A principal mound in the centre of
the island seems the father of the lesser cones. It is called Green
Hill: its name being taken from the faintest tinge of that colour,
which at this time of the year is barely perceptible from the
anchorage. To complete the desolate scene, the black rocks on the
coast are lashed by a wild and turbulent sea.
The settlement is near the beach; it consists of several houses and
barracks placed irregularly, but well built of white freestone. The
only inhabitants are marines, and some negroes liberated from
slave-ships, who are paid and victualled by government. There is
not a private person on the island. Many of the marines appeared
well contented with their situation; they think it better to serve
their one-and-twenty years on shore, let it be what it may, than in
a ship; in this choice, if I were a marine, I should most heartily
agree.
The next morning I ascended Green Hill, 2840 feet high, and thence
walked across the island to the windward point. A good cart-road
leads from the coast-settlement to the houses, gardens, and fields,
placed near the summit of the central mountain. On the roadside
there are milestones, and likewise cisterns, where each thirsty
passer-by can drink some good water.
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