happy, if its beauty and its glorious atmosphere might only operate unimpededly.
I have now been for some days on a new plantation, both of sugar and coffee, with an American family of the name of P., consisting of an elderly gentleman, his wife, much younger than himself; two young sons and two daughters. I have to thank the Swedish consul, Mr. Ninninger, for this invitation. Mr. P. is a warm republican, and courageous enough openly to express his republican sympathies in the very face of the Spanish authorities of the island. He would do it, he says, “at the mouth of a four-and-twenty pounder,” and I believe him, the brave old gentleman, and I like him for it! Mrs. P. was born in England, and now, at near fifty, her countenance has still all the charm and sweetness of youth, combined with an expression of the greatest kindness. She reminds me of those springs of fresh water, which God permits here and there to well up in the sandy deserts of the tropics for the invigoration of the desert pilgrim. Palm-trees grow around them, and the sward becomes verdant; the wanderer rests there and drinks of the springs, and wishes only that he could linger there. When I meet with one of these characters of perfectly original goodness, I involuntarily ask myself why, when such might be created and given to the earth, we yet see so few of them. As it is, they seem like the spirit of the wind on this island, merely to reveal themselves on the earth, to remind us of a paradise which—is not to be found there.
There is a glorious view from the front of the house, across the country, and to the distant blue sea. I enjoy it and the breezes from the sea, as I walk upon the broad piazza in the incomparably beautiful mornings and evenings. My charming little room adjoins the piazza, and from it also I have an extensive view; there, however, I am often disturbed by the little negro children, who climb up by
