The stillness and calmness of an English summer’s evening have been often and often described by our poets; here, however, no quietness is to be met with, but on the contrary all is bustle and noise. Sounds of every description fill the air, as soon as “evening grey” sets in. Parties of negroes, men, women, and children, gather together in groups, worthy the illustrative pencil of Cruikshank, to gabble away their _nancy stories_, relate their quarrels, or discuss the other business of the day. Bats of every size and shape fly backwards and forwards in search of their prey, or pay you an unceremonious visit through the open _jalousies_ of your houses. Crickets and frogs raise their shrill pipes, which grate most unmusically upon the ear; cock-roaches (those disgusting pests of the West Indies) crawl over the floors, or ceilings of the apartments, or at times take the liberty of brushing in your face, or nestling in your hair; mosquitoes hum their monotonous song, or insert their proboscis into every accessible part of your flesh; while the land crabs clatter about, just like an old woman in pattens. The houses are lighted up as if for an illumination, the windows are thrown open to admit the evening air, and the fair inhabitants amuse themselves by playing upon harpsichords, or similar musical instruments, “Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Home, Sweet Home,” and other popular melodies. CHAPTER XVI. Scenery of Antigua—Pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring”—The Goddess Mnemosyne—Fig-Tree Hill—The “Bower of Bliss”—“Old Road” —The Strand—The cross sexton—The parochial school—Old Road Church—Tomb of Col. Williams—Moravian settlement—Salt ponds— Copses—“Crab Hill”—Sandy Valley—The Valley Church—The rising moon—Arrival in town—Night, and night dreams. With respect to the scenery of Antigua, it is said to be neither “grand nor magnificent,” that “its mountains are too much like mole-hills,”[62] and in many other ways has it been depreciated; yet there are some spots of real beauty, which would strike the eye of even a painter or a poet. To see some of these to the greatest advantage, I would advise all such readers as have it in their power to take a drive or a ride (whichever they prefer) some fine morning to “Fig Tree Hill,” and return by “Crab Hill.” They will then meet with spots of such transcendent loveliness, as will cause the most unpoetic to exclaim, “Beautiful! beautiful!” But as some of my readers, perhaps, may never have the chance of taking such a tour, in pity to them, I will attempt to describe what I saw in my pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring.”