CHAPTER XIX
WOMEN’S RIGHTS IN JAMAICA—A BREAKDOWN OF THE RAILWAY—PORT ANTONIO—CHESTER VALE
Returning to Kingston I took up my quarters for a short time at Myrtle Bank Hotel. A delicious sea-breeze cooled the air during the daytime, whilst at night one could sleep better than at many hotels where I have stayed. One I know of is intensely noisy. Just when you are falling off to sleep some person in the next room violently thrusts open his door and shies his boots down the corridor, instead of quietly putting them outside, then shuts it with a bang, without a moment’s consideration of the fact that other persons may be disturbed by the might of his biceps; this, with the incessant crowing of cocks and barkings of dogs occasionally makes night hideous to contemplate.
Whilst here, I took the opportunity of attending one or two of the meetings of the Anglican Synod.
The disestablishment of the Church of England in Jamaica took place some thirty years ago; but as I intend to give a slight sketch of the ecclesiastical history of the island in my next chapter, I will content myself with saying that the subject to be discussed was, whether the women who, as registered members, subscribe their weekly pence to the maintenance of the church much better than do the male portion, were to be allowed the privilege of voting for the officials of their separate churches.
One venerable archdeacon, whose trite speech and characteristic physiognomy is well known in this town, waxed most eloquent upon the virtues of the “enfranchised she.” Another worthy, with an equal love of justice, declared that “but for the women, the churches could not exist in Jamaica,” and said it was simply justice to give them a voice in their church representation. The result of the meeting was, however, to postpone the measure for a more convenient occasion; it was thought inadvisable to rush it upon the native ladies; in the meanwhile they could gradually be educated up to a more extended view of their interests and privileges. Thus, even the weaker sex in this far-off island of the Caribbean Sea has been touched with a ripple from the wave which bears on its crest the emancipation of women from the fetters and gyves man, from the beginning of the world, encumbered the object of his adoration.
To-day, in enlightened England, might instead of right is still to the fore directly the question is one of giving woman her undoubted rights. Man is the same inconsequent reasoner. When he finds a woman cannot assimilate, or apply what she has learnt so quickly as he can himself, he ofttimes forgets the shallow education he thought good enough for her, though probably the sons were sent to the university, and he irritably reproaches her with the fact of her sex, for which she is not responsible, and her frivolity, for which latter, not having chosen to spend money over her education, he is distinctly to blame.
If she educates herself, and has a mind of her own, and finds words to express her views which do not always coincide with his own, he sneers at her for being a blue-stocking, and declares no man wants an opinionated wife.
The most curious anomalies exist. Women doctors, lecturers, teachers, clerks, telegraphists, business women, and those who administer their own estates, are denied by our enlightened and liberal-minded legislators the privilege of voting for parliamentary representation, thereby placing them on the same level as the pauper and the lunatic, who, I believe, are the only classes of unenfranchised male adults. Surely women who pay taxes might be considered capable of voting for the legislators of their country.
I had heard and read a good deal of Port Antonio, and intended visiting the place. Hearing some friends were going, I agreed to go with them.
We left Kingston at two in the afternoon, and should have reached Port Antonio at six in the evening, in good time for dinner, intending to take either a moonlight stroll or drive afterwards.
The first part of the journey occurred without mishap. We were just half-way, and it was after four o’clock, when, apparently, we were making an extra long stay at a station. Several passengers grumbled, peered out, then discovered something had gone wrong with the works. This is of such everyday occurrence that nobody seemed alarmed. In a few moments we learnt, quite casually, that a luggage train was derailed in a tunnel 200 yards ahead, and as it was a single line to Port Antonio, we should probably wait some time before we could proceed.
We must have waited at that God-forsaken spot nearly two hours. There was no inn or habitation where we could get as much as a cup of tea! We were then told to re-enter the train, which would take us to the entrance of the tunnel. We would have then to walk through to the other end, where a train was now waiting to take us to our destination. It was growing dark; the train crawled cautiously down a fairly steep incline, until both engines faced each other, only about 20 or 30 yards being left between them. The luggage was transferred, and we commenced our subterranean walk.
