Whilst remaining at Hayti, I took an excursion, on foot and alone, through the mountains one day, to visit this interesting spot.  The ascent to the cavern was steep and toilsome.  I was obliged frequently to change my course, and pursue a more lengthened route than what my eye had anticipated; but at length I reached the place, and, pausing a few minutes to rest after my weary journey, struck a light, and, with lantern in hand, entered the awful cave.  A large stone had been so placed within the entrance that it might have served for a stopper occasionally.  Even in its withdrawn position I passed it with difficulty.  “Now,” I exclaimed, “I shall behold with my own eyes the aboriginal style of burial in these sacred and almost inaccessible recesses, which that unsatisfactory historian, Ferdinand Colon, was too lazy to inspect with his own eyes, and which his father had never seen in all his hunting-matches.  Indeed, I don’t think his blood-hounds could climb the ascent to this cave.”  As I entered, I felt myself treading on bones!  I looked around the narrow chamber of death, and every where bones—­human bones covered the rocky floor; but no sign of art or trace of religious obsequies rewarded my scrutiny.  “Bless me!” said I, “what a journey I have had for nothing!  This is merely the ordinary HOTTENTOT-HOLE style, with a stone instead of a thorn-bush to exclude wild beasts!” So I hastened forth, blaming the easy credulity that drank in traditionary tales of aboriginal tombs.  At the entrance I found a negro standing, leaning on his musket; a brace of pistols were stuck in his girdle, and a sword hung by his side.  I was rather startled, for the man possessed a fierce and threatening aspect, and I was perfectly defenceless.  Nevertheless there was are air of manly dignity about him which assured me that he was not likely to be unnecessarily savage. "Qui vive?" demanded he, sternly.  I explained my views in coming to this secluded spot.  He unbent his dark brow on hearing that I was an Englishman.

“Behold that noble expanse!” said he, changing his tone and language together.  “The guileless race whose bones whiten this rocky den once ranged over that lovely landscape in peace and freedom.  The white savages came, and were received as brethren.  They threw off the mask, and repaid friendship and love with bonds and tortures.  The red man was too innocent, and too ignorant, and too feeble, to co-exist under the same sky with the cunning and ferocious white demon—­and he retired to his caves to die!  His race is extinct, for he knew not the use of arms!” He clasped his musket to his breast with emotion, and remained silent.  “Who are you that feel so much for the exterminated Haytians?” I inquired.  “Their avenger!” he replied, “and the champion of a darker race whose wrongs can never have vengeance enough.  Christophe!”

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