“Had ancient poets known this little spot—
Poets who formed rich Edens in their thought—
Arcadia’s vales, Calypso’s verdant bowers,
Hesperia’s groves, and Tempo’s gayest flowers,
Had ne’er appeared so beautiful and fair
As these gay rocks and emerald islands are.”
T is usually no more to “dangle round” this sea than it is to cross Lake Erie. On this particular occasion, however, I very willingly reached these shores, for the little schooner Enterprise in which we had ventured was not much larger than a good-sized yawl—certainly not over six tons burthen. The waves inundated us at pleasure, wetting even the letters in my breast coat-pocket, filling our faces at times with its slashing foam, and drenching us thoroughly to the inmost thread. But our schooner skimmed along like a seagull, and within thirty-two hours we were once again on land, dry enough for all practical purposes. Nice little schooner—the waves might as well have undertaken to drown a fish!
There is not a natural hill on all Turk’s Island. The shores are but a few feet above the level of the sea, and the interior is scooped out like a basin. This basin is artificially subdivided into innumerable troughs or ponds, into which water is admitted by canals from the sea, whence it evaporates leaving beds of salt. This salt is then raked into hills, so that as you approach these shores you have the extraordinary sight of an island studded with salt-hills.
The slight elevation of the land also permits the wind to pass uninterruptedly over its limestone surface, which accounts for the even temperature and perfect health of the island. The thermometer fell to-day from 86° to 77° Fahrenheit, which is the hottest and the coldest they have had it this summer. But, as you will readily perceive, the absence of all barriers to the winds subjects the colony to the terrific ravages of every ocean storm that chooses to sweep this way. At this very moment the large and substantial mansion in which I am writing trembles like an aspen-leaf, and I am fearful that the few cocoa-nut trees and flower plants bending before the storm on every side will be speedily swept away. Heaven spare the verdure!—the people can look out for themselves. Generally speaking, the winds are soft as a sigh. The gale ebbs to a gentle zephyr; the cloud passes on to Mobile, or wherever else it is bound, leaving these islands gayer for its shower; the huge West Indian sun, apparently magnified to six times its usual diameter, sinks into the crimsoned sea; the heavenly twilight comes on once more, and earth, sea, and sky are all once again tranquilly imparadised. The effect of these transitions on the mind is imperative. The most commonplace, matter-of-fact personage you have in America can not spend a summer around these islands and amid these scenes without having transitory poetic visions flash through his inmost being. But do not think I intend to dwell any further on these Elysian things. If you have a correspondent capable of describing them, send him along. A keen sense of my inability to do so constrains me to desist as from an attempt to comprehend the Infinite.
According to the theory of certain American statesmen, Turk’s Island properly belongs to Hayti; at least, it is on the borders of the Haytien sea, and is as much beholden to Hayti for its support as Cuba is to the United States. As luck has it, however, Turk’s Island really belongs to the British, and Cuba, it would seem,
“By some o’er-hasty angel was misplaced.”
These, then, are a group of the celebrated British West Indies, and form a part of the governmental jurisdiction of Jamaica. It is with rare pleasure that I mention the latter fact, (since “next to being great one’s self it is desirable to have a true relish for greatness,”) for it gives me an opportunity to inform you that the order of knighthood has recently been conferred by Her Britannic Majesty on Sir Edward Jordan, Mayor of the city of Kingston and Prime Minister of Jamaica—a degree of dignity never before attained by a colored man, as I believe, since the British government began. The day of the Anglo-African in America has not yet clearly dawned, but it is dawning. A great many of the officers here, too, are colored. How strange it seems to stand before a large, fine-looking black or colored man, entitled Sir, Honorable, Esquire, and the like! To save me, I cannot realize it, although I see, hear, and shake hands with them every day.
But the grand source of interest to you and to me is, of course, the slaves manumitted by the magnanimity of the British government some twenty-six years agone. It is strangely interesting to hear them tell of parties making their escape to Hayti by sail-boats previous to the act of emancipation, sometimes sailing swift and direct, and at others dodging under the lee of the Caicos reefs until pursuit had been suspended, reminding one much of our Canadian friends. The history of the escape of slaves in our day is as full of heroism as any history in the world.
The neatness and cleanly appearance of the masses are actually surprising. I say it with all due respect, but, take them all in all, the colored people really present a better appearance than the whites. The latter, however, for reasons which you will already have anticipated, are of course more wealthy and intelligent—for which reason, also, they have heretofore been entirely at the head of political affairs. It is only recently that the blacks, who are in the majority, began to tread on their political heels. Some of the whites do not like to see this, but the easiest way for them is to allow themselves to be peacefully absorbed by the colored race in these regions, for their destiny is sealed.