until at length, to the dismay of the overseer, they were lost to sight! He was no naturalist: he had never studied “Réaumur” upon the “habits of bees,” and as the last straggler disappeared, he thought “Well! Mr. ——— hoped they would not wander from home, but by St. Patrick they’re all gone, and if they ever come back is a query.” However, as nothing could be done, he was obliged to leave them to their fate; and in a rather disconsolate mood, “he turned and left the spot.” Hours wore away, “The evening came, the sun descended,” and the truant insects returned to their hive, to the great joy of the observant overseer. “Ah! ah!” said he, as they alighted, heavily laden with their luscious store, “a pretty trick you have played me to-day; but by my patron saint, I will take care of you to-morrow.” He watched until they were all safe housed; and then with hurried steps, and self-congratulatory hitches of the shoulders, he sought the spot where masons had been lately working. Providing himself with some of the soft mortar, he again visited the apiary; and with ready will, and determined purpose, applied to the opening of each hive a sufficient quantum of the cement, so as to effectually forbid the egress of any bee. It is almost needless to mention, that upon the return of the gentleman, whose absence had been protracted, he found his favourite insects defunct; nor need I animadvert upon the vexation his overseer’s management of an apiary caused him. To resume my subject—which the bees, and their untimely fate, drove from my head: after inspecting the school, and expressing our gratification, we proceeded to visit the Methodist chapel, a stone’s throw from the school-room. It is a plain wooden building, measuring 45 feet by 60 feet, and capable of containing 900 sittings. The burying-ground is attached, and serves as the place of interment for the whole town, and some part of the adjoining country. Adjacent to the chapel is the mission-house, a neat little domicile for such an extraordinary-looking place as Bridgetown. There is nothing interesting about Willoughby Bay. No glittering white sand, or clear blue water with its dazzling surf to be seen. A line of blighted, sickly-looking bushes shuts out the sight of the beach; and the part of the bay which greets our eyes looks gloomy and discoloured, as if from lurking reefs and shoals. Upon the opposite side of the bay, looking across the water, lies the Memoras, a long ridge of rocks, over which the sea rushes with tremendous force, and with a deafening noise, which may be heard at a considerable distance. Upon a still day, the angry moan of the waves can be clearly distinguished at Bridgetown. Willoughby Bay derives its name from Francis Lord Willoughby, who in 1663 was made Lord Proprietor of the whole island, by a grant from Charles II.[98]