The poet Thomas Moore spent several months in Bermuda more than seventy
years ago. He was sent out to be registrar of the admiralty. I am not
quite clear as to the function of a registrar of the admiralty of
Bermuda, but I think it is his duty to keep a record of all the admirals
born there. I will inquire into this. There was not much doing in
admirals, and Moore got tired and went away. A reverently preserved
souvenir of him is still one of the treasures of the islands: I gathered
the idea, vaguely, that it was a jug, but was persistently thwarted in
the twenty-two efforts I made to visit it. However, it was no matter,
for I found out afterward that it was only a chair.

There are several "sights" in the Bermudas, of course, but they are
easily avoided. This is a great advantage--one cannot have it in Europe.
Bermuda is the right country for a jaded man to "loaf" in. There are no
harassments; the deep peace and quiet of the country sink into one's body
and bones and give his conscience a rest, and chloroform the legion of
invisible small devils that are always trying to whitewash his hair.
A good many Americans go there about the first of March and remain until
the early spring weeks have finished their villainies at home.

The Bermudians are hoping soon to have telegraphic communication with the
world. But even after they shall have acquired this curse it will still
be a good country to go to for a vacation, for there are charming little
islets scattered about the inclosed sea where one could live secure from
interruption. The telegraph-boy would have to come in a boat, and one
could easily kill him while he was making his landing.

We had spent four days in Bermuda--three bright ones out of doors and one
rainy one in the house, we being disappointed about getting a yacht for a