ISLAND OF TRINIDAD. PORT OF SPAIN
I.
"I'se here, Missus; I'se here, waitin' fo' you" (from one of a crowd of
chattering Spanish, English, French, Portuguese creoles, outnumbered by
the ever-present black, in every shade, from deep chocolate to light
saffron), greets us as we step on land at Port of Spain, Trinidad.
We do not feel quite sure which particular one, in all that pushing,
scrambling, good-natured crowd, is waiting for us; whether it is the man
with the two monkeys, or the man with the green and blue parrot, or the
woman with the baskets, or the boy with the shells; but whichever one it
is, he's there, and all his friends are there, with everything salable
they possess, strung around them, fastened to them, hitched to them, in
some fashion--any way to allow them free use of their arms.
"Well, we're glad you're waiting, Sambo. We fully expected to find you
here. It wouldn't be Trinidad without a monkey or a parrot. We'll buy
later. Oh, no! Not the monkey; we have one at home, and Heaven knows
that's enough! But maybe, by and by, we'll see about a basket."
If there is one thing in the world Sister and I can never resist, it's a
basket. That distressing mania breaks forth at the slightest
provocation; it doesn't seem to make any difference where we are, or how
impossible it is to gratify it; difficulties only whet the appetite. The
more inopportune the occasion, the more we want the basket.
[Illustration: THE DRAGON'S MOUTH, ENTRANCE TO GULF OF PARIA
Between South America and Trinidad]
So we stood there on the quay at Port of Spain, with the lofty headlands
of grand old South America away to the south of us, taking their morning
bath among the clouds, and off in the north the mountain sweep of
Trinidad, watching the queer old city at its feet, and betwixt the two,
the Gulf of Paria, loosened from the Dragon's Mouth, spreading and
expanding, with its waters a commingling of the blue of the Caribbean
and the brown of the near-by Orinoco, washing the outstretched feet of
the great mother and child; and we stood there, with all this grandeur
ablaze in the first light of the morning, wondering if we would better
buy the basket right then, on the spot, or whether we should wait until
our return.
To be sure, we had one big basket--and a beauty, too--from St. Thomas,
but it was always full, a sort of catch-all for our curious leaves, and
seeds, and coral, and beads, and newspapers, and precious bills of
fare,--treasured reminders of old balconies and lingering melodies; and
it really seemed to be our duty to provide a number two size to carry to
market. We could use it in so many ways, and then we wanted another
basket. But, before we had time to strike a bargain,--for it's a
half-day's work in these ideal lands to buy anything,--some one cried
out: "If you are going to the Coolie Village, you'd better come right
now, or the carriages will all be taken!"
"Who are the coolies?" Blue Ribbons asked, as we rattled along up
Frederick Street. The answer to her question was squatting not far
distant, where some cars, just arrived from San Fernando, were being
unloaded. His hands were clasped around his thin bare legs; his face,
serious, dark, immovable; his hair, black as ink, and straight; on his
head, a voluminous white turban bespoke the worshipper of Brahma,
Vishnu, and Shiva. It was with mingled sensations of awe and fear that I
beheld this unexpected Hindoo. His apparent unconcern of mundane affairs
recalled not only deeply treasured teachings from his great masters,
but, in his eyes, there was the black, unforgotten story of Lucknow. It
was hard to reconcile the two.
It seems that the Hindoo "coolie" is imported by the ship-load into
Trinidad, and indentured for a period of ten years; at the expiration of
which time he may return to India at his company's expense, if he so
chooses (and he usually does choose to do so, taking home with him a
goodly store of gold). He makes a most valuable and reliable labourer,
and has really been the salvation of the vast sugar and cacao estates on
the island. It has been next to impossible to exact any continuous
labour from the negro, without some system of slavery, and had it not
been for the Hindoo, the resources of Trinidad would have been
practically undeveloped.
The coolies were in evidence everywhere. In fact, they seemed to form a
considerable proportion of the population. We do not wonder any longer
at the emaciated pictures of the famine-stricken East Indians, for here,
in a land of plenty, where food, almost ready cooked, is only waiting to
drop, the Hindoo is the sparest, leanest creature imaginable. His
ever-bare legs are not like flesh and blood, but small-boned and thin to
emaciation, and almost devoid of calves below the knee; they have the
hard statuesque look of bronze stilts. And the arms, too, are thin, and
terminate in slender little hands that seem incapable of heavy and
prolonged labour.
II.
