In view of the description given, may one be gay upon the Encantadas?  Yes:  that is, find one the gayety, and he will be gay.  And, indeed, sackcloth and ashes as they are, the isles are not perhaps unmitigated gloom.  For while no spectator can deny their claims to a most solemn and superstitious consideration, no more than my firmest resolutions can decline to behold the spectre-tortoise when emerging from its shadowy recess; yet even the tortoise, dark and melancholy as it is upon the back, still possesses a bright side; its calipee or breast-plate being sometimes of a faint yellowish or golden tinge.  Moreover, every one knows that tortoises as well as turtle are of such a make, that if you but put them on their backs you thereby expose their bright sides without the possibility of their recovering themselves, and turning into view the other.  But after you have done this, and because you have done this, you should not swear that the tortoise has no dark side.  Enjoy the bright, keep it turned up perpetually if you can, but be honest, and don’t deny the black.  Neither should he, who cannot turn the tortoise from its natural position so as to hide the darker and expose his livelier aspect, like a great October pumpkin in the sun, for that cause declare the creature to be one total inky blot.  The tortoise is both black and bright.  But let us to particulars.

Some months before my first stepping ashore upon the group, my ship was cruising in its close vicinity.  One noon we found ourselves off the South Head of Albemarle, and not very far from the land.  Partly by way of freak, and partly by way of spying out so strange a country, a boat’s crew was sent ashore, with orders to see all they could, and besides, bring back whatever tortoises they could conveniently transport.

It was after sunset, when the adventurers returned.  I looked down over the ship’s high side as if looking down over the curb of a well, and dimly saw the damp boat, deep in the sea with some unwonted weight.  Ropes were dropt over, and presently three huge antediluvian-looking tortoises, after much straining, were landed on deck.  They seemed hardly of the seed of earth.  We had been broad upon the waters for five long months, a period amply sufficient to make all things of the land wear a fabulous hue to the dreamy mind.  Had three Spanish custom-house officers boarded us then, it is not unlikely that I should have curiously stared at them, felt of them, and stroked them much as savages serve civilized guests.  But instead of three custom-house officers, behold these really wondrous tortoises—­none of your schoolboy mud-turtles—­but black as widower’s weeds, heavy as chests of plate, with vast shells medallioned and orbed like shields, and dented and blistered like shields that have breasted a battle, shaggy, too, here and there, with dark green moss, and slimy with the spray of the sea.  These mystic creatures, suddenly translated by night from unutterable solitudes to our peopled