A DAY or two after the events just related, we were lounging in the
Calabooza Beretanee, when we were honoured by a visit from three of
the French Priests; and as about the only notice ever taken of us by
the English missionaries was their leaving their cards for us, in the
shape of a package of tracts, we could not help thinking that the
Frenchmen, in making a personal call, were at least much better bred.

By this time they had settled themselves down quite near our
habitation. A pleasant little stroll down the Broom Road, and a
rustic cross peeped through the trees; and soon you came to as
charming a place as one would wish to see: a soft knoll, planted with
old breadfruit trees; in front, a savannah, sloping to a grove of
palms, and, between these, glimpses of blue, sunny waves.

On the summit of the knoll was a rude chapel, of bamboos; quite small,
and surmounted by the cross. Between the canes, at nightfall, the
natives stole peeps at a small portable altar; a crucifix to
correspond, and gilded candlesticks and censers. Their curiosity
carried them no further; nothing could induce them to worship there.
Such queer ideas as they entertained of the hated strangers. Masses
and chants were nothing more than evil spells. As for the priests
themselves, they were no better than diabolical sorcerers; like those
who, in old times, terrified their fathers.

Close by the chapel was a range of native houses; rented from a chief,
and handsomely furnished. Here lived the priests; and very
comfortably, too. They looked sanctimonious enough abroad; but that
went for nothing; since, at home, in their retreat, they were a club
of Friar Tucks; holding priestly wassail over many a good cup of red