ho insisted upon
supplying her with "sea-stores" enough to fit out half a dozen sail of
Liverpool packets, she accompanied Morton to the boat.

The next morning at day-break she was startled from her slumbers by the
clanking of the windlass-pauls, the voices of the officers, and the
tramp of feet over her head; and, in a few minutes after, the rushing of
the water under the cabin windows, and the "heeling" of the ship,
announced that they were under weigh, and dashing out to sea with a
fresh breeze. The passage home was, like most passages _from_ the East
Indies and China, rather monotonous from the long continuance of fair
winds. Isabella gazed with delight upon the unrivalled scenery of the
Straits of Sunda, where spring, summer, and autumn reign perpetually in
a sort of triumvirate; the same field, nay, in some cases, the same
tree, presenting, at one and the same time, blossoms, green fruit, and
ripe fruit: infancy, maturity, and decay. She saw, too, in the night the
volcano on the Island of Bourbon, afterwards False Cape and Table
Mountain, but not the Flying Dutchman, the weather being unfortunately
too fine to induce him to put to sea. Next came St. Helena, since so
famous as the cage and then the tomb of that most furious and terrible
of wild beasts, a great conqueror. Near the fifth degree of north
latitude, the south-east trade-wind died away, and was succeeded by four
days of light, variable, "baffling" winds, when the north-east trade set
in strong from about east-by-north, its usual point near the equator,
and they once more flew joyously on their north-west course. A few
"regular built" _Mudian_ (i. e. Bermudan) squalls served to vary the
scene, and rendered the strong, steady gale from south-west, that
succeeded them, peculiarly acceptable.

It was just sunrise one lovely morning, near the last of July, when
Morton, who had the morning watch, directed one of the men to go aloft,
and "take a look round." The seaman had gotten no higher than the
fore-topsail-yard, when he shouted "land ho!" at the very top of his
throat.

"Where away?"

"Broad on the larboard bow."

"What does it look like?"

"Low, white sand-beach."

"Cape Cod, by the mortal man that made horn spoons and poop lanterns!"
said Jones, springing into the fore-rigging.

As the sun climbed higher in the heavens, the liquid blue plain appeared
thickly studded with the white sails of vessels of all descriptions, and
all steering to the