The 

 air, at no time since our arrival too genial, became 

 almost frosty. Heavy storm clouds blew in dense 

 white masses to the North West. The sea began 

 to roll in, in mountain surges, threatening to engulf 

 the vessels which lay anchored in its course. The 

 surf boomed solemnly from shore, and the wind 

 shrieked through our rigging, until one could 

 scarcely make himself heard on deck. 



