LETTER XIV.

Grand Turk’s and Caicos Islands.

AN ISLAND OF SALT--SIR EDWARD JORDAN, OF JAMAICA--HONOR TO THE BRITISH QUEEN--A STORY IN PARENTHESIS--THE POETRY OF SAILING.

“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.”

It 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.

The Caicos Islands, like most of the Bahamas, are but a series of coral reefs, more extensive in territory and less sterile than this portion of the colony; but their principal products are about the same--salt and shipwrecks. They are at once “the residence and the empire of danger.” An American captain is now here selling the wreck of a cargo lately shipped from Boston to New Orleans--(Captain Elliot, ship Nauset, total wreck on North Caicos reef, July 7, 1860.) The population of the group inclusive is about five thousand, principally colored, who are remarkably industrious, if one is to judge from the rapidity with which they load a vessel with salt; and the essentially limited resources of the island would seem to admit of their being equally virtuous. Churches abound, and schooling may be had at the rate of three cents per week. Every thing is due to the English missionary societies for the healthy tone of morality and religion which prevails in these islands, and I must say, as I believe, chiefly to the Baptists.

But the great characteristic and most amusing peculiarity of these people is their inordinate attachment to the British crown. A captain of a schooner on the coast (black, but thoroughly British) one day overheard some reckless fellow speak disrespectfully of Queen Victoria. About every thing he thought of or said during the rest of the voyage was, “He insult my Queen,” repeating “He insult my Queen” over and over again. They seem to regard Queen Victoria with about the same reverence that the Spanish Catholics bestow upon the Virgin Mary. Nor do I blame them for this, since, if England were crippled to-day, it would be difficult to say what would become of the world’s humanity. It would be like extinguishing the sun!

Every thing is salty. You stand a chance to get some Boston ice here, which is a _rara avis_ in this direction; but before you can get it congealed into cream you are bound to get salt into it, it would seem. A nice saloon, a good hotel, three churches, (English, Wesleyan, and Baptist,) and a first class Masonic lodge--at the head of which is a colored Esquire--together with its excessive salt propensities, are about the best things that can be said for Grand Turk’s Island. Stay! I forget the “Royal Standard,” a weekly journal, to the editor of which I am under obligations, and from which I clip the following

NOTICE.

On the first of August, the “Friendly Society” and the “Benevolent Union Society” of Salt Cay will march in procession from the Society Hall, at 11 o’clock A. M., to the Baptist chapel, where a sermon will be preached by the Rev. W. K. Rycoft on the occasion. By order, etc.,

JOHN L. WILLIAMS.

So much for the land of salt, and a farewell to its happy people, the most that can be said of whom is that they worship Queen Victoria.

(Let me tell you a story. In passing around these islands, we are one day with the Spanish, next day with the English, and the third with the French. It is sometimes diverting. I was sitting one warm afternoon before the door of a countryhouse, having a large green sward-yard sloping away to the road. The house was full of children, some of whom were, or pretended to be, studying their books. Well, suddenly there came pouring down a splendid summer shower, when, without a word, half a dozen of these little rogues, of both sexes, dropped their books, stripped off to the skin, and away they went sailing around the yard like so many water nymphs! In five minutes more they were all dressed, sitting down with their books, and looking as demure as if nothing had happened. “So there hadn’t,” except that one plump little girl _fell heels over head_! That is one way of taking a shower bath I never thought of.)

By the way, an American captain was this day looking at a number of hands, male and female, engaged in loading a vessel with salt. The women were employed holding the sacks, and tying them when filled.

“That’s a smart gal,” said the Yankee captain, pointing to an ebon Venus who was singing, dancing, and tossing the sacks around as merrily as your city girls ever “pawed” the piano.

A sleek-faced gentleman turned up his eyes at us, and inquired: “You lub dis gal, Cap’en?”

“Thunder, no!” said the astonished American; “I don’t love anybody!” Which remark, I guess, was not very far from the truth.

The vessel which I am now on board of is a full-rigged, finely-finished English brig. Her sails are all set, the wind blows fresh, and she cuts the water like a sword-fish. The captain cleared $1,400 on his trip out, with a cargo of lumber from the States. How much will our friend Wm. Whipper make in a year running his craft up a Canadian creek? The tenacity with which our leading colored men embrace that short-sighted policy which teaches them to confine their enterprises to certain proscribed, prejudice-cursed districts, is not only extraordinary--it is marvellous.

The heavenly night comes on. The clouds in the sky look like ships on fire. The rising moon trembles upon the silver-sheeted waves in the east, while the receding sun burnishes the west, tinging the waters even to our very spray. And thus, in this sea of glory, do we skim along. _This_ is the “poetry of sailing.”

“Thou glorious, shining, billowy sea, With ecstasy I gaze on thee! And as I gaze, thy billowy roll Wakes the deep feelings of my soul.”