JOURNAJ. AND PROCEEDINGS. 97 
Canadian things—Canadian bread, Canadian canned fruit, Canadian 
everything. There was a cool, shady spot beside the banks of the Wag- 
water. Here we unpacked our good things, and did ample justice 
to them. Spaniards used to call this river ‘‘ Agua Alta,” because in 
the rainy season it rose to a great height. Breakfast being disposed 
of, we set out forthe gardens. ‘These are laid out largely on the hill- 
sides. The walks are beautiful; there was the Royal palm of Cuba, 
and you could almost fancy it was endowed with reason and knew it 
was king among trees; there was the Phimax palm, the Sago palm, 
the Ruttan palm, and others, and wonderful tree ferns. Perhaps the 
most marvellous of all trees was the Travellers’ tree, which, when an 
incision is made at the base of the stem of the large leaves, pure 
water flows out. One was tapped and we all had a drink. Some were a 
little doubtful about trying it, but I first quenched my thirst,and then 
the rest followed. It is not a native of Jamaica, but is a native of 
Madagascar, and flourishes where water is scarce. One of these 
large leaves was cut off to show the marvellous provisions of nature. 
I cannot conceive how any man could examine this leaf and deny 
the existence of a God. There was the Victoria Regia in the foun- 
tain ; the wonderful flowering banana ; and then, to cap the climax, 
there was a tree fully 60 feet high, without a branch or stem until 
the top is reached, and there the umbrella-shaped foliage is to be 
seen—a lovely mass of scarlet flowers, like a rocket bursting in the 
sky into balls of red fire, but then the balls of fire are evanescent, 
while these flowers are forever being renewed as the others fall ; 
lovely orchids under the shade of trees. We saw the fernery, where 
-were 440 different species. On our return it rained. We were 
protected in our carriages. The natives, who were walking, just had 
a banana leaf balanced on their heads, and that was their umbrella. 
As I sat that night on the balcony of my hotel at midnight, waiting 
to see the Southern Cross, the lines of Mrs. Hemans came forcibly 
to my mind— 
<‘Ts it where the feathery palm trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ; 
Amidst the green islands in glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange wild birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ; 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? 
Not there, not there, my child.” 
