BERMUDIAN ROADS—NIGHT BLOOMING CACTUS—A NATURAL
CURIOSITY—EXPORTS AND IMPORTS—THE COLOURED NATIVE—HARRINGTON
SOUND—DEVIL’S HEAD—NEPTUNE’S GROTTO—A SALT-WATER
FOUNTAIN—A DIABOLICAL PLOT—THE CALABASH—MEMENTOES OF TOM
MOORE—WALSINGHAM—THE CAUSEWAY—A NEW FEATURE IN CULTIVATION—ST.
GEORGE’S.
We have not half exhausted the beauties of the neighbourhood, but, in
case your patience should be at an end, please step into the carriage
which is to take us to St. George’s, at the other end of the island,
whence we are to embark for the West Indies, and let us look about us on
the way.
Three roads lead to our destination; we will take the middle one, which
joins the ocean drive near Harrington Sound. Splendid roads these are,
too! Bermuda may well be proud of them. Altogether there are more than
a hundred miles of broad, white, smooth road. Sometimes the road-bed is
so deeply hewn out of the white coral rock that Lilliputian canyons are
formed with fern-hung walls, and capped with aloe or cactus. Several
varieties of the latter plant grow in the islands, and a magnificent
specimen of the night-blooming _cereus grandiflora_ is to be seen
in the small garden behind the Yacht Club in Hamilton. It runs in
wild profusion over trees, walls, and bushes, and when in blossom is
covered with hundreds of pale flowers, whose delicious perfume is quite
overpowering. It may be inconvenient, perhaps, to visit it at the proper
time—midnight—but it is necessary, as in the morning beauty and perfume
have gone.
Dazzlingly white, but, fortunately, not dusty, is the road as we leave
the snowy houses behind us, but soon we enter a stretch of cool forest.
Here a deeper silence reigns than even on the sunny hill we have
ascended, a melodious silence too, for the sweet note of the blue bird
and the soft chirp of the “chick of the village” do not break the quiet,
but rather adds to it. A crimson cardinal gives a rare flush to the grey
cedar, and pretty little ground-doves sit perfectly unconcerned by the
roadside as we drive past. Prospect is soon reached, and then we descend,
again skirting a large morass, edged with cedars, mangrove, and palmetto.
We see a new church, which makes a strong contrast with the old ruined
one that stands farther on, near some really fine cedars.
Here we halt for a moment to inspect a natural curiosity, namely, a very
ancient cedar, lofty and hollow, and in whose dead trunk is growing
a young one, the green head of which appears high up, amid the dead
branches of the old one. Patches of cultivated land with their great
hedges of oleander were as common here as everywhere else, but, besides
the usual tomato, onion, and potato, we saw for the first time that
friend of our childhood—the farinaceous arrowroot. Could we do less
than greet it with a friendly nod as we drove along? Alas! even the
cultivation of this diminishes year by year; everything has to give way
to onions and tomatoes—consequently, the supply of other vegetables,
cereals, and fruits is extremely limited. With such a fertile soil
the exports might almost equal the imports in value, but I am afraid
to say how many times the latter exceed the former at present. No one
would expect a black man to work more than he is absolutely obliged,
and certainly in Bermuda he who can avoid doing anything makes the best
of his opportunities. Possibly his nature is allied to that of the
surrounding coral formations, and he becomes a sort of human coral-polyp,
whose only labour of life is to get a little food and to eat it; the rest
he leaves to nature. Well, who can blame him? he seems very happy and
contented, he sends his children to school, he is very polite, and, if he
is poor, poverty does not harm him, and he is content.
Look at that merry group in the doorway of that tumble-down old building!
All smile at the strangers, and the mother who has been plaiting away at
some palmetto work—which by the way is not half so fine and pretty here
as in Florida—leaves it, to gather some magnificent roses we have stopped
to admire. But surely an earthquake has shattered this little village;
roofless cottages, mouldering walls, gardens in which papaws, prickly
pears, and lantanas form a perfect jungle, everything has the appearance
of some such catastrophe. No, these ruins are the land fragments of
what was once an important harbour, and the splendid sheet of water
before us is Harrington Sound. Very beautiful is this lake—as it may be
called—which at its junction with the sea is crossed by a bridge a few
yards in length, and only visible when approached quite close; for it
lies at the foot of a circle of green hills, surrounded by cavernous
shores, and with islands dotting its green transparent waters.
