men who carry bags with their names on them, which our pseudo-civilisation has yet done itself the dishonour of producing.  Now, of that class I saw absolutely none.  I do not suppose that the brown fellows who hung about the horses, whether Barbadians or Trinidad men, were of very angelic morals:  but they looked like heroes compared with the bloated hangdog roughs and quasi-grooms of English races.  As for the sporting gentlemen, not having the honour to know them, I can only say that they looked like gentlemen, and that I wish, in all courtesy, that they had been more wisely employed.

But the Negro, or the coloured man of the lower class, was in his glory.  He was smart, clean, shiny, happy, according to his light.  He got up into trees, and clustered there, grinning from ear to ear.  He bawled about island horses and Barbadian horses—­for the Barbadians mustered strong, and a fight was expected, which, however, never came off; he sang songs, possibly some of them extempore, like that which amused one’s childhood concerning a once notable event in a certain island—­

’I went to da Place
To see da horse-race,
I see Mr. Barton
A-wipin’ ob his face.

’Run Allright,
Run for your life;
See Mr Barton
A comin wid a knife.

’Oh, Mr Barton,
I sarry for your loss;
If you no believe me,
I tie my head across.’

That is—­go into mourning.  But no one seemed inclined to tie their heads, across that day.  The Coolies seemed as merry as the Negroes, even about the face of the Chinese there flickered, at times, a feeble ray of interest.

The coloured women wandered about, in showy prints, great crinolines, and gorgeous turbans.  The Coolie women sat in groups on the glass—­ah!  Isle of the Blest, where people can sit on the grass in January—­like live flower beds of the most splendid and yet harmonious hues.  As for jewels, of gold as well as silver, there were many there, on arms, ankles, necks, and noses, which made white ladies fresh from England break the tenth commandment.

I wandered about, looking at the live flower beds, and giving passing glances into booths, which I longed to enter, and hear what sort of human speech might be going on therein but I was deterred, first by the thought that much of the speech might not be over edifying, and next by the smells, especially by that most hideous of all smells—­new rum.

At last I came to a crowd, and in the midst of it, one of those great French merry-go-rounds turned by machinery, with pictures of languishing ladies round the central column.  All the way from the Champs Elysees the huge piece of fool’s tackle had lumbered and creaked hither across the sea to Martinique, and was now making the round of the islands, and a very profitable round, to judge from the number of its customers.  The hobby-horses swarmed with Negresses and Hindoos of the lower order.  The