Though he who once embalm’d them both himself be turned to clay—
The scaly tribe a different doom awaits—scarce reach’d the shore
Those rainbow hues are fading fast till all their beauty’s o’er.”
Right learnedly, and with the tongue of a gourmet, did our fisherman discuss the habits and qualities of the various fish that swim in Bermudian waters. Cow-fish, porgies, hamlets, hog, grunts, bream, and many others; a few he pointed out to us, amongst them a squirrel with large eyes, of a blood-red colour and peculiar shape; then he landed a “grunt,” which gave vent to sounds that would shame a veritable porker. This natural aquarium is connected with the sea by an underground passage, consequently the water is always fresh; formerly, we were told, it was a cavern, but the roof had fallen in.
On emerging, we see eastward the pretty house and grounds belonging to the American Consul. In his garden is a salt-water fountain, in the basin of which we, during a former visit, had seen many strange fish, and also some good specimens of the sea-horse. On that occasion we had been told of the terrible plot concocted in these Islands by a Dr. Blackburn, for introducing the yellow fever into the Northern part of the United States, by sending thither boxes of infected clothing. Fortunately—and I believe chiefly through the instrumentality of our host—the plot was discovered in time to prevent the shipment, and a terrible calamity was probably averted. The worthy Consul does not confine his attention to fish alone, and his system of banana culture might be profitably adopted in many other parts of the Island.
Continuing our drive round the Sound, we are more and more impressed with its attractions; the apple-green water below us, the rocky inlets with white sandy edges, here and there a stretch of shingle or a wooden promontory, and, beyond, the blue sea with the foam on its distant reefs, form a lovely picture, and we are sorry when a turn in the road has shut us out from such a wealth of colour.
Our next halting-place is at a farm house, near which stands Moore’s “calabash tree,”[4] beneath whose shade the poet composed his verses, and wove his amatory couplets addressed to “Nea, the Rose of the Isles.” The tree lives still, in spite of the severe hacking it has received from tourists, whose carved names are continually blurred out by time and the hands of their successors. Even the seat under it is the object of much curiosity, and as each new one is placed in its proper position it is carried off piecemeal by enthusiastic admirers, who must have a bit of the chair the poet sat in. I never see the ravages made by relic hunters, or the desecration of historical places, without thinking of a certain tourist to whom an Italian monk was showing a consecrated lamp, which had never gone out during five centuries. Giving the flame a decisive puff, he remarked, with cool complacency, “Well, I guess it’s out now.” A few gourds are still left hanging from the topmost boughs of the tree, but the sable attendant will not allow any of these to be knocked down, so you must be satisfied with the one presented to you by the proprietor of the land at your departure. It may come from Moore’s tree, but gourds are deceptive and much alike.
A short walk through tangled wild-wood leads to some limestone caves, which were also frequented by the poet. They differ little from other cavernous formations; there are vaulted arches, halls and aisles, gem-studded cornices, and upright columns; here there is a sheet of water so clear that the guide has to tell you that it is water; there, oozing stalactites embellish a Gothic temple, but the effect of brilliant crystallization is marred by the smoke of the rushes which light up the gloom of the interior. The visit is a scrambling one, but still worth accomplishing.
Shortly after leaving Walsingham we cross the causeway which connects the main island with St. George’s; on our right, is the magnificent Castle Harbour, with numerous islands; on our left, a land-locked sound, with cranes and other birds fishing on the shallows and among the mangrove bushes, whilst in front, lying in the hollow of a curve under a hill, are the white houses of the town. Rapidly we drive along the fine causeway, the waves now and then almost dashing over us, so near is the sea; then, after crossing a drawbridge, we are soon among cottages and gardens. Here we see again potato fields and patches of cultivated ground, apparently planted with black bottles. These black bottles are quite a feature in Bermudian cultivation during the sowing season; they are not planted in the hope of their ever becoming quarts or magnums, or even of their being refilled by nature with their original contents, but, having held the seed, they merely indicate the amount sown.
A quaint old town is St. George’s, with its high stone walls and winding alleys. So narrow are the streets that, if two carriages met in one of them, it is difficult to imagine what would happen, as they could not pass, and certainly could not turn back; but two carriages in St. George’s on the same day would be an exceptional event. The whole place has the appearance of having been cut out of a single block of white limestone, rather than being built of bricks of that material. It is not in many places that a man can build his house from stone out of his own quarry, on his own premises, but he can in Bermuda. With a hand-saw he cuts out the soft stone, and the blocks then harden by exposure to the air.