Now we who write, and they for whom we write, are all orthodox upon this mighty question; we have all made our confession of faith in private and in public; we all, on suitable occasions, walk up and apply the match to the keg of gun-powder which is to blow up the Union, but which, somehow, at the critical moment, fails to ignite.  But you must allow us one heretical whisper,—­very small and low.  The negro of the North is an ideal negro; it is the negro refined by white culture, elevated by white blood, instructed even by white iniquity;—­the negro among negroes is a coarse, grinning, flat-footed, thick-skulled creature, ugly as Caliban, lazy as the laziest of brutes, chiefly ambitious to be of no use to any in the world.  View him as you will, his stock in trade is small;—­he has but the tangible instincts of all creatures,—­love of life, of ease, and of offspring.  For all else, he must go to school to the white race, and his discipline must be long and laborious.  Nassau, and all that we saw of it, suggested to us the unwelcome question, whether compulsory labor be not better than none.  But as a question I gladly leave it, and return to the simple narration of what befell.

There was a sort of eddy at the gangway of our steamer, made by the conflicting tides of those who wanted to come on board and of those who wanted to go on shore.  We were among the number of the latter, but were stopped and held by the button by one of the former, while those more impatient or less sympathizing made their way to the small boats which waited below.  The individual in question had come alongside in a handsome barge, rowed by a dozen stout blacks, in the undress uniform of the Zouaves.  These men, well drilled and disciplined, seemed of a different sort from the sprawling, screaming creatures in the other boats, and their bright red caps and white tunics became them well.  But he who now claimed my attention was of British birth and military profession.  His face was ardent, his pantaloons were of white flannel, his expression of countenance was that of habitual discontent, but with a twinkle of geniality in the eye which redeemed the Grumbler from the usual tedium of his tribe.  He accosted us as follows:—­

“Go ashore?  What for?  To see something, eh?  There’s nothing to see; the island isn’t bigger than a nut-shell, and doesn’t contain a single prospect.—­Go ashore and get some dinner?  There isn’t anything to eat there.—­Fruit?  None to speak of; sour oranges and green bananas.—­I went to market last Saturday, and bought one cabbage, one banana, and half a pig’s head;—­there’s a market for you!—­Fish?  Oh, yes, if you like it.—­Turtle?  Yes, you can get the Gallipagos turtle; it makes tolerable soup, but has not the green fat, which, in my opinion, is the most important feature in turtle-soup.—­Shops?  You can’t buy a pair of scissors on the island, nor a baby’s bottle;—­broke mine the other day, and tried to replace it; couldn’t.—­Society?  There are lots of people to call upon you, and bore you to death with returning their visits.”