The Voyage of Captain Popanilla | Page 3

all the women of course screamed;
and animated by the example of their sovereign, and armed with the
marine gems, the Amazons assumed an imposing attitude.
Just at the moment that they had worked up their enthusiasm to the
highest pitch, and were actually desirous of dying for their country, the
ship sunk.

CHAPTER 3
It is the flush of noon; and, strange to say, a human figure is seen
wandering on the shore of the Isle of Fantaisie.
'One of the crew of the wrecked frigate, of course? What an escape!
Fortunate creature! interesting man! Probably the indefatigable Captain
Parry; possibly the undaunted Captain Franklin; perhaps the
adventurous Captain Lyon!'
No! sweet blue-eyed girl! my plots are not of that extremely guessable
nature so admired by your adorable sex. Indeed, this book is so
constructed that if you were even, according to custom, to commence
its perusal by reading the last page, you would not gain the slightest
assistance in finding out 'how the story ends.'
The wanderer belongs to no frigate-building nation. He is a true
Fantaisian; who having, in his fright, during yesterday's storm, lost the
lock of hair which, in a moment of glorious favour, he had ravished
from his fair mistress's brow, is now, after a sleepless night, tracing
every remembered haunt of yesterday, with the fond hope of regaining
his most precious treasure. Ye Gentlemen of England, who live at
home at ease, know full well the anxiety and exertion, the days of
management, and the nights of meditation which the rape of a lock
requires, and you can consequently sympathize with the agitated
feelings of the handsome and the hapless Popanilla.
The favourite of all the women, the envy of all the men, Popanilla

passed a pleasant life. No one was a better judge of wine, no one had a
better taste for fruit, no one danced with more elegant vivacity, and no
one whispered compliments in a more meaning tone. His stories ever
had a point, his repartees were never ill-natured. What a pity that such
an amiable fellow should have got into such a scrape!
In spite of his grief, however, Popanilla soon found that the ardency of
his passion evaporated under a smoking sun; and, exhausted, he was
about to return home from his fruitless search, when his attention was
attracted by a singular appearance. He observed before him, on the
shore, a square and hitherto unseen form. He watched it for some
minutes, but it was motionless. He drew nearer, and observed it with
intense attention; but, if it were a being, it certainly was fast asleep. He
approached close to its side, but it neither moved nor breathed. He
applied his nose to the mysterious body, and the elegant Fantaisian
drew back immediately from a most villanous smell of pitch. Not to
excite too much, in this calm age, the reader's curiosity, let him know at
once that this strange substance was a sea-chest. Upon it was marked,
in large black letters, S. D. K. No. 1.
For the first time in his life Popanilla experienced a feeling of
overwhelming curiosity. His fatigue, his loss, the scorching hour, and
the possible danger were all forgotten in an indefinite feeling that the
body possessed contents more interesting than its unpromising exterior,
and in a resolute determination that the development of the mystery
should be reserved only for himself.
Although he felt assured that he must be unseen, he could not refrain
from throwing a rapid glance of anxiety around him. It was a moment
of perfect stillness: the island slept in sunshine, and even the waves had
ceased to break over the opposing rocks. A thousand strange and
singular thoughts rushed into his mind, but his first purpose was ever
uppermost; and at length, unfolding his girdle of skin, he tied the tough
cincture round the chest, and, exerting all his powers, dragged his
mysterious waif into the nearest wood.
But during this operation the top fell off, and revealed the neatest
collection of little packages that ever pleased the eye of the admirer of

spruce arrangement. Popanilla took up packets upon all possible
subjects; smelt them, but they were not savory; he was sorely puzzled.
At last, he lighted on a slender volume bound in brown calf, which,
with the confined but sensual notions of a savage, he mistook for
gingerbread, at least. It was 'The Universal Linguist, by Mr. Hamilton;
or, the Art of Dreaming in Languages.'
No sooner had Popanilla passed that well-formed nose, which had been
so often admired by the lady whose lock of hair he had unfortunately
lost, a few times over a few pages of the Hamiltonian System than he
sank upon his bed of flowers, and, in spite of his curiosity, was