At Last: A Christmas in the West Indies

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Charles Kingsley. At Last: A Christmas in the West Indies

AT LAST: A CHRISTMAS IN THE WEST INDIES

TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE HON. SIR ARTHUR GORDON, GOVERNOR OF MAURITIUS

CHAPTER I: OUTWARD BOUND

CHAPTER II: DOWN THE ISLANDS

CHAPTER III: TRINIDAD

CHAPTER IV: PORT OF SPAIN

CHAPTER V: A LETTER FROM A WEST INDIAN COTTAGE ORNÉE

CHAPTER VI: MONOS

CHAPTER VII: THE HIGH WOODS

CHAPTER VIII: LA BREA

CHAPTER IX: SAN JOSEF

CHAPTER X: NAPARIMA AND MONTSERRAT

CHAPTER XI: THE NORTHERN MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER XII: THE SAVANNA OF ARIPO

CHAPTER XIII: THE COCAL

CHAPTER XIV: THE ‘EDUCATION QUESTION’ IN TRINIDAD

CHAPTER XV: THE RACES—A LETTER

CHAPTER XVI: A PROVISION GROUND

CHAPTER XVII (AND LAST): HOMEWARD BOUND

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My Dear Sir Arthur Gordon,

To whom should I dedicate this book, but to you, to whom I owe my visit to the West Indies?  I regret that I could not consult you about certain matters in Chapters XIV and XV; but you are away again over sea; and I can only send the book after you, such as it is, with the expression of my hearty belief that you will be to the people of Mauritius what you have been to the people of Trinidad.

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Up and down the white sand we wandered, collecting shells, as did the sailors, gladly enough, and then rowed back, over a bottom of white sand, bedded here and there with the short manati-grass (Thalassia Testudinum), one of the few flowering plants which, like our Zostera, or grass-wrack, grows at the bottom of the sea.  But, wherever the bottom was stony, we could see huge prickly sea-urchins, huger brainstone corals, round and gray, and branching corals likewise, such as, when cleaned, may be seen in any curiosity shop.  These, and a flock of brown and gray pelicans sailing over our head, were fresh tokens to us of where we were.

As we were displaying our nosegay on deck, on our return, to some who had stayed stifling on board, and who were inclined (as West Indians are) at once to envy and to pooh-pooh the superfluous energy of newcome Europeans, R– drew out a large and lovely flower, pale yellow, with a tiny green apple or two, and leaves like those of an Oleander.  The brown lady, who was again at her post on deck, walked up to her in silence, uninvited, and with a commanding air waved the thing away.  ‘Dat manchineel.  Dat poison.  Throw dat overboard.’  R–, who knew it was not manchineel, whispered to a bystander, ‘Ce n’est pas vrai.’  But the brown lady was a linguist.  ‘Ah! mais c’est vrai,’ cried she, with flashing teeth; and retired, muttering her contempt of English ignorance and impertinence.

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