During the period that all this momentous business was going on, we had totally neglected the appearance of the weather, and had not a drop or two of rain fallen, and the sound of a distant clap of thunder echoed round us, I dare say we should not have thought upon such a subject. Here, then, was romance; a thunder-storm, and “Sawcolt Hill”—it only wanted an old castle and a horde of banditti to make it a scene worthy the pen of a “Radcliffe.” The lambent lightning played for awhile, and the thunder bellowed through the boundless sky, and then passed slowly away to the west, very much to my satisfaction. “Sawcolt Hill” was ascended, and descended, and the road became more beautiful at every turn, until at length we stood by the side of the noted freshwater spring. And what then were my reflections? I thought it was lovely in everything but its name—“Tom Moore’s Spring!” Who, in the name of all that’s romantic, could call such a spring by such a name? Had it been the “fairy’s spring,” or the “spring of the mountain sylph,” or something of the kind, it would have sounded as it ought, and some charming legend might have been attached. But who could ever inquire after “Tom Moore?” Why, the name of such a being puts all fancies to the flight! Thus far had my thoughts wandered, when suddenly, an ideal form passed before me; her sweet and classic countenance—her eyes which mocked the heavens in their dye—her long and silken lashes which drank the dew of her vermilion cheeks, all conspired to render me entranced. A blue mantle floated from her shoulders, and a thousand graces hovered round her steps. As she glided away, she placed one of her taper fingers upon her ruby lips, and, in a voice of liquid sweetness, uttered the word, “Remember!” I knew her for the goddess “Mnemosyne,” and I tried to follow her behest. My beautiful goddess assisted me, and brought to my recollection that “Bulbul of a thousand songs,” that sweet rhymer who charms us with his “bower of roses by Bendameer’s stream,” as with his melodies of the “Emerald Isle,” he who bears the well-known appellation of “Tom Moore.” I remembered all this to my shame, and determined in future never to utter one word against it, did all the springs in Antigua bear that name. After making this resolution, I turned once more to inspect “Tom Moore’s Spring.” The water is as clear as crystal, and of a refreshing coolness; and as it trickles from beneath the roots of a large bamboo growing by, each drop looks like liquid pearl. It has never been known to be dry, let the season be what it will, and consequently must be of inexpressible value to the adjoining estates. It was formerly built round with a stone wall, but that has long ago fallen to ruin, and no one has troubled himself to erect it again. I blame none, however, upon this score, for, in my opinion, it looks more romantic as it is; nature has done much for it, and art would only spoil her work.