Explore "The Island" by Richard Whiteing on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Pitcairn! I remembered something of what the word meant, next morning, when I woke from a refreshing sleep.
Who does not know that story, just a century old? A ship of war from England sent out to these southern seas to fetch breadfruit for transplantation. Her work easy, her crew passing long delicious enervating months in this contrasting clime; the southern sky, in lieu of our murky heavens, the southern woman, in lieu of Deptford Poll. Then, the breadfruit all collected, the signal given to start for home, but given by an unpopular commander. Mutiny next. The captain and a faithful remnant thrust into an open boat, with a handful of provisions; the crew gently sailing away in search of some happy isle. One group thinking they had found it in Otaheite, and there disembarking, leaving the others to steer further forward into the unknown. These last, finally, spying the dot of Pitcairn, and stopping there, scuttling their ship to signify ‘Good-bye' to the world. An auspicious settlement, with all the comforts -- the heathen woman (imported) and heathen whisky, home made, by an inventor of genius, who could not find even this morning light sufficiently exhilarating without his dram; a few native men for service, beside. So, they began to be happy for ever, according to the most approved methods of Wapping Old Stairs.