Taking the road to the right we pass some pretty cottages, one of which
has such a tremendous portico, that we are reminded of the donkey that
tried to convert itself into a deer by attaching antlers to its head.
Then we arrive at the Devil’s Hole. Across the water the Devil’s Head
rises up, its perpendicular cliff looking quite grand in miniature; there
the tropic-bird builds its nest in perfect security in some inaccessible
position. What the devil has to do with either place I cannot say; both
names seem singularly inappropriate, and for the former “Neptune’s
Grotto” is more suitable, and just as easy to pronounce.
There is frequently, I believe, a good deal of difficulty in finding the
proprietor of the pool in question, but at the time of our visit he was
standing at the wooden door, and informed us we had come at a good time,
as he was just going to feed the fish. Entering, we found ourselves in a
pretty circular grotto, lined with shrubs, ferns, and creepers. Steps,
cut out of the rock, led down to a deep pool of the clearest salt water,
in which were a number of great fish called “groupers,” gazing up with
the most expectant look—if a fish-eye can be expressive—and evidently
aware that feeding time was at hand. And how they did eat! there was
no dainty nibbling, no coquettish trifling, a huge mouth opened and
the morsel was gone. “What does that great fellow weigh?” “Oh, about
two shillings,” replied the proprietor, whose idea of weight was a
marketable one, “and those angels will average one and sixpence apiece.”
Well, those angels were worth it, their exquisite azure hue vied with
the wonderfully tinted water, and, what with gold streakings, waving
plume-like fins, and really beautiful eyes, they well deserved their
name. If some clever soul could discover a preparation for preserving
the natural hues of fish, what a benefactor he would be! At present, the
alcoholic collections of our Museums form a ghastly contrast with the
brilliant birds and insects which surround them.
“While blazing breast of humming-bird and Io’s stiffened wing,
Are just as bright as when they flew their earliest voyage in spring;
While speckled snake and spotted pard their markings still display—
Though he who once embalm’d them both himself be turned to clay—
The scaly tribe a different doom awaits—scarce reach’d the shore
Those rainbow hues are fading fast till all their beauty’s o’er.”
Right learnedly, and with the tongue of a gourmet, did our fisherman
discuss the habits and qualities of the various fish that swim in
Bermudian waters. Cow-fish, porgies, hamlets, hog, grunts, bream, and
many others; a few he pointed out to us, amongst them a squirrel with
large eyes, of a blood-red colour and peculiar shape; then he landed a
“grunt,” which gave vent to sounds that would shame a veritable porker.
This natural aquarium is connected with the sea by an underground
passage, consequently the water is always fresh; formerly, we were told,
it was a cavern, but the roof had fallen in.
On emerging, we see eastward the pretty house and grounds belonging to
the American Consul. In his garden is a salt-water fountain, in the basin
of which we, during a former visit, had seen many strange fish, and also
some good specimens of the sea-horse. On that occasion we had been told
of the terrible plot concocted in these Islands by a Dr. Blackburn, for
introducing the yellow fever into the Northern part of the United States,
by sending thither boxes of infected clothing. Fortunately—and I believe
chiefly through the instrumentality of our host—the plot was discovered
in time to prevent the shipment, and a terrible calamity was probably
averted. The worthy Consul does not confine his attention to fish alone,
and his system of banana culture might be profitably adopted in many
other parts of the Island.
Continuing our drive round the Sound, we are more and more impressed
with its attractions; the apple-green water below us, the rocky inlets
with white sandy edges, here and there a stretch of shingle or a wooden
promontory, and, beyond, the blue sea with the foam on its distant reefs,
form a lovely picture, and we are sorry when a turn in the road has shut
us out from such a wealth of colour.
