When, at last the services were over, the black soldiers,—for all the soldiers on the island are black,—with their white officers, filed in a long procession while performing certain military evolutions, and then marched off to the music of a quiet march.
A novel feature of all this was the quaint and picturesque Zouave costume of the soldiers, which has within a few months been adopted,—the bright red embroidered jacket, white sleeves, full blue Turkish trousers, caught just below the knee into a leathern leggin which half conceals the shoe; the pretty red cap, with a white turban twisted gracefully around the crown, from which hangs a huge yellow silk tassel,—all this entire wild and oriental dress harmonizes so completely with these black, well-formed, often handsome faces and stately forms, and with this gorgeous sunlight and tropical brightness of coloring everywhere, that these soldiers seem things wholly unique and original, beings born just as they are from the burning maternal heart of this bounteous nature. How mean and modern these Parisian-dressed men looked beside them! Never were stove-pipe hats so high and stiff—mathematical tailoring so prim and prosaic and square cut![A]
[A] The Zouave costume having been so universally worn by soldiers of the United States, since the above was written, it has, of course, lost what was its greatest charm—its novelty.
In every thing we constantly see the complete dissimilarity of the islands of Cuba and New Providence, and in nothing more than in the recognition of Sunday. A few hours’ sail floats you down through centuries; from much poetry, it is true, alas! to much prose, but nevertheless from the dark ages to one of civilization, and from a chain of weeks linked together by no golden clasp into a country where one seventh of the time the Presence comes so near that you can hear—if you have ears to hear—the trailing of its robes down the dismal steps of all the following week.
Monday, 16th.—Last evening we commenced a twilight ramble which terminated at the kirk.
As our walk had been a little long, we sat down to rest, before arriving, on a little retired rock, commanding bay, city, and clouds of perfumes from neighboring gardens. Presently a tremendous explosive sound took place just behind us, and continued on in a perpetual thundering till we came near being as much petrified as the rock under us. I had only sense enough left to discover that it was undoubtedly the church-bell inviting to the house of quiet. But why so tremendous a summons? Is it to ring out the piety of the entire island? or to break into shivering fragments the after-dinner naps of the church-goers? or to deafen them in defence of the stupid sermon to come? or perchance it may be to call the mermaids and respectable shell-conchs, and other residents of the surrounding vasty deep? With my questions still unanswered, we arose to go, and on turning the first corner found that close behind the wall where we had been sitting, in a little low shelter for the purpose, situated in the remotest corner of the church grounds, was the ordinary-sized bell, that had seemed terrifically loud, not from its size, but from its proximity. Why this wretched attempt at a campanile is preferred to our method of enthroning the bell on the pinnacle of the temple, I cannot divine.
The kirk we found even plainer and less tasteful than the established church of the morning. The noble-faced but prosy clergyman, a Presbyterian in gown and scarf of the Episcopal clergy; the excellent though a little shrill-voiced choir, composed entirely of mulattoes. Just before services began, a handsome lady, well dressed, and whiter than myself, walked into one of the central pews, followed by a tall, equally well dressed and perfectly black husband. This is the only negation of races I have seen, and I cannot tell if it is often paralleled.
Monday evening.—I impart to you a private piece of misery. My windows overlook, and, still worse, overlisten the poultry yard, where med-lays and mêlèes and sound-lays make the “nights hideous,” as well as the mornings. The reason is, these West Indian chickens have no respect for almanacs. They not only ignore the comings and goings of the sun, but they have no shadow of respect for his definite intentions that everybody should sleep in his absence. In short, which means in long, very long, they crow all night, insisting on waking at eleven o’clock to inform me that the daylight has gone, just as conscientiously as at one to assert that it is coming, and at four to suggest that it has just arrived. The geese, the turkeys, the guinea-hens, and, most vociferous of all, the ducks, are equally assiduous in performing their vocal responsibilities. No wonder they turn to universal lungs and come on the table pathetic carcasses, painful relics, poultryitic proof that bipeds fare best when sound is sacrificed to substance.
A drive this evening on the “Western Road,” which, like all the other roads, is of smooth solid rock. It lies along the sea shore, where shells are said to abound; but my enthusiasm, as well as feet, was sadly dampened by fruitless searchings on the sharp wave-riddled rocks, and the equally infertile sand-beach.
A little way out of town stand the curious ruins of a fort, built by the Spaniards when they possessed this island; for you must know, it was handed about from one government to another, changing hands half a dozen times or more before England could get a secure hold. Victoria now finds it a constant drain on her treasury, but, good mother that she is! her feeble children are nourished and supported with no less fidelity than that with which the strong ones sustain her.