I speak, of course, only of Trinidad, because only Trinidad I have seen.

But what I say I know intimately to be true.
The parade over--and a pleasant sight it was, and one not easily to be forgotten--we were away to see the Salse, or 'mud-volcano,' near Monkey Town, in the forest to the south-east.

The cross-roads were deep in mud, all the worse because it was beginning to dry on the surface, forming a tough crust above the hasty-pudding which, if broken through, held the horse's leg suspended as in a vice, and would have thrown him down, if it were possible to throw down a West-Indian horse.

We passed in one place a quaint little relic of the older world; a small sugar-press, rather than mill, under a roof of palm-leaf, which was worked by hand, or a donkey, just as a Spanish settler would have worked it three hundred years ago.

Then on through plenty of garden cultivation, with all the people at their doors as we passed, fat and grinning: then up to a good high- road, and a school for Coolies, kept by a Presbyterian clergyman, Mr.Morton--I must be allowed to mention his name--who, like a sensible man, wore a white coat instead of the absurd regulation black one, too much affected by all well-to-do folk, lay as well as clerical, in the West Indies.