It is usually no more to “dangle round” this sea than it is to cross Lake Erie. On this particular occasion, however, I very willingly reached these shores, for the little schooner Enterprise in which we had ventured was not much larger than a good-sized yawl--certainly not over six tons burthen. The waves inundated us at pleasure, wetting even the letters in my breast coat-pocket, filling our faces at times with its slashing foam, and drenching us thoroughly to the inmost thread. But our schooner skimmed along like a seagull, and within thirty-two hours we were once again on land, dry enough for all practical purposes. Nice little schooner--the waves might as well have undertaken to drown a fish! * * * * * There is not a natural hill on all Turk’s Island. The shores are but a few feet above the level of the sea, and the interior is scooped out like a basin. This basin is artificially subdivided into innumerable troughs or ponds, into which water is admitted by canals from the sea, whence it evaporates leaving beds of salt. This salt is then raked into hills, so that as you approach these shores you have the extraordinary sight of an island studded with salt-hills. The slight elevation of the land also permits the wind to pass uninterruptedly over its limestone surface, which accounts for the even temperature and perfect health of the island. The thermometer fell to-day from 86° to 77° Fahrenheit, which is the hottest and the coldest they have had it this summer. But, as you will readily perceive, the absence of all barriers to the winds subjects the colony to the terrific ravages of every ocean storm that chooses to sweep this way. At this very moment the large and substantial mansion in which I am writing trembles like an aspen-leaf, and I am fearful that the few cocoa-nut trees and flower plants bending before the storm on every side will be speedily swept away. Heaven spare the verdure!--the people can look out for themselves. Generally speaking, the winds are soft as a sigh. The gale ebbs to a gentle zephyr; the cloud passes on to Mobile, or wherever else it is bound, leaving these islands gayer for its shower; the huge West Indian sun, apparently magnified to six times its usual diameter, sinks into the crimsoned sea; the heavenly twilight comes on once more, and earth, sea, and sky are all once again tranquilly imparadised. The effect of these transitions on the mind is imperative. The most commonplace, matter-of-fact personage you have in America can not spend a summer around these islands and amid these scenes without having transitory poetic visions flash through his inmost being. But do not think I intend to dwell any further on these Elysian things. If you have a correspondent capable of describing them, send him along. A keen sense of my inability to do so constrains me to desist as from an attempt to comprehend the Infinite. * * * * *