Port of Spain, compactly, squarely built, and well paved, extends for
quite a distance over a flat, alluvial plain to a grassy _savannah_, two
and a half miles wide; one side of which, facing the Botanical Garden
and the Governor's Mansion, brings you to the base of the mountain.
The city is neither beautiful nor clean. Its architecture, dominated by
the taste of the Englishman, is about as unattractive as that of our own
country. The business streets are dusty, shadeless, and devoid of
cleaners, except for the vulture, who, with his long, bare legs, his
skinny neck and head, and huge black body, plays the part of city
scavenger. These ungainly, hideous, repulsive creatures stalk around
everywhere; they are under the horses' feet; they roost on the eave
troughs asleep in the sun, sit reflectively on chimney-tops, or come
swooping down after some horrible piece of carrion in the street.
How can a civilised people be willing to turn the civic house-cleaning
over to a lot of vultures? No wonder that plagues and fevers rage upon
these beautiful islands. Under existing conditions, they surely have the
right of way.
[Illustration: THE BUSINESS SECTION
Port of Spain, Trinidad
Copyright, 1901, by Detroit Photographic Co.]
Did I understand you to say that the carriages were all gone when you
came ashore? Come in with us! There, the front seat with the driver
is just waiting for you, and really, to walk is hardly safe under this
vertical sun. Would you mind if we make a stop or two on the way out to
the village, for the man of the family must have some fresh white ducks
to wear in South America; let us wait for him here in the carriage.
It seems pleasant to-day not to make any exertion. I've no doubt we can
get a lot of information from the driver, if we question him. He
responds, oh! yes, he responds with great ardour, but with what result?
One word in ten, we recognise. He thinks, of course, he's speaking
English, and I suppose we might better let him think so, but, bless you,
if that's English, what are we speaking? It's just another of the West
Indian surprises. You come to a country which has been under the
beneficent English rule for over one hundred years, and you find the
natives--the men who drive for you, who row you ashore, who carry your
plunder, the women in the market--all speaking an almost unintelligible
jargon of French, Spanish, Portuguese, English, with a little Hindustani
and Chinese thrown in. Try the native on your best French, and at every
five or six words he brightens up with understanding. Take any of the
other languages and you have the same result; for your Trinidadian
understands when he wants to, but woe betide you when you ask a question
and want to know the answer. The native in Trinidad is bright and quick;
he is not like his big lazy lout of a brother down in our Southland. He
is a mix-up of many people, intelligent and active, and his language
tells what a conglomerate he is, and what a happy-go-lucky life he
leads.
III.
What can be keeping the shoppers so long? We shall certainly have to
hunt them up; let us look inside.
I have often wondered what our mammoth cheap stores of the North do with
their leftover plush albums, china shepherdesses, antiquated ready-made
clothing, tin jewelry, their untold unnumbered tons of clap-traps; and
now I know. It's all dumped right here in the West Indies. From South
America to Cuba, there is one vast collection of trash imported to catch
the pennies of these long-suffering people. It is always difficult to
obtain any of the native work; we have to go among the natives
themselves for that. One glance at Port of Spain's emporium, the _Great
Colonial Stores of Blank and Co. Limited_, is enough!
"Mother," said Sister, "I have an idea! Let's try the deaf and dumb
sign-language on the cabby." And she does. It works like a charm. Off we
swing for the savannah, a great, green, grassy plain, the playground for
the Trinidadians. Here, they have their horse-racing and golf and
cricket and polo under the fierce, tropical sun; here, the
merry-go-round and pop-stands burst forth every Saturday afternoon; here
the inevitable "picnic" is held, and as we happen here on a festival
day, we see the children--big and little--gathering from every
direction. There is something indestructible about the customs of an
Englishman. He does not change his methods of living, as do other races,
but, wherever he goes, he carries from pole to equator the customs and
habits of his own country. So he plays golf and cricket and polo in
Trinidad, when, at its mildest, the heat is about equal to our August.
