JOURNET. 



SOUTH AMERICA. 241 



from Africa, a Creole from Trinidad, and myself 



. 



a white man from Yorkshire. In fact, a little 

 tower of Babel group, in dress, no dress, address, 

 and language. 



Daddy Quashi hung in the rear ; I showed him 

 a large Spanish knife, which I always carried in 

 the waistband of my trowsers : it spoke volumes 

 to him, and he shrugged up his shoulders in 

 absolute despair. The sun was just peeping over 

 the high forests on the eastern hills, as if coming 

 to look on, and bid us act with becoming for- 

 titude. I placed all the people at the end of the 

 rope, and ordered them to pull till the cayman 

 appeared on the surface of the water ; and then, 

 should he plunge, to slacken the rope and let 

 him go again into the deep. 



I now took the mast of the canoe in my hand 

 (the sail being tied round the end of the mast) 

 and sunk down upon one knee, about four yards 

 from the water's edge, determining to thrust it 

 down his throat, in case he gave me an oppor- 

 tunity. I certainly felt somewhat uncomfortable 

 in this situation, and I thought of Cerberus on 

 the other side of the Styx ferry. The people 

 pulled the cayman to the surface ; he plunged 

 furiously as soon as he arrived in these upper 

 regions, and immediately went below again on 

 their slackening the rope. I saw enough not 

 to fall in love at first sight. I now told them 

 we would run all risks, and have him on land 



R 



