in this green isle of the sea, to oppress the poor laborer, and at last bring him to a valley of death—deep, dark, intricate—where slimy serpents, poison lizards, and gnawing vultures creep and wind about his wasted limbs, and gnaw into the deepest recesses of his vitals.
In every cabin we visited, some were so weak that they could neither stand nor sit, and when we entered they saluted us, by crawling on all fours toward us, and trying to give some token of welcome. Never, never was the ruling passion stronger in death. That heartfelt greeting which they give the stranger, had not in the least died within them; it was not asking charity, for the curate answered my inquiries afterward, concerning the self-control, which was the wonder of all, that he had sent a man previously through the island, to say that a stranger, from across the sea, was coming to visit them, but she had no money or food to give, and they must not trouble her. I gave a little boy a biscuit, and a thousand times since have I wished that it had been thrown into the sea; it could not save him: he took it between his bony hands, clasped it tight, and half-bent as he was, lifted them up, looked with his glaring eyes upon me, and gave a laughing grin that was truly horrible. The curate turned aside, and beckoned me away. "Did you see that horrid attempt to laugh?" "I cannot stay longer," was my answer. We hurried away. The noble-minded pilot said, "Will you step into my little place, and I will show you the boiler where I made the soup and stirabout, while the grants lasted." These grants were mostly sent by the churches in England,
