(Let me tell you a story. In passing around these islands, we are one day with the Spanish, next day with the English, and the third with the French. It is sometimes diverting. I was sitting one warm afternoon before the door of a countryhouse, having a large green sward-yard sloping away to the road. The house was full of children, some of whom were, or pretended to be, studying their books. Well, suddenly there came pouring down a splendid summer shower, when, without a word, half a dozen of these little rogues, of both sexes, dropped their books, stripped off to the skin, and away they went sailing around the yard like so many water nymphs! In five minutes more they were all dressed, sitting down with their books, and looking as demure as if nothing had happened. “So there hadn’t,” except that one plump little girl _fell heels over head_! That is one way of taking a shower bath I never thought of.) By the way, an American captain was this day looking at a number of hands, male and female, engaged in loading a vessel with salt. The women were employed holding the sacks, and tying them when filled. “That’s a smart gal,” said the Yankee captain, pointing to an ebon Venus who was singing, dancing, and tossing the sacks around as merrily as your city girls ever “pawed” the piano. A sleek-faced gentleman turned up his eyes at us, and inquired: “You lub dis gal, Cap’en?” “Thunder, no!” said the astonished American; “I don’t love anybody!” Which remark, I guess, was not very far from the truth. The vessel which I am now on board of is a full-rigged, finely-finished English brig. Her sails are all set, the wind blows fresh, and she cuts the water like a sword-fish. The captain cleared $1,400 on his trip out, with a cargo of lumber from the States. How much will our friend Wm. Whipper make in a year running his craft up a Canadian creek? The tenacity with which our leading colored men embrace that short-sighted policy which teaches them to confine their enterprises to certain proscribed, prejudice-cursed districts, is not only extraordinary--it is marvellous. The heavenly night comes on. The clouds in the sky look like ships on fire. The rising moon trembles upon the silver-sheeted waves in the east, while the receding sun burnishes the west, tinging the waters even to our very spray. And thus, in this sea of glory, do we skim along. _This_ is the “poetry of sailing.” “Thou glorious, shining, billowy sea, With ecstasy I gaze on thee! And as I gaze, thy billowy roll Wakes the deep feelings of my soul.” LETTER XV. British Honduras. THE ISLAND OF RUATAN--THE SAILOR’S LOVE STORY--THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE BAY ISLANDS--ENGLISH VS. AMERICAN VIEW OF CENTRAL AMERICAN AFFAIRS. _Off Ruatan the New “Gibralter,” Flower of the Bay Islands, and “Key to Spanish America."_