BOILING LAKE OF DOMINICA. 67 
“Monsieur Watt he walk, walk, walk, pour tree 
day; he lose hees clo’s, hees pant cut off, he make 
nozing pour manger but root; no knife, no nozing; 
hees guide was neegah [the mountaineers, though 
some of them negroes themselves, have great con- 
tempt for town negroes]; zey was town neegah, and 
leab him and loss him. He come to black man’s 
house in ze wood, and ze black man zink he joméze, 
and he run; when he come back wiz some mo’ men, 
for look for jomdze, Monsieur Watt he make coople 
of sign, he have to lost hees voice and was not speak, 
and zey deescover heem.” 
At daybreak we were stirring. I descended the 
bank and waded up the stream to take my morning 
bath. There were two streams, one hot, one cold, 
which ran in near channels, meeting below. Fol- 
lowing the warm one, stepping from pool to pool, I 
reached a fall about twelve feet in height, surrounded 
by a wealth of tropical plants, from the depths of 
which it suddenly appeared. And it was hot—or 
just as hot as skin could bear—as I sidled under it, 
first a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder, until the 
whole volume of warm water fell squarely upon my 
head. Ah! it was the perfection of luxurious sensa- 
tions. I essayed to shout aloud in my delight, but 
the falling water drowned my voice, and I paddled in 
the pool in silent ecstasy, drawing in long breaths, 
and allowing the rushing of the water, the delicious 
warmth of the bath, the flying spray, to lull me to 
repose. I think I should have fallen asleep had I 
not been warned, by slipping from the rock on which 
I sat, that I was becoming unconscious. It was too 
blissful to leave, too soothing, and I stepped from un- 