It is on this savannah that we have our first good opportunity of
viewing the mighty ceiba tree near at hand. You remember it was a great
ceiba to which Columbus made fast his ships on the bank of the Ozama
River in Santo Domingo? The ceiba may not be the largest tree in the
tropics. I do not wish to say it is, for it would seem then that one was
limiting to a given scale the grandeur of the tropical tree. There is
apparently no limit to anything in the way of size or beauty under these
skies. There may be greater trees in the "High Wood" than the ceiba,
but, in our experience, it was by far the most wide-stretching of
anything we had yet seen. One stands before it awed, stupefied by its
immensity, its age, its strange manner of growing. And we think over all
the words we know to express its size and beauty, and we feel so poor
and powerless in expression.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE GREETING
San Fernando, Trinidad]
The ceiba on the wide savannah has endless room in which to spread. It
is perfect in form, like a mammoth gray and green umbrella, and reaches
out its immense branches toward every side in perfect symmetry. And such
branches! They alone are as large as our forest oaks, and they throw
themselves out from the trunk horizontally, in stupendous strength. Its
foliage is rather thin; the power of the tree seems to be spent in trunk
and branch. Its bark is like an elephant's hide, and its trunk has a
strange way of buttressing out its side in huge wings. It is even said
to be the worshipped tree of the superstitious black natives--a
mysterious sort of _fetich_, the mighty, silk-cotton ceiba.
IV.
Fine residences skirt the savannah, each garden a marvel of beauty, in
palms and trees whose names we do not know. Each little villa, has its
English name plastered upon the gateway. This part of the city is clean,
and the road is fine, so we will try to forgive and forget the shabby
appearance of the lower town. We pass countless gardens, and then the
houses grow fewer, and the gardens turn into banana patches, and the
people begin to look different; the negroes disappear, and we are in the
beginning of the "Coolie Village," where a row of thatched roofs,
supported by bamboo poles, ranges on either side of a long street,
which disappears under an avenue of palms and breadfruit-trees, quite
out of sight.
And here are the Hindoo men and women,--quiet, serious people,
displaying very little curiosity about us, going on with their work,
just as if we were not near them. What a relief from the hideous faces
of the negro are these straight-featured, well-poised East Indians!
The men dress in white and are not overly clean. It does not look to me
as if shirt and turban were often washed, but as their artisans work
sitting on the ground, there is really small chance for immaculate
linen. It is upon the women that the Hindoo displays his sensuous love
for colour and jewels. She is his savings-bank. Every bit of silver or
gold earned is taken to the jeweller to be fashioned into ornaments for
her.
Let us leave the carriage and wander about among these interesting,
silent people. Little Blue Ribbons would like to carry away one of those
curious silver bracelets the women wear, and as if our thoughts are
divined, we are in no time surrounded by a lot of girls who are simply
covered with silver and gold. They wear as many as twenty bracelets on
each arm, of different designs, some very beautifully twisted into
serpents' coils and heads, others engraved with intricate arabesques,
others merely crude bands, with a few ornamental lines. Every part of
the body, where a ring can hang, is covered with ornaments; head, ears,
nose, fingers, arms, waist, ankles, toes. And some of the dear little
brown babies, from two to five years old, were dressed only in pretty
silver whistles, tied about the waist with a black string.
We examine many bracelets. The arms held out are more beautiful than any
bits of silver about them, and the women have low, sweet voices, and
their eyes are brilliant, and their skin is lustrous, and the
fascination of the Orient is about them. The Hindoo women may have a
hard time of it in some ways, perhaps, off in East India where the
missionaries are, but here in Trinidad they have every appearance of
being well cared for.
Daddy is the one who buys the trinkets. He has a way of finding always
the most curious and the most beautiful things, and the Hindoo women
crowding about him, and the little girls, too, seem to have suspected
his talent. After examining the wealth of a dozen arms, two silver bands
are selected, which, after being carefully washed by a very particular
Daddy, are snapped about the white wrists of the expectant girlies. He
has not only a way with him for finding beautiful curios, but, alas! I
must confess he has a decided talent also for discovering beautiful
women. My only consolation in the matter is his catholicity of taste,
for he shows no preference, as a rule. His is a universal admiration,
the simple homage to beauty of an artistic soul, and that comforts me.
There is safety in numbers!
So it did not surprise me, while we are prowling around back of the
huts, in search of some Hindoo needlework, to return and discover him
chatting in a one-sided conversation with a little girl, about the age
of Little Blue Ribbons. She was leaning in a dreamy attitude in the
doorway of a shop--the most prosperous one in the village.
