Escaped
from the confined decks of the frigate, the air breathed spices to
us; streams were heard flowing; green boughs were rocking; and far
inland, all sunset flushed, rose the still, steep peaks of the
island.
As we proceeded, I was more and more struck by the picturesqueness of
the wide, shaded road. In several places, durable bridges of wood
were thrown over large water-courses; others were spanned by a single
arch of stone. In any part of the road, three horsemen might have
ridden abreast.
This beautiful avenue - by far the best thing which civilization has
done for the island - is called by foreigners "the Broom Road," though
for what reason I do not know. Originally planned for the convenience
of the missionaries journeying from one station to another, it almost
completely encompasses the larger peninsula; skirting for a distance
of at least sixty miles along the low, fertile lands bordering the
sea. But on the side next Taiarboo, or the lesser peninsula, it
sweeps through a narrow, secluded valley, and thus crosses the island
in that direction.
The uninhabited interior, being almost impenetrable from the
densely-wooded glens, frightful precipices, and sharp mountain ridges
absolutely inaccessible, is but little known, even to the natives
themselves; and so, instead of striking directly across from one
village to another, they follow the Broom Road round and round.
