I passed the winter of 1840-41 with an invalid daughter, in the island of St. Croix. With a party of some six or eight, we devoted one delightful, moonlight evening, to a ride, on horseback, among the sugar-loaf summits of that beautiful speck amid the main. We were ascending the hills, in the neighborhood of the Annelly plantation--the moon was at full, that night; and the Caribbean Sea, far and wide, shone like a boundless prairie of burnished silver. As we were slowly winding our way, to the summit, one of our party called the attention of the rest to the sounds of music, coming from the slave cabins, at a distance. As we advanced, slowly and silently, towards the spot, the male and female voices were readily distinguished. We drew near, unperceived, and, checking our horses, listened, for several minutes, to the wild, simple notes of these children of bondage. "There is melody in this"--said one of our party aloud, and all was hushed, in an instant. We rode down to the cabins, and begged them to continue their song--but our solicitations were in vain--even the offer of sundry five stiver pieces, which operate, like a charm, upon many occasions, with the _uncles_ and the _aunties_, was ineffectual then. "_No massa--b'lieve no sing any more_"--were the only replies, and we went upon our way. As we descended the Annelly hills, on the opposite side, after leaving the negroes and their cabins, at some distance, we halted and listened--they had recommenced--the same wild music was floating upon the breeze. As we rode slowly along, my daughter asked me, if I could account for their reluctance to comply with our request. I told her, I could not. "Perhaps," said she, "they have a reason, somewhat like the reason of those, who sat down, by the waters of Babylon, and wept, and who could not sing one of the songs of Zion, in a strange land." It might have been thus. "_They that carried us away captive, required of us a song! They, that wasted us, required of us mirth!_" No. CVI. While pursuing his free inquiry into the origin of evil, I doubt, if Soame Jenyns had as much pleasure, as Sir Joseph Banks enjoyed, in his famous investigation, if fleas were the prototypes of lobsters. These inquiries are immeasurably pleasant. When a boy, I well remember my cogitations, what became of the old moons; and how joyously I accepted the solution of my nurse, who had quite a turn for judicial astrology, that they were unquestionably cut up, for stars.