Just then he spies hanging in the shop some odd pipes made of clay. He
goes in and buys one or two. The proprietor and his wife are standing
behind the counter; she, fat and comfortable, a mass of silver
bracelets, smiled at us as we approached; but he, thin as a churchwarden
pipe, and solemn, my! solemn enough to be Buddha himself, with long,
gray hair, curled up at the end, and impassive face, answered our
questions about the pipes in precise, curiously clipped Oriental
English, without once looking at us. His eyes were fixed on something
beyond us, and they were the eyes that speak but rarely, and then
terribly. Daddy praises the shop, the wife's ornaments, and finally the
little girl, and asks if he may take her picture. The mother smiles a
"Yes;" the father just looks outside. Immediately the little one is
called into an inner room by her mother. She stands in the doorway so we
can see what is going on. I cannot tell you how much the mother loads
upon her.
The straight, low forehead is covered by three circlets of gold and
silver; the little ears are weighed down by filigree hoops of gold,
reaching to her shoulders; her pretty pierced nostrils hold a delicately
fashioned gold plate, which drops below the sweet red lips; a tiny
jewelled rose screws into the side of her straight little nose; her
graceful neck is loaded with chain after chain, hung with many silver
dollars of different countries, while one necklace is of twenty-dollar
United States gold pieces. Ten of these necklaces drop from the round
throat to the slender waist. A band of silver, two inches wade, spans
her upper arm, and from the tapering wrist to the shapely little elbow,
the brown, soft skin is covered with bracelets. A bright silk skirt
falls to the ankles, which, in turn, are encircled by bracelets or
anklets, while little rings are fitted to each toe of her slender,
shapely feet; and then, to cap the climax, the mother brings out a long
yellow scarf and starts to wind it about the little one's head.
That was too much. Daddy begs the mother off. He wanted to catch the
beautiful oval outline of that little head. So the yellow scarf was
discarded, and the little one came outside, and stood under the porch
against a green, leafy background, and her small hands were folded
before her very demurely, and she looked at us with her father's black,
serious eyes. All the while, he stands within, like a motionless gray
shadow,--absolutely unmoved by our admiration of his daughter.
A few feet beyond there is the goldsmith, squatting cross-legged on the
ground outside the door of his shanty. This is his shop,--this dirt
floor. Here, on a bit of cloth, are his wares, very beautiful some of
them, masterful pieces of work, and this diminutive bed of charcoal is
his furnace, these tiny hammers and pincers are his tools, and that
little black anvil is the scene of his daily toil. Can it be that, with
these few crude tools, he can fashion so wonderfully? His pattern is the
insect that hovers for an instant on its flight at noonday; or the
sleeping serpent, hidden under the bamboo; or the palm above the
village; or the spider's web over the doorway. Nature close to him--dear
to him--is the master of his art.
V.
The road on through the village is too beautiful to leave; we must go
farther, deeper down among this strangely silent, mysterious people; and
we drive on to where the palms meet over our heads, and we get glimpses
of the blue and green Gulf beyond, and some one tells us--or have we
dreamed it?--that, farther on, we shall come to the Big White House,
and we wonder if we are really ourselves, or some one very unreal out of
a book.
Surely we shall soon awake and rub our eyes and find that we have just
been asleep in the library corner, and that we never reached the Leper
House, and never heard the whispering of Hindoo feet; that it was all a
daydream, a sweet heavenly dream, made long by some good fairy; but, no,
we look at one another, and it must be true, for we hear the waves
lapping the beach near by, and the brown, naked coolie babies look
wonderingly at us, and we jog along under the fitful showers and sun,
and Blue Ribbons raises the white umbrella, and Sister looks ruefully at
the sad, discouraged, rain-bespattered ribbons, so it must be real.
Yes, real; and yet to see the Big White House, now visible through the
mangoes, and know that within its walls live victims of the most awful
disease of all time,--a disease whose origin is lost in the dim vistas
of antiquity,--to come thus unexpectedly, in the twentieth century, upon
a manifestation of the "sins of the fathers" of thousands of years, we
cannot make it seem real to us. Had we been off in the South Seas,
sailing toward Molokai, or had we been looking over the hills of
Galilee, it might have seemed more probable. But to find a leper
settlement here, not three miles from a thickly peopled modern city,--a
settlement which must be a constant and deadly menace to society,--was
beyond my powers of credence.
I remember so well, in reading Stevenson's account of his visit to the
leper settlement in the Sandwich Islands, that I wondered how he dared
go among them, for even so great an object as the vindication of Father
Damien, and lo, here we were, without any warning, almost in the midst
of the same plague. Although fully aware that leprosy did exist, just as
we know that the moon must have form and solidity, it still seemed an
uncertain, far-removed possibility,--in a way half-legendary, half fact,
a tradition of the far East, a memory of the days of the Holy One of
Nazareth; not a tangible awful reality, to be met and battled with all
the force of modern knowledge. I could not convince myself that within a
stone's throw were lepers whom we might see, to whom we might speak,
and I wondered if it would be safe to enter the enclosure. All this time
we drew nearer to the gateway, while the white house in the centre of a
large, shady park, fenced in by high iron pickets, seemed to us like the
great Cross on Calvary, raised for the sins of the world.
