The village then consisted of five or six thatched cottages “which had an air of comfort, cleanliness, and plenty truly English.” The young sailor Stephen White, whom the _Blenden Hall_ had left behind with his precious Peggy, was still happy in his bargain, and their babies were playing with the lusty little flock of the Glass family. The island was no longer a hermit’s retreat. The marooned artist noted that “children there were in abundance, and just one year older than another.” Small wonder that he saw little of the two women, who were fully occupied with their domestic duties. The worthy Governor William Glass had a curious yarn to tell of that first ruler of the island, Jonathan Lambert of Salem, who had published his grandiose proclamations and whose ambitious dreams were so soon eclipsed. The accepted account is that he was drowned while out in his boat, but the British garrison had found on the island a man who said he had been there with Lambert and that he suspected another companion of the first king of Tristan da Cunha of having made away with him in order to secure his hoard of gold. Afraid of discovery, the regicide had fled the island, leaving the treasure behind him. The ingenious inventor of this narrative had professed to know where the treasure was buried, and that he would some day reveal it to the man of the garrison who pleased him most, thus insuring good treatment from the men, each hoping to be favored. But one day after drinking immoderately of liquor he was taken suddenly ill and expired before he could explain to his comrades where his treasure was concealed. At any rate, the story sufficed to supply the imaginative vagabond with free rum and tobacco, which, no doubt, was the end in view. Augustus Earle hunted the wild goats, which had multiplied on the mountain-slopes, and he has left us this pleasing picture of the simple and righteous existence led by these dwellers on remote Tristan da Cunha: Governor Glass informed me that the last time they had ascended the mountain after goats, one of the party got too close to the precipice and fell down several hundred feet. They found the corpse next day in a miserably mangled state. They interred it in the garden near their settlement and placed at the head of the grave a board with his name and age, together with an account of the accident which caused his death, and the remark that it happened on a _Sunday_, a dreadful warning to Sabbath-breakers. The people all say they will nevermore ascend the mountain on that sacred day. Indeed, from all I have seen of them, they pay every respect to the duties of religion that lies in their power.