At last the Major went below, and we broke away, and were duly conveyed to terra firma.  It was Sunday, and late in the afternoon.  The first glimpse certainly seemed to confirm the Major’s disparaging statements.  The town is small; the houses dingy and out of repair; the legend, that paint costs nothing, is not received here; and whatever may have been the original colors of the buildings, the climate has had its own way with them for many a day.  The barracks are superior in finish to anything else we see.  Government-House is a melancholy-looking caserne, surrounded by a piazza, the grounds being adorned with a most chunky and inhuman statue of Columbus.  All the houses are surrounded by verandas, from which pale children and languid women in muslins look out, and incline us to ask what epidemic has visited the island and swept the rose from every cheek.  They are a pallid race, the Nassauese, and retain little of the vigor of their English ancestry.  One English trait they exhibit,—­the hospitality which has passed into a proverb; another, perhaps,—­the stanch adherence to the forms and doctrines of Episcopacy.  We enter the principal church;—­they are just lighting it for evening service; it is hung with candles, each burning in a clear glass shade.  The walls and ceiling are whitewashed, and contrast prettily with the dark timbering of the roof.  We would gladly have staid to give thanks for our safe and prosperous voyage, but a black rain-cloud warns us homeward,—­not, however, until we have received a kind invitation from one of the hospitable islanders to return the next morning for a drive and breakfast.

Returning soon after sunrise to fulfil this promise, we encounter the barracks, and are tempted to look in and see the sons of darkness performing their evolutions.  The morning drill is about half over.  We peep in,—­the Colonel, a lean Don Quixote on a leaner Rosinante, dashes up to us with a weak attempt at a canter; he courteously invites us to come in and see all that is to be seen, and, lo! our friend the Major, quite gallant in his sword and scarlet jacket, is detailed for our service.  The soldiers are black, and very black,—­none of your dubious American shades, ranging from clear salmon to cafe au lait or even to cafe noir.  These are your good, satisfactory, African sables, warranted not to change in the washing.  Their Zouave costume is very becoming, with the Oriental turban, caftan, and loose trousers; and the Philosopher of our party remarks, that the African requires costume, implying that the New Englander can stand alone, as can his clothes, in their black rigidity.  The officers are white, and the Major very polite; he shows us the men, the arms, the kits, the quarters, and, having done all that he can do for us, relinquishes us with a gallant bow to our host of the drive and breakfast.