The Republican journal., 1895-09-19
DR.. Miles Heart Cure
Restores Health


lowed ont like huge pots They are sim
lar to the enormous basin shaped holes
IN the .Glacier Garden of Lucerne.' 2;
which We're scooped out, ages ago by
glacial action in the sandstone ridge. But
lying at the bottom of the Switzerland
basins are the colossal balls which. once
hard as blocks of stone, that slipped
through the icy tissures and had thus been
rolled and twisted about by the action of
water rushing down upon them. until the
deep holes were made These Of Bermuda.
which occur at intervals all around the
islands, appear to have been built up.
rather than followed OUT. Perhaps the
spot most frequeuted by tourists is the one
secluded glen, near tie Walsingham
caverns, where Tom Moore lived for a
time and sang the charms Of the Bermu
dian ladies. Tie ancient calabash tree.
under which the lazy poet loved to re-
cine, like Jonah beneath his gourd. still
lives, IN spite o. the severe hacking it has
received from generations Of vanda tour
lists, whose carved names are rapidly blur
ring by saline moisture and the jaekkniyes
al their successors. Even the wooden
bench beneath the tree is still as much an
object Of curiosity as il it were the orei
nal one upon Which the poet actually sat
I'm ard nobody knows how MANY times If
mas oeen replaced, each new bench being
carried OF peacemeal by travellers; as in
the days before Galtield's inaugural when
patriotic Americans made a Mecca OF the
Mentor farm and carried off not only tie
prospective Presidents crops but those Of
his neighhols-for the good natured farm
elS "t the vicinity dumped loads upon
loads Of apples in the Garfield orchard and
corn III the fields, to be taken away bv the
pilgrims and treasured as precious
trophies Of Garfield S own raising. You
may remember the pleasant lines Moore
wrote to friend in England, beginning
wy was thus by the shades Of Celabash tree
With a few who could feel and remember
ike me-.
A gay deceiver was the Irish poet. for
while writing lovelorn ditties To s.Nea.
the Rose OF the Isles,'' Miss Fanny
lucker), he was filling letters to his
mother with such expressions as these:
Indeed, you must not be sur
prised, dear mother, if l fall in love
with the first pretty face l see on my
return home; for certainly the human face
divine has degenerated wonderfully in
these countries, and if | we're a painter
and wished to preserve my idea Of beauty
immaculate, | would not suffer the bright
est belle of Bermuda to be nv house
maid. SO perhaps it was we'll that Miss
Fanny the ''Rose of the Isles'' needed not
the rather hysterical invitation of the
amatory bard who besought her in rhyme
to ''fy to the region of snow with him.
but very sensibly preferred to stick to her
native ''silvery bowers.'' She welded
cousin, whose name was also Tucker: and
their descendants yet live upon the island
and never fail to tell you that their beau
tiful ancestress was Tom Moore's sweet
heart. To my mind he never wrote any
thing to compare with Lucy Larcom's
Under the caves of the southern sky,
Where the cloud roofs bend to the ocean
floor,
Hid in lonely seas the Bermoothes lie
Doubtless you know the rest Of it. An
other delightful drive is to Spanish Rock.
on knapton Hill; and, by the way, you
must not confound Spanish Rock with
Spanish Point, for one is on the north
shore and the other on the south, at o,,-
posite ends Of the island. Going to Span
ish Rock you drive to the foot Of the hill,
tether your horse to convenient tree and
walk up the steep slope through cedar
grove, intersected by winding paths that
lead to nowhere. Birds are singing. wild
flowers blooming; being shut in from all
sight and sound Of the sea, you almost
imagine yourself among the evergreen
hills Of our own north land, but presently
you come out by a brackish pond, it's
sandy shores completely riddled with
crab holes, as unlike as possible to our
clear sparkling mountain lakes Beyond
n