Our next halting-place is at a farm house, near which stands Moore’s
“calabash tree,”[4] beneath whose shade the poet composed his verses,
and wove his amatory couplets addressed to “Nea, the Rose of the Isles.”
The tree lives still, in spite of the severe hacking it has received
from tourists, whose carved names are continually blurred out by time
and the hands of their successors. Even the seat under it is the object
of much curiosity, and as each new one is placed in its proper position
it is carried off piecemeal by enthusiastic admirers, who must have a
bit of the chair the poet sat in. I never see the ravages made by relic
hunters, or the desecration of historical places, without thinking of
a certain tourist to whom an Italian monk was showing a consecrated
lamp, which had never gone out during five centuries. Giving the flame a
decisive puff, he remarked, with cool complacency, “Well, I guess it’s
out now.” A few gourds are still left hanging from the topmost boughs
of the tree, but the sable attendant will not allow any of these to be
knocked down, so you must be satisfied with the one presented to you by
the proprietor of the land at your departure. It may come from Moore’s
tree, but gourds are deceptive and much alike.
A short walk through tangled wild-wood leads to some limestone caves,
which were also frequented by the poet. They differ little from other
cavernous formations; there are vaulted arches, halls and aisles,
gem-studded cornices, and upright columns; here there is a sheet of
water so clear that the guide has to tell you that it is water; there,
oozing stalactites embellish a Gothic temple, but the effect of brilliant
crystallization is marred by the smoke of the rushes which light up the
gloom of the interior. The visit is a scrambling one, but still worth
accomplishing.
Shortly after leaving Walsingham we cross the causeway which connects the
main island with St. George’s; on our right, is the magnificent Castle
Harbour, with numerous islands; on our left, a land-locked sound, with
cranes and other birds fishing on the shallows and among the mangrove
bushes, whilst in front, lying in the hollow of a curve under a hill, are
the white houses of the town. Rapidly we drive along the fine causeway,
the waves now and then almost dashing over us, so near is the sea; then,
after crossing a drawbridge, we are soon among cottages and gardens.
Here we see again potato fields and patches of cultivated ground,
apparently planted with black bottles. These black bottles are quite a
feature in Bermudian cultivation during the sowing season; they are not
planted in the hope of their ever becoming quarts or magnums, or even of
their being refilled by nature with their original contents, but, having
held the seed, they merely indicate the amount sown.
A quaint old town is St. George’s, with its high stone walls and winding
alleys. So narrow are the streets that, if two carriages met in one
of them, it is difficult to imagine what would happen, as they could
not pass, and certainly could not turn back; but two carriages in St.
George’s on the same day would be an exceptional event. The whole place
has the appearance of having been cut out of a single block of white
limestone, rather than being built of bricks of that material. It is not
in many places that a man can build his house from stone out of his own
quarry, on his own premises, but he can in Bermuda. With a hand-saw he
cuts out the soft stone, and the blocks then harden by exposure to the
air.
The numerous square cuttings in the hill-sides and along the roads form
a feature in the scenery, and by no means an unpleasing one, as the new
are snowy white, and the old are generally draped with green bushes and
creepers. Walls are built of the same material, and then receive, as the
houses do, a coating of whitewash, which hides the seams and joinings,
thus presenting a solid white mass. Over these walls, you see broad
plantain leaves and flaming poinsettias; orange, lemon, and palm trees
are more numerous here at St. George’s than at Hamilton, and the tropical
aspect of the town extends to its inhabitants. Of labour there is little
or no sign, and what there is of life is hardly worth mentioning.
As St. George’s is a garrison town—two regiments being considered
necessary for the safety of Bermuda—it is probably gayer than when we saw
it, which was in hot noonday, when all slept except one black man, who
was shaving a white man under the shade of a tree in the square.
That evening the ‘Beta,’ from Halifax, left with us for the West Indies.
Summer isles, in spite of that abused hotel, I would gladly revisit you;
I carry away nought but a remembrance of white cottages and gardens,
green islands, billowy masses of oleander, cedar hills, and coral rocks,
and, above all, of a shining lake-like sea, as calm and restful as the
happy homes which it surrounds.