perhaps do get even now. A curious proof of the
strong westerly current in the Atlantic is to be
seen at Anegada, where the fishermen find sufficient
cork drifted to them from the coast of
Spain, to supply their nets. Bottles, too, launched
in the River Gambia, have been picked up in the
Virgin Islands. Between these islands themselves,
the currents are in many places most violent.
To row from island to island is a most
dangerous and almost impossible undertaking.
Many boats have been swept away, and their
crews drowned in the attempt. Between the
eastern part of St. Thomas and the Island of St.
John, in particular, there is a furious current,
and the waves rise in huge surges. When the
southern tide is in its strength, it would be
impossible for any small vessel to encounter that
terrible sea.

Twelve miles to the west of Anegada is Virgin
Gorda, or "Fat Virgin" Island, nine miles long
and a mile broad, with some ten thousand
inhabitants, who export sugar, rum, and tobacco.
On the north-east is a good harbour, called
Gorda Sound, and another to the north-west,
called West Bay, and a third, Thomas's Bay, to
the south. Three miles west of Virgin Gorda, is
Tortola, nine miles long and three broad, with a
population of eleven thousand, and a good
harbour at Road Town, the capital. Moreover,
here, with Tortola to the north, St. John's to the
west, Virgin Gorda to the east, and a dozen little
islands to the south, nature has formed a magnificent
basin, fifteen miles long and three and a
half broad, land-locked and sheltered from every
wind, where all the navies of England might ride
in safety. Why not choose Tortola as the
station for the Royal Mail Company's vessels?
Why go to St. Thomas, that nest of yellow fever,
where fresh water is hard to get, and which
belongs to a foreign power?

Not being able to answer this same why, I
return to St. Thomas. The island is twelve miles
long from east to west, and three broad; and
across the whole length of it runs a range of hills,
the highest point of which may be eight hundred
feet above the sea. These hills were once covered
with woods, and the island was then watered by
rivulets; but the improvident Danes cut down
the woods, the streams dried up, and the inhabitants
now suffer from drought, insomuch that
the captains of steamers are enjoined to husband
their fresh water, lest none should be procurable
at St. Thomas. Charlotte Amalia, the capital
and harbour of St. Thomas, lies on the south
coast, and opens to the south, so that vessels
coming from Europe or North America have to
make a half-circle to enter it. The approach is
not without its dangers. There is, first of all, a
rock called Frenchman's Cap, seven miles from
the harbour's mouth, and four miles further on
there is Buck Island. Between these you steer,
but in mid-channel is a danger called "Scorpion
Rock," with only twenty-one feet of water on it.
Having cleared that (and there is a buoy on it to
help you), you enter the harbour: having on your
right, at its mouth, the lighthouse, the red light
of which, being ninety-five feet above the sea,
can be seen fifteen miles off. Near it is a fort
called Mohlenfel's Battery. On the left are
Prince Frederick's Battery, and the Great Carenage,
where vessels can be moored during hurricanes.
At the very entrance, however, are three
other dangers. There is, first, on the west, a
shoal which juts out the length of a cable from
Frederick's Point; and then, a little east of the
mid-channel, is Prince Rupert's Rock; and
further east, and close to Mohlenfel's Battery, are
the rocks called the Triangles. Lastly, there
are coral rocks in the harbour itself.

The panorama of the harbour of St. Thomas
has been extolled by a well-known writer, and
with justice. The port itself is of a horse-shoe
shape, and, having entered, the town is right
before you, rising in three triangles, with a
glittering white building to crown each apex, and,
above all, the hills are of the brightest green,
rendered more dazzling by the clearness of the
atmosphere. To the left, the harbour runs out
into a long creek, too shallow to be crossed
except by boats. On the right of the town is
Christiana Fort, garrisoned by half a regiment
of Danes, and some artillerymen. Above, on the
hills, is a tower, where in the good old times
lived a notable buccaneer. Close by the fort are
the King's Wharf and a hotel, and all about and
around are such lovely bunches of flowering
shrubs and trees, as almost to make one in love
with the "white man's grave."

I had been amused with my expedition against
the sharks in the afternoon, but now it was over
my spirits went down. There is something fearfully
depressing in St. Thomas and its associations.
Sharks and yellow fever in the harbour,
yellow fever and grinning black men in the town,
the heat stifling, and the smells unbearable—this
is the programme; and the talk is all of so-and-so
who died on yester-night, and such-a-one
who is like to die to-morrow. Our drive was
not exhilarating. On the left, was the shallow
stagnant creek, with a row of miserable huts,
interspersed with shambles at the water's edge.
On the right, were more huts and many cemeteries.
There was the Moravian Cemetery, with
all the slabs of exactly the same height and
size; and there was the Jews' Cemetery, and
the Catholic Cemetery, and what might be
called the Omnibus Cemetery, for what the well-
known writer before referred to irreverently
terms the Hispano-Dano-Yankee-doodle-niggery
population-in-general. My host, the best of
good fellows, who was never hipped himself, had
no idea of comforting a man who was in low
spirits. On my asking, out of the gloominess of
my heart, "Is there any yellow fever here just
now?" he replied, "Well, the yellow fever is
always here. Just at present, however, we are
considered rather clear. It is true there have been
a few scattered cases—there have been five, for
instance, in the house next mine—but only three
died, and, for myself, I have no sort of apprehension.