FAMILIAR LETTERS.

LETTER I.

VOYAGE FROM NEW YORK, AND ENTRANCE ON THE TROPICS.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Flushing, L. I. Sixth month (June) 1st, 1840.

I seize the first day of leisure that has fallen to my lot, since I left Washington, in order to commence a narrative of my late tour in the West Indies; and I gladly avail myself of thy obliging permission, in addressing a series of letters, on the subject, to Henry Clay of Kentucky. Sure I am that the present state of the West India Islands, in a pecuniary, political, and moral point of view, cannot be a matter of indifference to any American statesman. I know that thy feelings of interest in the great experiment which is now developing its results, in that part of the world, are deep and lively; and I venture to believe that thou wilt give no severe reception to the familiar incidents-the trifling descriptions, whether in verse or prose—with which my story may probably be interwoven.

B

I must however premise, that I undertook this journey, neither in pursuit of pleasure, nor for the specific purpose of ascertaining the effects of emancipation; much less as the agent or representative of any body of philanthropists, either in England or America; but in the character of a minister of the gospel. My primary object was to preach the glad tidings of peace and salvation to my fellow men, and from persons of every class, condition, and party in the West Indies, I have met with a cordial welcome, and the kindest attentions.

In company with MAHLON DAY, a highly respectable citizen of New York, and a young friend who kindly undertook to act as our attendant and helper, I sailed from that city on the 22nd of last Eleventh month, (Nov.) in the Camilla, Captain Watlington. Our ship's company consisted of about twenty individuals, (mostly in search of a warmer climate and better health) who had taken their passage, in this accommodating little ship, for Santa Cruz. The fine but cold, frosty day, on which we left your shores, gave them a sufficient warning, that the season was at hand, when the rigor of a North American winter would become dangerous. At the same time, it afforded such of us as were in good health, a delightful opportunity as we swept along under full sail-of observing, under the brightest aspect, the rare beauty of the harbor of New York, the bay, and the neighboring islands.

We had not continued our voyage more than three days, before we found ourselves in a genial climate. The thermometer stood at 70, and light clothing

gradually came into requisition. The change seemed almost magical, and certainly it was no small luxury thus insensibly to glide into warmth, and as it were, to catch summer again by the skirts. We were now crossing "the Gulph Stream," where it is said to have a breadth of two hundred and fifty miles, and the temperature of the air was probably heightened by the heat of the waves below. To account for this enormous current of warm water, which runs up from the Gulph of Mexico, in a north-easterly direction, to so great a distance, is nearly impossible. What the causes are which occasion the magnitude of the current, and the heat of the water, seems to be mere matter of conjecture; but its beneficial effect in melting the ice, and unlocking the harbors, of North America, affords one evidence among ten thousand, that even the wildest sports of nature are subservient to good and wise purposes, in the order of a benevolent Providence. Boisterous weather and a strong adverse gale, were our portion as we crossed "the Gulph." The foaming waves, with tops of a light transparent blue, rose to an unusual height, and were in beautiful contrast with the troughs below, of a deep dull lead color.

CAMILLA, whilom swift of wing,

Can now no longer fly,

In vain her gallant sailors sing;

She faints and longs to die.

The waves o'er which she loved to dance,

Now horrid in her eye,

In awful alpine forms advance,

And curl their snows on high.

O, were it not for sore affright,

They might have charmed her view,