It was a lovely morning (as most West India mornings are) when we started upon our journey. The sun shone bright and clear; indeed, far too clear for actual comfort, had we gone as “pilgrims grey,” with “scalloped hat,” and “sandled shoon,” and resting on our “staves;” but we preferred the less romantic, but more pleasant way of taking it quietly in our carriage. Quickly we passed through the town of St. John’s, leaving its busy inmates, its shops and stores, its “Scotch row” and Scotchmen, and all its noise and bustle, for the quietness and freshness of the country. Upon gaining “Otto’s Hill,” at the outskirts of the town, I looked back upon the beautiful harbour of St. John’s, its blue waves just rippling the surface, its barques and brigs, schooners and sloops, bowing their heads as if in graceful homage to some sea-god from old King Neptune’s court; and its sloping shores displaying a carpet of luxuriant green, for a little rain which had fallen not long before had clothed the fields in a garb of lovely verdure. While thinking upon all these beauties, and the images they called up, my poetic fancies were crushed by the horrible noise of a long string of “cattle carts” and their sable drivers, coming into town with a load of molasses for “Brother Jonathan,” or some other worthy. This brought me down from the seventh heaven, and made me just then find out that it was very _hot_, and the road disagreeably dusty. However, in our pilgrimage through life, we meet with many crosses, and many _dusty spots_; and therefore, in our pilgrimage to “Tom Moore’s Spring,” we could but expect the same. The country certainly looked very pretty upon this eventful day, for every spot was green, and as we passed the numerous estates, an air of gladness seemed to be abroad. The breeze blew soft from off the mountains we were approaching, and greeted our olfactory nerves with the odour of the yellow acacia, which grew along the side of the road in vast profusion. In a short time, we reached the banks of a small rivulet, the only real stream Antigua can boast of, for the few others we passed owed their source more to the late rains than anything else. This rivulet was bordered by bamboos, and other species of wild cane, while larger trees, in many parts, shewed their gnarled roots, and bent their long boughs to kiss the swift gliding waters. Various aquatic plants grew along its margin, while in the stream itself sported my own country’s water-lily, bright nymphæa. Near to the spot stands a rural little temple of worship, with its plain white walls, and a little cross upon its roof, and across the rivulet is thrown a rustic bridge. This is a favourite resort for country washerwomen, and as we passed, many of them were busily engaged in their very necessary avocations; but as none of them presented the appearance of a nymph or a naïad, I will not introduce them to my readers.