den-like loveliness of this delightful parish. It is principally
devoted to grazing, and its pastures are maintained in a park-like
perfection. Grassy eminences, crowned with woods, and covered with herds
of horses and the handsome Jamaica cattle, descend, in successive
undulations, to the sea. Over these, from the deck of a vessel a few
miles out, may be seen falling the silver threads of many cascades.
Excellent roads traverse the parish, which is inhabited by a gentry in
easy circumstances, and by a contented and thriving yeomanry. St. Anne
appears to be truly a Christian Arcadia.

In respect of climate and vegetation, there are three Jamaicas--Jamaica
of the plains, Jamaica of the uplands, and Jamaica of the high
mountains. The highest summit of the mountain region, is below the line
at which snow is ever formed in this latitude, and it is disputed
whether an evanescent hoarfrost even is sometimes seen upon it. As high
as four and five thousand feet there are residences, which, however,
purchase freedom from the lowland heats at the expense of being a large
part of the time enveloped in chilling fogs. Here the properly tropical
productions cease to thrive, and melancholy caricatures of northern
vegetables and fruits take their place. You see in the Kingston market
diminutive and watery potatoes and apples, that have come down from the
clouds, and on St. Catherine's Peak I once picked a few strawberries,
which had about as much savor as so many chips. The noble forest trees
of the lower mountains, as you go up, give way to an exuberant but
spongy growth of tree-ferns and bushes. Great herds of wild swine,
descended from those introduced by the Spaniards, roam these secluded
thickets, and once furnished subsistence to the runaway negroes who,
under the name of Maroons, for several generations annoyed and terrified
the island.

In these high mountains the sense of deep solitude is at once heightened
and softened by the flute-like notes of the solitaire. I shall never
forget the impression produced by first hearing this. It was on the top
of St. Catherine's Peak, fifty-two hundred feet above the sea, in the
early morning, when the mountain solitude seemed most profound, that my
companion and I heard from the adjacent woods its mysterious note. It
was a soft and clear tone, somewhat prolonged, and ending in a
modulation which imparted to it an indescribable effect, as if of
supernal melancholy. It seemed almost as if so