“Green-robed senators of mighty woods,”
forming many beauteous alcoves, carpeted with the lowlier flowers; whilst the “purple wreath” hangs its tasseled blossoms on all sides, and gives an air of lightness to the whole. A little silver stream (one of those the offspring of the balmy showers before mentioned) crossed the road in this part; and after leaping over roots of trees, or any other slight impediment which fell in its way, and thereby causing a thousand translucent waterfalls, at length lost itself in the impending woods. Oh! it was a lovely scene, and put me very much in mind of Spenser’s “Bower of Bliss;” particularly when
“Was heard a most melodious sound
Of all that could delight a curious ear;
Such as might not upon terrestrial ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere.
Full hard it was for him, who did it hear,
To guess what sort of music this might be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear
Were there soft mingled in one harmony:
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree.”
This was a true delineation; for although most tropical birds are devoid of song, the “painted warblers” might here be said to hop “from spray to spray.” The pretty little humming-bird fluttered among the flowers, extracting from them, with its long and slender beak, the liquid honey; and the doves courted each other with soft, but melancholy cooing, from many a leafy brake. Upon my remarking I never before heard birds sing in the West Indies, our negro-servant joined the conversation with—“Oh, missis! if you was to come here early in the moring, before the sun high, you would hear the birds singing in such a manner, that it would make you feel quite dismal all de day.” The first time I ever heard of the song of a bird producing such an effect.
But to return to my description of this sweetest of all sweet spots. Did we live in “days of yore,” when fairies were wont to visit our world, and astonish the benighted swains with their glittering processions, we could fancy this one of their favourite retreats; but, alas! those harmless goblins have long disappeared, and with them all moonlight revels. The negroes, however, are determined it shall not be without some aerial visitants, so have peopled it with a tribe of jumbies, who, according to their account, are very different in behaviour and appearance to the pretty little elves.
After carving our names upon the trunk of a noble tree, which appears to grow out of a rock, we proceeded on our journey through the same lovely scenes, which now became interspersed with palm-trees, until we entered upon a plain, on one side studded over with ruined Carib houses, and on the other, laid out in luxuriant cane-pieces, belonging to the Hon. Rowland E. Williams, the descendant of a long line of noble ancestors, and whose paternal domain extends throughout the lovely scenes I have been endeavouring to describe. A few minutes’ drive brought us to “Old Road,” so called because it was the first high-road made in Antigua.
This town, if town it can be called, is, as regards architective arrangement, a perfect nondescript; for streets there are none, but here and there a straggling house. There is the beach, indeed, which may justly be termed “the strand;” but, unlike that far-famed street in London, boasts no splendid shops—no arcades or bazaars, with their “euterpeons”—no brilliant lines of lamps, or crowds of well-dressed and busy passengers. A plentiful supply of bushes and “rock-stones” (as the Creoles call all descriptions of stones) make up for those deficiencies; and the murmur of old Father Ocean is the only music heard. Of the houses which are to be found, a few of them are in repair; but the greater part are falling to ruin, and have become a receptacle for hordes of green lizards. One of these buildings struck me as rather peculiar in appearance. Nothing remained of it, it is true, but the walls of rough masonry, with huge gable-ends pointing to the skies; but still it seemed as the work of another race of beings. Upon making inquiries about it, an inhabitant informed us her grandmother (who had died several years before, at the advanced age of 116) remembered it in the same ruinous state from her earliest years; but we could learn no further particulars.
Our principal object for visiting “Old Road,” was to see a tombstone in the church, laid down to the memory of Col. Rowland Williams; and consequently, as soon as we arrived, our first inquiry was for the person who kept the keys of the church, and who acts in the capacity of sexton. While waiting for this official, we walked down to the beach. The harbour is a very fine one, and forms a complete rotund, except in the opening, where the sea stretches out beyond ken. A line of smooth silver sand borders the sea, diversified with clumps of mangrove, manchineel, and sea-side grapes; while here and there a cocoa-nut tree rears aloft its proud head, as if scorning to herd with the lowlier of its kind. For some time we amused ourselves with picking up various small shells, matted sea-weed, and corallines, which were scattered about the beach in profusion; but the heat, notwithstanding the fresh sea-breeze, was beginning to be felt oppressive; when turning the angle of one of the old buildings, a man with a bunch of keys in his hand appeared in sight.
Although not always the case, still very generally, the face is the index to the mind; and when I first saw that man, I felt prejudiced against him. He came forward with a slovenly gait, and downcast looks, and to our inquiries for the keys of the church, he returned for answer, “Yes, but I can’t let you in.” On asking the reason, the rejoinder was, “Because the parson told me not to let any one go into the church.” This was by no means cheering news for us; it was far from satisfactory after riding fifteen miles, to be turned away without seeing the very object we came to look at. Every kind of persuasion was used to induce him to comply. I joined in urging him to “ope’ the door, and bid us enter,” but alas! I found him as insensible to the voice of woman, as to everything else. “Can we go into the churchyard?” was then inquired. “Yes,” was the surly answer; and following his steps, we soon reached that quiet spot.
Even here he apparently viewed us with suspicion, thinking, perhaps, we not only looked capable of sacrilege, but of carrying away the church also; for although he still had the keys in his hand, and the rain began to fall, he not only remained inexorable, but looked as if he should be quite as well pleased if we quitted the place altogether. “The rain was falling fast,” and obliged us to retire to the shelter of a large white-wood tree, which no doubt was coeval with the first settlers, and beneath its spreading branches we remained for some time, until one of our party determined to try some other expedient, to gain the wished-for admittance, and for that purpose left myself and attendant in our shady retreat.