Our boat floated along a stream so narrow that one’s arm, stretched horizontally at full length, would have measured the exact width; the attitude would have enabled our fingers to brush through thick beds of flowering orchids. We passed a native ruthlessly cutting away fragrant weeds with a murderous machette; we swept beneath a bridge of solid masonry, and in a little time emerged into a great pool of silent water which made our little craft pause, and enabled us to dream in peace. It would be a horrible thing to travel at more than one knot speed down this river of scented beauty. We remained quietly still and gazed at a scene as glorious as a young child’s dream-fairyland. A dream of wood and rock and water, shaded and shrouded by the wildest mass of luxuriant tropical foliage. This Jamaica is indeed the Queen of the Antilles, the fairest jewel in the golden Caribbean, the land of perpetual music and light and beauty. As I have already written, its name should be God’s island. Its beauty cannot be translated by art or word or music. It is a dreamland and a land of dreams. People talk of its industrial backwardness, its commercial weakness,--of the impossibility of its finances. I myself have written of its commercial future. As well discuss the poverty of the convolvulus or the nakedness of the lily. Jamaica was created by Providence to show mankind something of the meaning of beauty. It was to stand as an explanation of Eden--a glimpse of Paradise. Nature never intended that it should become a rum garden, or even a field for speculative agriculture. It is just a place that should be allowed to stand for ever as the garden of the world; the vigorous yet languorous Hesperian reflection of all the beauty of the east and west and north and south; the heart and soul of terrestrial beauty. We drifted along, but I know not what else we saw. I remember the place in a hazy manner; my memory serves me as though it were a kaleidoscope whose every piece of broken glass was a glimpse of a new world fitted with joyous life and beauty. I know that we slipped anchor at last and drank the milk from green cocoanuts. I know that we got into a buggy and drove along a white dusty road and reached a place where a meal was served and eaten. But most of all I remember that across the pools and streams of the Bog Walk gorge of the Rio Cobra River is to be heard the music of the stars and the rich lullaby of the rustling of angels’ wings. And Large said it would have been better had there been a few deer about; Forrest had put down his sketch-book with a sigh. For the rest any Jamaica guide-book will tell you that the flat-bottomed river-boat cost you only a few silver coins. THE POLITICS OF A JAMAICAN NEGRO [Illustration: SUNSET, NORTH COAST, JAMAICA] CHAPTER XV THE POLITICS OF A JAMAICAN NEGRO