The fairy harbour wooed us to its arms.”
Through these green islands we wound our way carefully, one channel being particularly narrow and dangerous. Beneath its transparent waters we could distinguish an old cannon; and then a sudden turn brought us into the pretty port of Hamilton, where we dropped anchor close to the shore. But being on shore and only near it are very different things, and it seemed hours to us hungry mortals before the vessel was gradually dragged to within forty feet of the quay. Nearer we could not get, on account of a shallow.
Now to land in boats appeared too ridiculous for such a short distance, but no other means were visible. A bridge lowered by a crane would have landed us all in a few minutes, but there was no appearance of such a thing. Old-fashioned Bermuda wanted no new-fangled notions, so we had to abide our time and wait until a bridge had been manufactured in the following way: Ropes were thrown from the vessel and fastened to the outer ends of long beams, which were hauled on board, their other extremities resting on shore. Then a number of grinning darkies strided these beams, and lashed cross-bars to them; planks were laid on the frame, and over these we walked on to the quay.
There were only two passengers besides myself for the Hamilton Hotel, and these were a very charming old lady and her son—a young physician from Boston—who had been advised to spend the winter abroad. A short walk brought us to the hotel, a good-sized, comfortable building, commanding a fine view of the harbour and port of the town. On our way up, we passed a splendid specimen of the india-rubber tree, whose luxuriant growth almost hid the broad veranda’d cottage behind it. Speaking of this tree, Mark Twain says that, when he saw it, it was “out of season, possibly as there were no shoes on it, nor suspenders, nor anything a person would properly expect to find there.” This tree was the first sign of tropical vegetation that we had seen, which fact had rather surprised us, as on the cover of a “bill of fare,” which had been shown to us in New York, was a picture of the Hamilton Hotel, with an avenue of palms and bananas leading up to it. The fine palms—mountain cabbage—we afterwards discovered about half-a-mile off, and not even within sight of the hotel. But one cannot expect to find everything one sees, even on a bill of fare. We were informed by the clerk that we were the first visitors of the season. “But somebody else is here,” said I, pointing to a solitary name in the visitor’s register. “Oh,” said he, “that’s me;” and forthwith assigned us our rooms.
And now let me say a word about this hotel, which is notorious for having prevented many strangers from visiting Bermuda, and others who would have liked to return, from coming back. The rooms are simply but comfortably furnished, the situation is good, and the grounds might be very prettily laid out. The whole cause of discontent with the hotel has hitherto—that is, up to the winter of 1877-78—been with the management. The house had been leased to an American, a pleasant, agreeable person, but without the least idea of managing an hotel. People did not come to Bermuda for third-rate American hotel dinners, but there they got them, until they could stand it no longer. It was useless to speak to the manager; no redress was obtainable. Everything was served at once; an armada of little white dishes was placed before you, in one a dry cutlet, in another a few dried pellets of fried potatoes, peas like buckshot, boiled potatoes like cannon-balls; here an inch of tough chicken, there a slice of beef, baked until all its proper juices had been extracted; heavy pumpkin pies, tea and coffee quite undrinkable, butter that no one could touch; such, with but little variation, were the component parts of the three meals. Even the provisions of Nature were not made as available as they might have been. In the garden were two or three fine papaw trees, whose insipid green fruit was sometimes given to us as a delicious West-Indian preserve. It is said that the leaves of this tree, if rubbed on a bull’s hide, would immediately convert it into tender beefsteak; now our meat was always of the toughest description.
Day after day I used to see my two friends, fresh from their home in Boston, rise from the table without having touched anything, and I felt quite ashamed of our English colony. Had the proprietor been English, I think I should have run away. As it was, we limited our visit to a fortnight instead of a month, the doctor accompanying me to the West Indies, whilst his mother returned home.
It seems a pity that quiet Bermuda should not attract more visitors—Americans especially—than it does. A well-kept hotel there would be very welcome to many who now winter in Florida or Nassau (Bahamas). The island is more interesting than either of those places, and equally picturesque; and I have no doubt that visitors, when they left, would carry away as pleasant recollections as they would probably leave behind.