Jamaica as it is, 1903

by B. Pullen-Burry

One night three or four of us had emerged from deep shadow into bright moonlight: our dresses were white. Wheels were heard behind us, and immediately after, a one-horsed conveyance with two people sitting in it appeared. As it approached out of the gloom, the figure nearest us sat huddled up holding a huge umbrella close over its head. My companions recognised the chaise as belonging to an old black proprietor. We thought he had taken us for “duppies,” and returned to the hotel much amused; but we were informed that the umbrella was not to protect its owner from ghostly visitants, but to keep him from getting moon-struck.

One day I took a drive to a property some miles from here, where the family owned a good old Norman name, well known in some parts of England. They had been settled in their estate for one hundred and fifty years, had seen both good times and bad. The house in which I sat was really a beautiful two-storied building with verandahs both downstairs and upstairs; the drawing-room was of noble proportions, and Mrs G—— told me that the wood employed in the construction had all been cleared from their own estate, and consisted principally of mahogany, bullet-wood, and cedar. They were several miles from a town or a market, and nearly everything that came to table was produced on the property.

The negro shanties about here are not very large for the accommodation of the numerous members of a family. The Keswick delegate, Mr Meyer, drew attention to the narrow limits of these. It seems the blacks will not build additional buildings or better accommodation since they would be liable to increased taxation. Each little home is mostly provided with yams, a few banana-trees, and several orange-trees planted anywhere without any method.

I have only so far summoned up courage to enter one of them belonging to a coloured woman who takes in washing. She informed me she had four children, “two young gentlemen and two young ladies.” It is amusing to hear the negresses say to each other, “Yes, ma’am,” and a negro in the wordiest altercation never fails to address his opponent as “Sah!” The greatest contempt which a woman feels for another is expressed in the words, “You black niggah!” They only call each other black niggahs when further words fail to express their disgust. A negro proverb says, “Choose wife Saturday on Sunday.” This means if she works well on Saturday—and that is the great market day here—she can be asked to marry on Sunday, their leisure day and time for “walking out.”

I was curious as to the burial-place of the black population, for the few churchyards I had seen with their scattered graves seemed out of all proportion to the population of the island. One day when I was out for a drive I learnt from a very loquacious driver that his elderly relatives were buried in the backyard of the little home he called his own, “under de shadder, missus, of a big cedar-tree, dar dey lie buried.”

This I found to be true; that owing to hot climate and the distance at which some of these dwellings lie, it is deemed expedient to allow them to bury their dead in their own little properties. Of course they have to duly notify the fact. I could not help thinking that this custom would facilitate any nefarious proceedings on the part of those who might be benefited by the death of an aged relative, but I was assured on good authority that very rarely has anything of the kind come to light.

The peasantry have a great horror of prison, and have a wholesome terror of the officers of the law. At the same time, they are very litigious, and amongst themselves are much given to argument.

For a person desirous of spending a quiet winter in a warm climate, where they would be able to get out-of-doors every day for a certainty, I can think of no better place than Mandeville for them to come to. The drives are really exquisite; I have been most of them, which are generally about 6 miles away, returning by different routes. Thus, Fairview is the home of the widow of a Moravian minister who lived fifty years here; the house is built on a commanding situation on a spur of the Manchester Hills, from which one sees the sea at Alligator Pond on the south coast of the island, 17 miles away, whilst stretching far off on the right, an extended vista of the Santa Cruz Mountains is to be obtained. Here on the horizon, 30 miles away, a large palm-tree is pointed out, and Malvern House, 30 miles from Mandeville, is known far and wide as a comfortable hotel. The salubrious air of the Santa Cruz Mountains is much recommended for lung complaints by the medical faculty. Another very popular drive is to a spot called Bel Retiro; this is in exactly the opposite direction and is also on the summit of a hill, where a house is in course of erection on the ruins of an old sugar mill. A grand view over Old Harbour in the distance, and the white houses of Porus below one’s feet, dotted amongst the green trees with the Manchester Hills in the background, constitutes another very lovely scene.

One day we had a picnic to an untenanted house, from which there was a beautiful view. The verandah from the upper storey was converted into a dining-room for the occasion, and nothing more enjoyable can be imagined than taking one’s lunch with such an exquisite picture to gaze upon. Everywhere, so far as the eye could see, was undulating ground covered with tropical foliage, lofty cotton-trees and stately palms waved over coffee plantations, and negro huts here and there dotted the landscape. The house where we lunched, with 100 acres, was to be sold; the owner wanted £1200 for it.