We had heard of the bad state of the roads before we left our home, of the hills we had to mount, and the dingles we had to go down; of the terrible ravines on one side, and the bare rocks on the other, and of places where the least swerve of the carriage would send us over, and then, according to our informant, “it would be no use to go look for you.” At every turn of the road, then, we looked for some trial, and “screwed up our courage to the sticking-point,” that we might be enabled to overcome them; but after travelling for some time, and meeting with nothing very terrific, we began to console ourselves, and remark, that the difficulties appeared to lie in the imagination. At length, we came to a pretty steep hill, which we surmounted in due time, and again sped on our way joyfully, thinking that all was very fair, when lo! up rose before us, if not a mountain, at least, a giant hill. Here would be the “tug of war,” so we called a council. “What is to be done?” was the first query. “Why, either go on or go back” was the answer. The old adage of “out of two evils, choose the least,” came into our thoughts. There was the hill behind, and the hill before, so we agreed to lay the various “for’s” and “against’s” before us in a very orthodox manner.
To commence then: if we go on, we must mount this hill, but when we have accomplished that, we shall have no other of great consequence; we were near half way, so we should have almost as far to go back as to go on; on the other side, if we returned, we should still have a hill before us, and not have the consolation of visiting the celebrated “fig-tree.” Having come to the conclusion of our arguments, the word was given “forward,” and forward we attempted to go; but there were some of our party whose opinions had not been asked, but who, no doubt, felt as great concern in the decision as any one else; I mean those very noble animals ycleped “horses,” and for reasons my readers may easily conceive they appeared resolved not to proceed. After a few words of encouragement, however, and a few caresses, they agreed to lend us their aid, and once more we started.
During the period that all this momentous business was going on, we had totally neglected the appearance of the weather, and had not a drop or two of rain fallen, and the sound of a distant clap of thunder echoed round us, I dare say we should not have thought upon such a subject. Here, then, was romance; a thunder-storm, and “Sawcolt Hill”—it only wanted an old castle and a horde of banditti to make it a scene worthy the pen of a “Radcliffe.” The lambent lightning played for awhile, and the thunder bellowed through the boundless sky, and then passed slowly away to the west, very much to my satisfaction. “Sawcolt Hill” was ascended, and descended, and the road became more beautiful at every turn, until at length we stood by the side of the noted freshwater spring. And what then were my reflections? I thought it was lovely in everything but its name—“Tom Moore’s Spring!” Who, in the name of all that’s romantic, could call such a spring by such a name? Had it been the “fairy’s spring,” or the “spring of the mountain sylph,” or something of the kind, it would have sounded as it ought, and some charming legend might have been attached. But who could ever inquire after “Tom Moore?” Why, the name of such a being puts all fancies to the flight!
Thus far had my thoughts wandered, when suddenly, an ideal form passed before me; her sweet and classic countenance—her eyes which mocked the heavens in their dye—her long and silken lashes which drank the dew of her vermilion cheeks, all conspired to render me entranced. A blue mantle floated from her shoulders, and a thousand graces hovered round her steps. As she glided away, she placed one of her taper fingers upon her ruby lips, and, in a voice of liquid sweetness, uttered the word, “Remember!” I knew her for the goddess “Mnemosyne,” and I tried to follow her behest. My beautiful goddess assisted me, and brought to my recollection that “Bulbul of a thousand songs,” that sweet rhymer who charms us with his “bower of roses by Bendameer’s stream,” as with his melodies of the “Emerald Isle,” he who bears the well-known appellation of “Tom Moore.” I remembered all this to my shame, and determined in future never to utter one word against it, did all the springs in Antigua bear that name. After making this resolution, I turned once more to inspect “Tom Moore’s Spring.” The water is as clear as crystal, and of a refreshing coolness; and as it trickles from beneath the roots of a large bamboo growing by, each drop looks like liquid pearl. It has never been known to be dry, let the season be what it will, and consequently must be of inexpressible value to the adjoining estates. It was formerly built round with a stone wall, but that has long ago fallen to ruin, and no one has troubled himself to erect it again. I blame none, however, upon this score, for, in my opinion, it looks more romantic as it is; nature has done much for it, and art would only spoil her work.
After leaving the spring, another height presented itself, clothed with luxuriant woods. This was “Fig-tree Hill,” and no description I have ever heard of it has sufficiently set forth its beauty. Upon one side of the road is a deep ravine, whose irregular descent is hidden by trees of every description, which cover it to the bottom, and again ascend upon the opposite bank, until they reach the top of the neighbouring mountain; on the other side are sloping hills, carpeted with the gayest emerald. This beautiful hill takes its name from several large fig-trees which grow around; and from its highest point can be distinctly seen, upon a clear day, the four islands of Guadaloupe, Monserrat, Nevis, and St. Kitts.
After remaining upon the height for some time, and enjoying the extensive prospect, we prepared to descend; but how to describe the loveliness of the path, I know not. We alighted and walked down, that nothing might escape our observation. Trees of all species abound, and—
“With confessed magnificence deride
Our vile attire, and impotence of pride.”
The lofty “red cedar,” the beautiful “white-wood,” the glossy-green “loblolly,” the treacherous “manchineel,” which invites your approach by its beautiful fruit, while it infects you with its poisonous odours; the enormous “ceibar,” (or silk cotton,) the native “walnut,” (which in every tree presents such varying shades of green,) and the splendid “tamarind,” shade each side of the road, and cover the surrounding hills.
In many places, huge masses of fantastic rocks rear their bare fronts to the heavens; some taking the form of old castles, with their frowning battlements and strong ramparts; and others looking as if about to fall into the valleys beneath.
Just at the termination of the first descent is one of the sweetest spots in Antigua. It is one of tranquillity and repose. The fierce beams of the sun are excluded by the umbrageous foliage of the trees, around whose trunks various creepers entwine themselves, and throw their slender limbs from one to the other of these