May not this strange formation of natural brick and china-ware be of immense age—­humanly, not geologically, speaking?  May it not be far older than the Pitch Lake above—­older, possibly, than the formation of any asphalt at all?  And may not the asphalt mingled with it have been squeezed into it and round it, as it is being squeezed into and through the unburnt strata at so many points in Guapo, La Brea, Oropuche, and San Fernando?  At least, so it seemed to us, as we sat on the shore, waiting for the boat to take us round to La Brea, and drank in dreamily with our eyes the beauty of that strange lonely place.  The only living things, save ourselves, which were visible were a few pelicans sleeping on a skerry, and a shoal of dolphins rolling silently in threes—­husband, wife, and little child—­as they fished their way along the tide mark between the yellow water and the green.  The sky blazed overhead, the sea below; the red rocks and green forests blazed around; and we sat enjoying the genial silence, not of darkness, but of light, not of death, but of life, as the noble heat permeated every nerve, and made us feel young, and strong, and blithe once more.

CHAPTER IX:  SAN JOSEF

The road to the ancient capital of the island is pleasant enough, and characteristic of the West Indies.  Not, indeed, as to its breadth, make, and material, for they, contrary to the wont of West India roads, are as good as they would be in England, but on account of the quaint travellers along it, and the quaint sights which are to be seen over every hedge.  You pass all the races of the island going to and from town or field-work, or washing clothes in some clear brook, beside which a solemn Chinaman sits catching for his dinner strange fishes, known to my learned friend, Dr. Gunther, and perhaps to one or two other men in Europe; but certainly not to me.  Always somebody or something new and strange is to be seen, for eight most pleasant miles.

The road runs at first along a low cliff foot, with an ugly Mangrove swamp, looking just like an alder-bed at home, between you and the sea; a swamp which it would be worth while to drain by a steam-pump, and then plant with coconuts or bamboos; for its miasma makes the southern corner of Port of Spain utterly pestilential.  You cross a railroad, the only one in the island, which goes to a limestone quarry, and so out along a wide straight road, with negro cottages right and left, embowered in fruit and flowers.  They grow fewer and finer as you ride on; and soon you are in open country, principally of large paddocks.  These paddocks, like all West Indian ones, are apt to be ragged with weeds and scrub.  But the coarse broad-leaved grasses seem to keep the mules in good condition enough, at least in the rainy season.  Most of these paddocks have, I believe, been under cane cultivation at some time or other; and have been