In various parts of the yard, inside that fence, groups of men are
sitting on the grass under the shade of great trees. It is white noon.
It cannot be possible that these men, lolling about and visiting
together, are _lepers_, for, from a distance, they bear no signs of
disease about them. They look like the rest of the people we have been
amongst all day. They are mostly Hindoos (some with a touch of negro
blood), very dark of skin, and apparently in good health, that is,
viewed at a distance. I must confess that a terrible feeling comes over
me as the man of the family--for here we are at the gate, with the
horse's head facing the sad white house--suggests that we enter the
enclosure. I remember how it was said that the lepers in olden time must
cry out: "Unclean!" "Unclean!" and that he whose garments but swept the
shadow of one thus afflicted must undergo a long purification before he
could be allowed intercourse with the world once more.
As these old stories recur to my memory, and beseech me for my life not
to take so great a risk,--but how long it takes to tell it all!--a big,
jolly-faced black gatekeeper quiets my apprehensions by saying that we
would not be exposed to the least danger whatever; that some of the
labourers and attendants have been employed to work among the lepers for
years with no bad results. With this comfortable assurance of a doubtful
safety from the gateman, the driver whips up, and we move on into the
yard, and up the avenue to the hospital, made gruesome by horrid
buzzards perching on its roof and eaves in grim expectancy.
But it is the coming closer into the deep shade which reveals to us its
true significance. From without, this white house is long and low and
restful to the eye, and the trees bending over it, with clinging arms,
seem to breathe only life and beauty, and the white-coated men here and
there under the shade are the labourers resting during the still noon
hour.
But a nearer approach and a closer acquaintance changes the whole scene.
Was it upon such wrecks of life that the gentle _Saviour_ gazed in
pitying love? These are not men; they are pieces,--parts of men, hung
together by the long-suffering cord of life.
The first leper we see near at hand seems to take an interest in us. The
others we have passed lie around in a dull, listless way. I presume they
see us, but they evidence no concern other than keeping in the shade.
But this leper--I hardly know how to designate him--has more life in him
than the others; he is walking about and nods to us as we pass. He has
strange, unnatural ears; they are twice the normal size and have nodules
on the outer edge. His face is swollen into mushroom-like patches, and
deeply seamed by ridges, and yet the skin has apparently the same
appearance it had in a state of health, except a little grayer and more
lifeless looking. Another patient hobbles toward us, and we find that he
is walking on stumps of feet, without toe. We throw some pennies to
another group, and the one nearest the coin picks it up by making a
scoop of his flipper-like palm. His fingers are gone, only little points
are left, as if they had been whittled off with a jack-knife. An old man
looks at us with one eye, the other eye, eaten away by the relentless
advance of the disease, has commenced to run out. These are only the
moderately sick patients.
[Illustration: WHERE THE LEPERS LIVE AND DIE
Trinidad]
As we drive nearer to the hospital, a dozen or so horrible-looking
creatures crowd to the end of an upper gallery and stand there, leaning
out over the railing, a ghastly picture of misery. I scarcely dare look
at them, their faces have been so mutilated by the disease; and others
worse there are inside, whom the heroic Sisters--Romish and
Protestant--care for and comfort until the living hideous death is at an
end and life begins.
We move slowly along up the drive, and come quite near to the great
archway which leads into the courtyard. There we call to the cabby to
stop, and the tall man, who is never afraid of anything, gets out, and
his leaving the carriage becomes, unwittingly to us, a signal for the
poor lepers to approach. One hurries away from his companion--an
emaciated, becrutched Hindoo--and comes to within a few feet of us, and
just as he does so, our protector turns to me and says: "Did you ever
think I would find myself talking to a leper just three feet from me?"
and, interesting as the experience is, I recoil within myself for fear
that the money which we want to give them may necessitate a closer
proximity than we desire. But the unfortunate victim understands the
situation and keeps his distance, while the tall man coming back to us,
stands there with one foot on the carriage-step, still turning toward
the leper.
