mountains, the front box, as it were, the stage part opening on a bird’s eye-view of the distant town and harbour, with the everlasting ocean beyond it, the currents and flaws of wind making its surface look like ice, as we were too distant to discern the heaving of the swell, or the motion of the billows. The fast falling shades of evening were deepened by the sombrous shadow of the immense tree overhead, and all down in the deep valley was now becoming dark and undistinguishable, through the blue vapours that were gradually floating up towards us. To the left, on the shoulder of the Horseshoe Hill, the sunbeams still lingered, and the gigantic shadows of the trees on the right hand prong were strongly cast across the valley on a red precipitous bank near the top of it. The sun was descending beyond the wood, flashing through the branches, as if they had been on fire. He disappeared. It was a most lovely still evening--the air--but hear the skipper. “It is the hour when from the boughs, The nightingale’s high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers vows, Seem sweet in every whisper’d word; And gentle winds and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf is browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day, When twilight melts beneath the moon away.” “Well recited, skipper,” shouted Bang. “Given as the noble poet’s verses should be given. I did not know the extent of your accomplishments; grown poetical ever since you saw Francesca Cangrejo, eh?” The darkness hid the gallant captain’s blushes, if blush he did. “I say, Don Ricardo, who are those?”--half-a-dozen well-clad negroes had approached the house by this time--“Ask them, Mr Bang; take your friend Mr Cringle for an interpreter.” “Well, I will. Tom, who are they? Ask them--do.” I put the question, “Do you belong to the property?” The foremost, a handsome Negro answered me, “No, we don’t, sir; at least, not till tomorrow.” “Not till tomorrow?” “No, sir; somos caballeros hoy” (we are gentlemen to-day.) “Gentlemen today; and, pray, what shall you be tomorrow?” “Esclavos otra ves,” (slaves again, sir,) rejoined the poor fellow, nowise daunted. “And you, my darling,” said I to a nice well-dressed girl, who seemed to be the sister of the spokesman, “.what are you today, may I ask?” She laughed--“Esclava, a slave to-day, but to-morrow I shall be free.” “Very strange.”