“Well, spare me a breeze or I shall pray for a hurricane.”

He did not see Mrs. Lytton or James, but Mr. Lytton had scant apprehension of hurricanes, and was only concerned lest his nephew roll about in the trough of the sea under an August sun for weeks at a time.  “That’s when a man doesn’t repent of his sins; he knows there is nothing worse to come,” he said.  “I’d rather have a hurricane,” and Alexander nodded.  Mr. Lytton counted out a small bag of pieces of eight and told the boy to buy his aunt a silk gown in Charlotte Amalie.  “I’ve noticed that if it’s all one colour you’re not so sure to have it accepted with a sigh of resignation,” he said.  “But be careful of plaids and stripes.”  And Alexander, with deeper misgivings than Mrs. Mitchell had inspired, accepted the commission and rode away.

He set sail on the following day, and made his tour of the lesser islands under a fair breeze.  Late in the month he entered the harbour of St. Thomas, and was delighted to find at least fifty ships in port, despite the season.  It was an unusually busy year, and he had dared to hope for crowded waters and streets; exquisite as Charlotte Amalie might be to look upon, he wanted something more than a lovely casket.

The town is set on three conical foot-hills, which bulge at equal distances against an almost perpendicular mountain, the tip, it is said, of a range whose foundations are four miles below.  The three sections of the town sweep from base to pointed apex with a symmetry so perfect, their houses are so light and airy of architecture, so brilliant and varied of colour, that they suggest having been called into being by the stroke of a magician’s wand to gratify the whim of an Eastern potentate.  Surely, they are a vast seraglio, a triple collection of pleasure houses where captive maidens are content and nautch girls dance with feet like larks.  Business, commerce, one cannot associate with this enchanting vista; nor cockroaches as long as one’s foot, scorpions, tarantulas, and rats.

When Alexander was in the town he found that the houses were of stone, and that one long street on the level connected the three divisions.  Flights of steps, hewn out of the solid rock of that black and barren range, led to the little palaces that crowned the cones, and there were palms, cocoanuts, and tamarind trees to soften the brilliancy of facade and roof.  Above the town was Blackbeard’s Castle; and Bluebeard’s so high on the right that its guns could have levelled the city in an hour.  Although not a hundred years old, and built by the Danes, both these frowning towers were museums of piratical tradition, and travellers returned to Europe with imaginations expanded.