From a glance at the ladies it is but right I should turn to the “lords of the creation,” and remark a few of their peculiarities. In a small community like Antigua, it is not to be supposed there are to be met such extreme contrast in dress and appearance as in the crowded streets of London—and yet some of the gentlemen emulate the “fops” of Regent-street, while others, again, are so outré in appearance, that we involuntarily exclaim, “From what habitable part of the globe could this creature have sprung?” As is generally the case, the younger gentlemen are those who enlist under the banners of “foppery;” and then there is such a display of exquisitely-fitting coats, brilliant satin waistcoats, and voluminous stocks, or reversed collars and cuffs, and throats à la Byron; such pointed boots and pumps, clerical-looking hats, and elegant canes! with wasp-like waists, flowing locks, and languishing manners, that had Adonis lived in these days and seen the Antiguan beaux, he would, most undoubtedly, have despised his own inartificial charms, and have cried with King Richard—
“I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass
And entertain a score or two of tailors
To study fashions to adorn my body.”
The gentlemen of more advanced years very generally patronize the blue-coat-and- white-waistcoat school, and some of them follow the almost obsolete custom of powdering the hair; but white is the prevailing morning-dress among all classes and all ages, a dress of all others best suited to this warm climate.
As bright Hyperion takes from the Creole maidens the glowing tints for which England’s daughters are so famed, so he thinks it but fair to play many pranks with the complexions of the gentlemen who own his much-loved and frequented island as their home. Some he renders so pale and wan, that they appear like gliding spectres; others are as fiery red as the old English country market-women’s cloaks with which they enwrap themselves when Winter holds his despotic reign; while some, again, present the deeper tinge of a full-blown peony; when to these latter shades are added the silvery honours of old age, the tout ensemble is most striking.
The hours of business in Antigua are from about six in the morning to four in the afternoon; after that period, the lawyer leaves his musty books and all his pros and cons; the merchant quits his counting-house, his day-book, and his ledger; the dealer in fashions and furbelows shuts his varied store; even the professors of the lancet abandon, for a time, the cure of the incurables; and away they all hurry, on “pleasure bent,” to enjoy the exercise of riding, driving, or walking, until the day draws to a close, and their watches point the hour of dinner.
Many circumstances, however, occur during these “business hours” which calls for the presence of the trader as well as the professional man. The packet from England is signalized, and away they scamper to the post-office, almost before the mails are landed, to the utter consternation of the poor post-master, and, with anxious eyes and clamorous tongues, crowd the office-door. At length, two or three burly sailors, followed by the commander of the packet, a lieutenant in the navy, are seen approaching the spot, bearing upon their broad-built shoulders the long-looked-for mail-bags, well secured in their leathern envelops. The pushing and jostling increases, as gig after gig dashes up and sets down its several passengers—horsemen curvet about, at which lank and miserable-looking dogs bark, servant-boys grin and chatter—and a group of little children, just dismissed from one of the free schools, stand gazing thereon, and wondering “war make dem buckra care so much ’bout letter?”
Oh, what a hurly burly it is! what a noise and discord! what a pushing, and scrambling, and puffing, and panting! At length, the door is opened, and the postmaster announces, in not very dulcet tones, “the letters will not be out for two hours,” and closes the portal again. A look of dismay and vexation overspreads the countenance of all. The first turns to his neighbour, and he, in his turn, looks to the one behind him; one mutters, “How provoking!” and another says, “I hate to be served so!” while one of the applicants, a melancholy-looking man, observes, in an important voice, “The letters must be sorted, you know.” As no good can be effected by waiting, they finally disperse, and endeavour to while away the time until, the two hours having elapsed, they again besiege the office. A well-applied rap summons the postmaster. “Are the letters out?”—“No, they will not be out for another hour!” Time, however, brings many things to pass, and the letters are at length sorted. Happy now does that individual feel himself whose name begins with an “A”—for they always conduct this business alphabetically. A silence ensues, the letters are distributed, and, too anxious to know their contents, their several receivers open them upon the spot.
Various is the intelligence received, as seal after seal is broken—manifold the subjects discussed. Some talk of failures of mercantile houses, others of legacies received or in prospect; some descant upon politics, and others upon the price of sugars; while another group peruse the London newspapers, inspect carefully the list of births, deaths, marriages, and bankruptcies, look to see what the Queen and the court are doing, and then go forth to publish the “varied accidents by flood and field.”
Another figure emerges from the office-door. A fine portly-looking man, whose complexion rivals in colour the château margaux he so liberally indulges in: a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles surmounts his well-formed nose, a substantial-looking umbrella is stuck beneath his arm, while in one hand is borne an open letter, and in the other, a voluminous silk handkerchief, and a gold snuff-box almost large enough to play the part of a portmanteau. “Not bad, though,” he mutters to himself, as he carefully looks out for the lapses in the stone platform which runs along the front of the post-office—“not bad, though; my last ten hogsheads brought 78s. per cwt.; and my agent tells me the sugar was not so good as the former shipment, or he should have got higher prices. I must look to what my manager is doing; he must exert himself more, or he and I must part. Ay—rain again!” and he inspects the movements of the clouds, and glances for a moment at the vane upon the church-steeple visible above the surrounding houses. “Well, let me get home first, and it may rain as long as it likes—all the better for my canes.” So saying, he gains his “top-gig,” and carefully stepping in, and placing his umbrella between his knees, he tells “John” to gather up the reins, and make haste home. This is a resident proprietor of a sugar-estate, a man with whom the world has long dealt well.
Another event that makes an inroad into business-hours, is the occurrence of an auction-sale. When a gentleman or his family intends paying a visit to England, one of their first preparations is to “call an auction,” and sell off all their household furniture, carriages, and horses. Upon these occasions, they print no compendious catalogues, as is the custom in England; but an advertisement is inserted in the island weekly papers, calling the attention of individuals to the fact, that