As we passed the derailed engine, which presented a slightly drunken aspect, the heat of the tunnel, combined with that from the roaring and steaming locomotive, was thoroughly appalling; at the same time the shouting of the officiate and the chattering of the blacks, who, laden with baggage, pushed past, made one think one had “struck” the direct road to the infernal regions. Only a narrow, stony footway between the rails and the wall of the tunnel made progress a matter of difficulty.
We were nearly exhausted when we once more emerged into the twilight. The train lingered at every stopping-place; it was dark, so we could not see the north coast. Instead of six, it was eleven at night when at last we lumbered into Port Antonio.
We had had neither bite nor sup since one o’clock, and were fairly famished. To add to our misfortunes, it was raining in torrents at Port Antonio; no conveyance was at the station. A messenger was promptly despatched to the hotel for a “bus.” In about twenty minutes a couple of buggies drove up in the darkness, and whirled us up a steep hill to the only establishment the town possesses, where we arrived nearly dead-beat with fatigue. We instantly clamoured for brandy, or whisky and soda, but found, to our dismay, that it was a temperance hotel! I fear we reviled the upholders of that noble cause, but there was nothing to be done but swallow cold, weak tea, and stay our hunger on the uninviting scraps of meat they brought us with much grumbling. Giving us any food at all was evidently a work of supererogation on their part. We represented that ours was an exceptional case, but it is well to learn that the American who intends to make dollars, and plenty of them, has no time for politeness, nor is there room in his policy for the milk of human kindness.
This was my introduction to the much-lauded American establishment known as the Tichfield Hotel, which I had heard spoken of as the best hotel in the island. It certainly is beautifully situated on a hill overlooking the harbour, and the fruit, which is lavishly set before the visitor at every meal, is quite a feature. The building is commodious, and cleanliness and comfort are decidedly not lacking.
The sea-bathing here is good and safe, being protected from the sea by a coral reef, over which the waves dash majestically—a lovely sight as seen from the verdure-clad hills. The temperature of the water is about 80°. The Americans who patronise it come direct here in the United Fruit Company’s steamers from Philadelphia and New York. In fact, the hotel is run by that Company, and at the time of writing these lines (March 1903) there is not sufficient accommodation in the town for the numbers arriving from the States. This is distinctly satisfactory; the fruit-growing in the neighbourhood—for many old sugar estates are now owned by Americans—has changed the condition of the country from depression into prosperity, which one fervently hopes may be still more increased.
That our cousins on the other side of the Atlantic appreciate the island scenery is evident; those I have met in various parts have rapturously extolled its beauties, whilst they have taken sorely to heart the low state of Jamaican finance. An American magazine has an article in which the writer remarks upon the island inhabitants most favourably; he alludes in warm terms to their native courtesy and good-nature, their smiling civility and gentleness. Comparing the behaviour of Jamaican youths with that of his youthful countrymen, he writes: “We occasionally invite eminent foreign educationalists over here to teach us how to teach. If a hundred young Jamaicans could be invited to teach pupils of public schools how to study and how to behave, we could expect striking results.”
PORT ANTONIO.
He is conscious of the reputation of his compatriots for lack of breeding and good manners, for he deprecates that feeling amongst the American colonists of this town and its environs, which made them manifest unwillingness to show civility to the Governor of Jamaica when visiting Port Antonio. It is amusing to read that the fact remains that no ill-bred person, no matter what his nationality, is bound to be civil to anybody; and surely if an ordinary, not to say common, American citizen at home may with impunity run down the President of the United States and then be studiedly impertinent to him, a travelling American may be allowed to rise in wrath at the thought of being polite to a British Governor!
However blasé the globe-trotter may be, it is impossible for him not to be moved by the tropical beauty and restfulness of this spot as a winter resort; the exquisite colouring of the sea, the white surf nearer to you, the green verdure of the hills around, and the towering of majestic waving palms unite to form this a charming retreat for jaded nerves.
Many persons in returning to Kingston leave the train at Annotto Bay, having beforehand ordered a carriage to be in readiness, and drive to Castleton Gardens, a distance of 12 miles. These are botanical grounds, and well worth the visit; part of them are situated on a river, where the cool shade of bamboo arbours forms a pleasant resting-place for lunch. Then a further distance of 14 miles or so brings you across the island to Constant Spring Hotel.
