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the apostle of Virginia, mingles, like many a missionary of the present day, the style of an exhorter with a keen discernment of the traits of the savage mind.
George Percy, fresh from Northumberland, tells in a language as simple as Defoe's the piteous tale of five months of illness and starvation, watched by “those wild and cruel Pagans.”
John Pory, of “the strong potations,” who thinks that “good company is the soul of this life,” nevertheless comforts himself in his solitude among the “crystal rivers and odoriferous woods” by reflecting that he is escaping envy and expense.
George Sandys, scholar and poet, finds his solace during a Virginia exile in continuing his translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Colonel Norwood, an adventurer who belongs to a somewhat later day, since he speaks of having “read Mr. Smith's travels,” draws the long bow of narrative quite as powerfully as the redoubtable Smith, and far more smoothly, as witness his accounts of starvation on shipboard and cannibalism on shore.
This Colonel is an artist who would have delighted Stevenson.
All of these early tellers of Virginia tales were Englishmen, and most of them returned to England, where their books were printed and their remaining lives were passed.
But far to the northeast
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