Our first day in a tropic harbour was spent in what might be taken
at moments for a dream, did not shells and flowers remain to bear
witness to its reality. It was on Friday morning, December 17th,
that we first sighted the New World; a rounded hill some fifteen
hundred feet high, which was the end of Virgin Gorda. That resolved
itself, as we ran on, into a cluster of long, low islands; St.
John's appearing next on the horizon, then Tortola, and last of all
St. Thomas's; all pink and purple in the sun, and warm-gray in the
shadow, which again became, as we neared them one after the other,
richest green, of scrub and down, with bright yellow and rusty
rocks, plainly lava, in low cliffs along the shore. The upper
outline of the hills reminded me, with its multitudinous little
coves and dry gullies, of the Vivarais or Auvergne Hills; and still
more of the sketches of the Chinese Tea-mountains in Fortune's book.
Their water-line has been exposed, evidently for many ages, to the
gnawing of the sea at the present level. Everywhere the lava cliffs
are freshly broken, toppling down in dust and boulders, and leaving
detached stacks and skerries, like that called the 'Indians,' from
its supposed likeness to a group of red-brown savages afloat in a
canoe. But, as far as I could see, there has been no upheaval since
the land took its present shape. There is no trace of raised
beaches, or of the terraces which would have inevitably been formed
by upheaval on the soft sides of the lava hills. The numberless
deep channels which part the isles and islets would rather mark
depression still going on. Most beautiful meanwhile are the winding
channels of blue water, like land-locked lakes, which part the
Virgins from each other; and beautiful the white triangular sails of
the canoe-rigged craft, which beat up and down them through strong
currents and cockling seas. The clear air, the still soft outlines,
the rich and yet delicate colouring, stir up a sense of purity and