I was now desirous of making my last excursion into the mountains. Many a time I had gazed longingly at the Blue Mountain Peak and Catherine Peak, and I now arranged to stay some days at the coffee plantation of Mr Sidgwick, Chester Vale, situated nearer the latter mountain.
I was told at the Myrtle Bank Hotel that the ride up was fairly steep and would occupy three hours; but any qualms as to one’s powers of endurance were stifled at birth, when I learnt that an aged lady, of probably seventy, contemplated taking the journey with me. I had met her in various parts of the island, invariably grumbling at the non-existence of electric light and other trifles. She should have remained at home, many of us thought. For people of that age to attempt to travel in an island so remote, and as yet so barely furnished with good hotels, is preposterous; they are a terror to those who can get along very well without their company, which, at best, is an onerous responsibility. In this case, I wondered what I should do if the old lady fell off her horse in a fit of apoplexy, for it was excessively hot, and the places we climbed up were enough to try an experienced rider.
We took the electric tram, first of all, from the hotel to Papine, some 6 miles in an eastward direction. Here, by the bye, there is a black Lourdes. I did not see the dirty pool where a crazed enthusiast, a black man, named Bedward, holds forth as to the miraculous nature of the water, and where faith-healing is carried on à merveille. Negroes having cancers, tumours, and other ailments go there and wash. The accompanying rites I do not know, for the proceedings take place at night, and therefore it is not easy to be present. But undoubtedly cures have taken place, so greatly does fear, or faith, operate upon the nervous centres of blacks as well as whites. The natives take bottles containing this miraculous water which everybody, no matter what the disease, bathes in, and when a member of their family is sick or ill, he or she is dosed with it. From Papine carriages were in readiness to convey travellers to Gordon Town, some 3 miles of lovely winding road away amongst the hills.
Here we took horses; our luggage was strapped on to a mule’s back, and, with a boy in attendance, we commenced our three hours’ ride. The way led over bridges through a defile, then leaving the main road we ascended a good bridal path which zigzagged up the face of a very steep mountain affording, as we got up some 3000 feet, magnificent views of the country and harbour of Kingston beneath us. At length we gained the summit of the pass, and then our way led round circuitous mountains with a deep valley between us and another range. All the sturdy mountaineers we passed on the narrow path seemed pleased to see us. Wattled huts, and occasionally a Chinaman’s drink shop, were passed; each new view seemed to be more beautiful than the last. At length we gradually descended the hill, crossed a bridge, and immediately ascended the other side of the narrow ravine. Very soon after, entering a gate, we found ourselves in Mr Sidgwick’s coffee plantation, which occupied the slope of a very steep hill. Another gate led into the garden of our host, which could boast of a tennis-lawn and terraces. At the back were enormous barbecues and buildings connected with the curing of coffee.
The house itself is two hundred years old, and is situated in a basin amongst the hills. It is built in the mode so prevalent in the older houses of Jamaica, namely, the large central dining-room with rooms and kitchen opening into it, and on the storey above, the drawing-room, with bedrooms leading into it. Going through the house one crossed the roadway, where a billiard-room and a wing containing ten bedrooms were in course of erection, for, in the summer months, there is an exodus to the hills from Kingston, by those who can afford the change. We had fires every night, and a most genial and happy house-party we were, when the grumblesome old dame had departed, playing whist and bridge, and enjoying the treat of a really good piano. The food in these remote regions is excellent, notwithstanding that most of it has to be carried up from Kingston.
I cannot describe the charm of the walks and rides to be taken in this mountainous region. The ascent to Catherine’s Peak is by no means arduous, but the path up to the summit is to be found with some difficulty owing to the luxuriant growth of the wild ginger, ferns and other plants. The ever-changing lights on the verdure-clad sides of the Blue Mountains is a wonderful sight for an artistic eye, whilst torrents and streams, hidden by the great masses of trees, ferns, and plants of all description, fall into the narrow valleys. It is only the pedestrian who can fully grasp the great wealth of greenery everywhere. The tree ferns grow to great height amongst the mountains where the sunlight does not penetrate. Wild heliotrope, orchids, wild oleander, begonias, one can pick as one wanders along.