OnÊChristmas Eve, 1668, I, Francis Clayton, was with my brother Dick at Clayton Manor, our fatherÕs house. ÕTis seated on the bottom of a Bay near Wembury, on the sea coast of Devon. My brother served in quality of lieutenant on board His MajestyÕs shipÊTiger, and was but late returned from a cruise off the Island of Jamaica. His ship lay at anchor in the bay.

We sat over against one another on the hearth, in my little snug room. The Squire and the servants were a-bed. The great old house slept, with starting and creaking of the timbers. The fire was sunk together, burning with a clear glow; the candles were wasted to the snuff in their sockets.

My brother told a marvellous tale of the South Sea, of an island there haunted by spirits, particularly by a monstrous great ghoul, or devil.

ÒMany rumours,Ó said he, Òare gotten abroad of this enchanted island. ÕTis said that he who laid up the treasure had a truck with the devil, and that a frightful fiend hath guard over it. I do certainly know Õtis there. As to the rest, I am nothing concerned with such fantastic gear. Once ashore there,Ó said he, Òand not all the devils in hell shall keep me from the treasure! Yet, if seamen who have seen the Thing be not extremely out, Õtis a pretty wight! The head of it, say they, reaches unto the clouds, and the appearance of it is frightful out of all description.Ó

There came a sudden tap-tapping in the wainscoting. It was, no doubt, but a rat; but, I must confess, I shrank with fear of it: whereupon my brother clapped me boisterously on the shoulder, crying:

ÒHallo, my land-captain! Did you think it was the ghosts from the Haunted Island? IÕll show you something to cheer you up.Ó

Hereupon, clapping hand to pocket, he plucked forth a little box, or casket. It was of gold, very cunningly wrought with the representation of a galleon; and her hull was of rubies, her sails of pearls, her flag and flowing pendants of emeralds and sapphires, and the sea of amethyst.

It was exquisite, and I said so; but my brother bade me read what was written on a piece of parchment that he took from the box and laid open before me.

ÒI know you like poesy,Ó said he, Òread it. ÕTis better than a sonnet to my ladyÕs shoe-latchet!Ó

E. H. Visiak