We got into a splendid little equipage, upholstered in tan cloth and with a large tan umbrella top, which was lined with green.
We drove for several miles through a country remarkable for its beautiful scenery. It was a land of color. It was like a land of perpetual spring—a spring that was ever green. I saw not a single shade that was dull. Even the trunks of the gigantic trees seemed to have a warm tone. The flowers were startlingly bright—yellow, scarlet, and purple.
We passed many country people along the road. They moved with a sort of languid, swinging amble, as if they dragged, not lifted, their flat feet. Women carried on their heads enormous bundles and sometimes trays. How they balanced them so firmly was always a mystery to me, especially as most of them either had their hands on their hips, or, more extraordinary, carried or led children, and even ran at times. Asses, loaded on each side with produce, ambled along as draggingly as the natives.
Miss Foster made only three or four remarks during the entire journey. These are her remarks. They are curious taken altogether:
"This carriage belongs to Mr. Burbank. He supplies all the vehicles, by the way, for the press."
"Those are the botanical gardens. Jamaica has Mr. Burbank to thank for their present excellent condition. Remember that."
"We are going by the Burbank plantation now. He has a place in Kingston, too, and a summer home in the mountains."
"If we beat that newspaper libel law, you'll have a chance to write all the funny things and rhymes you want about the mean sneaks who are trying to push it through."
Even during the long drive through the green country I had been insensibly affected by the ever-growing heat. In the long chamber of Government House, where the session was to be held, there seemed not a breath of air stirring. It was insufferably hot, though the place was virtually empty when we arrived. I had a shuddering notion of what it would be like when full.