Whole streets in Port Louis were laid flat—­wrecked.  During a minute and a half the wind blew 123 miles an hour; no official record made after that, when it may have reached 150.  It cut down an obelisk.  It carried an American ship into the woods after breaking the chains of two anchors.  They now use four-two forward, two astern.  Common report says it killed 1,200 in Port Louis alone, in half an hour.  Then came the lull of the central calm—­people did not know the barometer was still going down —­then suddenly all perdition broke loose again while people were rushing around seeking friends and rescuing the wounded.  The noise was comparable to nothing; there is nothing resembling it but thunder and cannon, and these are feeble in comparison.

What there is of Mauritius is beautiful.  You have undulating wide expanses of sugar-cane—­a fine, fresh green and very pleasant to the eye; and everywhere else you have a ragged luxuriance of tropic vegetation of vivid greens of varying shades, a wild tangle of underbrush, with graceful tall palms lifting their crippled plumes high above it; and you have stretches of shady dense forest with limpid streams frolicking through them, continually glimpsed and lost and glimpsed again in the pleasantest hide-and-seek fashion; and you have some tiny mountains, some quaint and picturesque groups of toy peaks, and a dainty little vest-pocket Matterhorn; and here and there and now and then a strip of sea with a white ruffle of surf breaks into the view.

That is Mauritius; and pretty enough.  The details are few, the massed result is charming, but not imposing; not riotous, not exciting; it is a Sunday landscape.  Perspective, and the enchantments wrought by distance, are wanting.  There are no distances; there is no perspective, so to speak.  Fifteen miles as the crow flies is the usual limit of vision.  Mauritius is a garden and a park combined.  It affects one’s emotions as parks and gardens affect them.  The surfaces of one’s spiritual deeps are pleasantly played upon, the deeps themselves are not reached, not stirred.  Spaciousness, remote altitudes, the sense of mystery which haunts apparently inaccessible mountain domes and summits reposing in the sky—­these are the things which exalt the spirit and move it to see visions and dream dreams.

The Sandwich Islands remain my ideal of the perfect thing in the matter of tropical islands.  I would add another story to Mauna Loa’s 16,000 feet if I could, and make it particularly bold and steep and craggy and forbidding and snowy; and I would make the volcano spout its lava-floods out of its summit instead of its sides; but aside from these non-essentials I have no corrections to suggest.  I hope these will be attended to; I do not wish to have to speak of it again.

CHAPTER LXIV.

When your watch gets out of order you have choice of two things to do:  throw it in the fire or take it to the watch-tinker.  The former is the quickest. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.