362 SHIPWRECK OF THE MEDUSA. 
maiiied for us to guard against the recurrence of a like mis- 
fortune. The poultry-yard was instantly transported to our 
new habitation, and we took care to surround it with thorns, 
to keep off the w^olves, the foxes, and the tigers. Our two 
hens and the duck were placed in it till we could purchase 
others. 
Our new cottage was, as I have already said, situated on 
the banks of the river. A small wood of mangrove trees 
and acacias grew to the left, presenting a scene sufficiently 
agreeable. But the marshy wood sent forth such clouds of 
musketoes, that from the first day we were so persecuted as 
scarcely to be able to inhabit our cottage during the night. 
We were forced to betake ourselves to our canoe, and sail up 
and down the river ; but we were not more sheltered from 
the stings of the insects than upon land. Sometimes, after a 
long course, we would return to the hut, where, in spite of 
the heat, we would envelope ourselves in thick woolen blank- 
ets, to pass the night ; then, after being half suffocated, we 
would fill the house full of smoke, or go and plunge ourselves 
in the river. 
I am bold to say, we were the most miserable creatures 
that ever existed on the face of the earth. The thoughts of 
passing all the bad season in this state of torture, made us re- 
gret a hundred times we had not perished in the shipwreck. 
How, thought I, how is it possible to endure the want of sleep, 
the stings of myriads of insects, the putrid exhalations of 
marshes, the heat of the climate, the smoke of our huts, the 
chagrin which consumes us, and the want of the most neces- 
sary articles of life, without being overcome ! My father, 
however, to prevent us seeing the melancholy which weighed 
upon him, assumed a serene air when his soul was a prey 
to the most horrible anguish ; but through this pretended pla- 
cidity it was easy to see the various sentiments by which his 
heart was affected. Often would that good man say to us, 
" My children, I am not unhappy, but I suffer to see you buried 
in the deserts. If 1 could gather a sufficient sum to convey 
you to France, I would at least have the satisfaction of think- 
ing you there enjoyed life, and that your youth did not pass in 
these solitudes, far from human society." — " How, my father," 
replied I to him, " how can you think we would be happy in 
France, when we knew you were in misery in Africa ! O, af- 
flict us not. You know, and we have said so a hundred times, 
that our sole desire is to remain near you, to assist you to 
bring up our young brothers and sisters, and to endeavor by 
