III

simplicity which detained me. A damsel, as innocent as an angel, came alongside one day, and said she would embark on the Spray if I would land her at Lisbon. She could cook flying-fish, she thought, but her forte was dressing bacalao . Her brother Antonio, who served as interpreter, hinted that, anyhow, he would like to make the trip. Antonio’s heart went out to one John Wilson, and he was ready to sail for America by way of the two capes to meet his friend. “Do you know John Wilson of Boston?” he cried. “I knew a John Wilson,” I said, “but not of Boston.” “He had one daughter and one son,” said Antonio, by way of identifying his friend. If this reaches the right John Wilson, I am told to say that “Antonio of Pico remembers him.”