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- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.413Z
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- SKETCH SIXTH.
BARRINGTON ISLE AND THE BUCCANEERS.
“Let us all servile base subjection scorn,
And as we be sons of the earth so wide,
Let us our father’s heritage divide,
And challenge to ourselves our portions dew
Of all the patrimony, which a few
hold on hugger-mugger in their hand.”
“Lords of the world, and so will wander free,
Whereso us listeth, uncontroll’d of any.”
“How bravely now we live, how jocund, how near the
first inheritance, without fear, how free from little troubles!”
Near two centuries ago Barrington Isle was the resort of that famous
wing of the West Indian Buccaneers, which, upon their repulse from the
Cuban waters, crossing the Isthmus of Darien, ravaged the Pacific side
of the Spanish colonies, and, with the regularity and timing of a
modern mail, waylaid the royal treasure-ships plying between Manilla
and Acapulco. After the toils of piratic war, here they came to say
their prayers, enjoy their free-and-easies, count their crackers from
the cask, their doubloons from the keg, and measure their silks of Asia
with long Toledos for their yard-sticks.
As a secure retreat, an undiscoverable hiding-place, no spot in those
days could have been better fitted. In the centre of a vast and silent
sea, but very little traversed—surrounded by islands, whose
inhospitable aspect might well drive away the chance navigator—and yet
within a few days’ sail of the opulent countries which they made their
prey—the unmolested Buccaneers found here that tranquillity which they
fiercely denied to every civilized harbor in that part of the world.
Here, after stress of weather, or a temporary drubbing at the hands of
their vindictive foes, or in swift flight with golden booty, those old
marauders came, and lay snugly out of all harm’s reach. But not only
was the place a harbor of safety, and a bower of ease, but for utility
in other things it was most admirable.
Barrington Isle is, in many respects, singularly adapted to careening,
refitting, refreshing, and other seamen’s purposes. Not only has it
good water, and good anchorage, well sheltered from all winds by the
high land of Albemarle, but it is the least unproductive isle of the
group. Tortoises good for food, trees good for fuel, and long grass
good for bedding, abound here, and there are pretty natural walks, and
several landscapes to be seen. Indeed, though in its locality belonging
to the Enchanted group, Barrington Isle is so unlike most of its
neighbors, that it would hardly seem of kin to them.
“I once landed on its western side,” says a sentimental voyager long
ago, “where it faces the black buttress of Albemarle. I walked beneath
groves of trees—not very lofty, and not palm trees, or orange trees, or
peach trees, to be sure—but, for all that, after long sea-faring, very
beautiful to walk under, even though they supplied no fruit. And here,
in calm spaces at the heads of glades, and on the shaded tops of slopes
commanding the most quiet scenery—what do you think I saw? Seats which
might have served Brahmins and presidents of peace societies. Fine old
ruins of what had once been symmetric lounges of stone and turf, they
bore every mark both of artificialness and age, and were, undoubtedly,
made by the Buccaneers. One had been a long sofa, with back and arms,
just such a sofa as the poet Gray might have loved to throw himself
upon, his Crebillon in hand.
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