By a certain sort of mental telepathy, I know that he cannot say
good-bye without leaving some word of cheer for the poor fellow, and
just what to say, how to say it, how to express a wish which we know can
never be fulfilled, makes a moment's very embarrassing silence. If you
had ever been in the presence of such a living, unpitying death, such a
picture of horrible hopelessness, and felt it your duty to make the
burden easier by some word of cheer, when you had all things--life,
health, and happiness--about you, and he only the refuse of a rotten
body, if you must presume to tell such a martyr to be brave and all that
sort of thing, when you know that his absolutely uncomplaining silence
is greater bravery than you, in all your health and vigour, know how to
comprehend--well, I tell you it's no use! However optimistic by nature,
it's hard to find the words. Why, even a parson would be dumb!
And so he lingers there uneasily. He looks at the two dear little
sweet-faced maidens at my side, so white and clean and fresh and young,
and then at the gray, misshapen, mutilated silent figure before him,
living his lonely death of agony each day, and says, with a choke,
"Good-bye,"--that is all. Tell me, what would you have said?
END OF VOLUME I.
INDEX
Botanical Garden, The, St. Pierre, 228, 235-236, 254, 257, 264-270.
Boulevard, The, St. Pierre, 233.
Cape Hatteras, 27, 29.
Capot, Martinique, 270.
Casa Blanca, San Juan, 144.
Castle, The, Charlotte Amalie, 179-185.
Cathedral, The, Santo Domingo, 90-105.
Ceiba-Tree, The, 288.
Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, 164-196.
Castle, The, 179-185.
Columbus, Christopher, 97-105, 288.
Columbus, Diego, 98.
Coolies of Trinidad, 279-281, 292-297.
Coolie Village, The, Port of Spain, 292-297.
Fer de Lance, The, Martinique, 248, 252-253, 269-270.
Grand Hotel, The, St. Pierre, 237-238.
Grande Anse, La, Martinique, 270.
Gros Morne, Martinique, 270.
Gulf Stream, 29.
Hotel Casino Bellevue, Port au Prince, 66-79.
Leper House, The, Port of Spain, 298-307.
Marigot, Martinique, 270.
Martinique, Island of, 197-271.
Capot, 270.
Fer de Lance, 248, 252-253, 269-270.
Grande Anse, La, 270.
Gros Morne, 270.
Marigot, 270.
Morne Rouge, 236, 270.
Mount Pelée, 236, 270, 274.
Natives, The, 205, 210-215, 254-263.
Rivière Roxelane, 266, 273.
Morne Rouge, Martinique, 236, 270.
Morro Castle, San Juan, 128, 153.
Mount Pelée, Martinique, 236, 270, 274.
Natives, The, of Martinique, 205, 210-215, 254-263;
of St. Thomas, 193-196, 210;
of Trinidad, 275-276, 285-286.
Ozama River, 85, 86, 112, 118-122, 163, 288.
Plaza, The, San Juan, 140, 148-150.
Ponce de Leon, 154-156;
Square of, San Juan, 153-160.
Port au Prince, Haïti, 35, 42-80, 84, 89.
Hotel Casino Bellevue, 66-79.
Port of Spain, Trinidad, 275-307.
Coolie Village, The, 292-297.
Leper House, The, 298-307.
Savannah, The, 287-291.
Quay, The, San Juan, 134-136.
Rivière Roxelane, Martinique, 266, 273.
St. Croix, Island of, 189.
St. John, Island of, 189, 190.
St. Pierre, 205, 216, 219, 220-245, 246, 273.
Botanical Garden, The, 228, 235-236, 254, 257, 264-270.
Boulevard, The, 233.
Grand Hotel, The, 237-238.
St. Thomas, Island of, 164, 186, 189, 190.
Natives of, 193-196, 210.
San Salvador, 33.
San Juan, Puerto Rico, 124-161, 163.
Casa Blanca, 144.
Morro Castle, 128, 153.
Plaza, The, 140, 148-150.
Quay, The, 134-136.
Square of Ponce de Leon, 153-160.
Santo Domingo, 84-123, 173.
Cathedral, The, 90-105.
Savannah, The, Port of Spain, 287-291.
Southern Cross, The, 219.
Square of Ponce de Leon, San Juan, 153-160.
Trinidad, Island of, 275-307.
Coolies, The, 279-281, 292-297.
Natives, The, 275-276, 285-286.
Windward Passage, 29, 35.
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
her persisent whisper=> her persistent whisper {pg 235}
Hayti=> Haïti {pg 310}