thus they glide on in their beauty—
“Bright wanderers o’er the blue sky free;”
but oh! when our own attendant planet, the “Silver Queen of night,” rises in peerless majesty, shedding a flood of glory over all the surrounding landscape, the scene is inexpressibly lovely. How often, when enjoying her beams, and gazing on her “spotted disk,” have I thought of those lines of Mrs. Charlotte Smith—
“And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched might find rest.”
The stillness and calmness of an English summer’s evening have been often and often described by our poets; here, however, no quietness is to be met with, but on the contrary all is bustle and noise. Sounds of every description fill the air, as soon as “evening grey” sets in. Parties of negroes, men, women, and children, gather together in groups, worthy the illustrative pencil of Cruikshank, to gabble away their nancy stories, relate their quarrels, or discuss the other business of the day. Bats of every size and shape fly backwards and forwards in search of their prey, or pay you an unceremonious visit through the open jalousies of your houses. Crickets and frogs raise their shrill pipes, which grate most unmusically upon the ear; cock-roaches (those disgusting pests of the West Indies) crawl over the floors, or ceilings of the apartments, or at times take the liberty of brushing in your face, or nestling in your hair; mosquitoes hum their monotonous song, or insert their proboscis into every accessible part of your flesh; while the land crabs clatter about, just like an old woman in pattens. The houses are lighted up as if for an illumination, the windows are thrown open to admit the evening air, and the fair inhabitants amuse themselves by playing upon harpsichords, or similar musical instruments, “Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Home, Sweet Home,” and other popular melodies.
CHAPTER XVI.
Scenery of Antigua—Pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring”—The Goddess Mnemosyne—Fig-Tree Hill—The “Bower of Bliss”—“Old Road”—The Strand—The cross sexton—The parochial school—Old Road Church—Tomb of Col. Williams—Moravian settlement—Salt ponds—Copses—“Crab Hill”—Sandy Valley—The Valley Church—The rising moon—Arrival in town—Night, and night dreams.
With respect to the scenery of Antigua, it is said to be neither “grand nor magnificent,” that “its mountains are too much like mole-hills,”[[62]] and in many other ways has it been depreciated; yet there are some spots of real beauty, which would strike the eye of even a painter or a poet. To see some of these to the greatest advantage, I would advise all such readers as have it in their power to take a drive or a ride (whichever they prefer) some fine morning to “Fig Tree Hill,” and return by “Crab Hill.” They will then meet with spots of such transcendent loveliness, as will cause the most unpoetic to exclaim, “Beautiful! beautiful!” But as some of my readers, perhaps, may never have the chance of taking such a tour, in pity to them, I will attempt to describe what I saw in my pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring.”
It was a lovely morning (as most West India mornings are) when we started upon our journey. The sun shone bright and clear; indeed, far too clear for actual comfort, had we gone as “pilgrims grey,” with “scalloped hat,” and “sandled shoon,” and resting on our “staves;” but we preferred the less romantic, but more pleasant way of taking it quietly in our carriage. Quickly we passed through the town of St. John’s, leaving its busy inmates, its shops and stores, its “Scotch row” and Scotchmen, and all its noise and bustle, for the quietness and freshness of the country. Upon gaining “Otto’s Hill,” at the outskirts of the town, I looked back upon the beautiful harbour of St. John’s, its blue waves just rippling the surface, its barques and brigs, schooners and sloops, bowing their heads as if in graceful homage to some sea-god from old King Neptune’s court; and its sloping shores displaying a carpet of luxuriant green, for a little rain which had fallen not long before had clothed the fields in a garb of lovely verdure. While thinking upon all these beauties, and the images they called up, my poetic fancies were crushed by the horrible noise of a long string of “cattle carts” and their sable drivers, coming into town with a load of molasses for “Brother Jonathan,” or some other worthy. This brought me down from the seventh heaven, and made me just then find out that it was very hot, and the road disagreeably dusty. However, in our pilgrimage through life, we meet with many crosses, and many dusty spots; and therefore, in our pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring,” we could but expect the same.
The country certainly looked very pretty upon this eventful day, for every spot was green, and as we passed the numerous estates, an air of gladness seemed to be abroad. The breeze blew soft from off the mountains we were approaching, and greeted our olfactory nerves with the odour of the yellow acacia, which grew along the side of the road in vast profusion. In a short time, we reached the banks of a small rivulet, the only real stream Antigua can boast of, for the few others we passed owed their source more to the late rains than anything else. This rivulet was bordered by bamboos, and other species of wild cane, while larger trees, in many parts, shewed their gnarled roots, and bent their long boughs to kiss the swift gliding waters. Various aquatic plants grew along its margin, while in the stream itself sported my own country’s water-lily, bright nymphæa. Near to the spot stands a rural little temple of worship, with its plain white walls, and a little cross upon its roof, and across the rivulet is thrown a rustic bridge. This is a favourite resort for country washerwomen, and as we passed, many of them were busily engaged in their very necessary avocations; but as none of them presented the appearance of a nymph or a naïad, I will not introduce them to my readers.