I fear that a stranger would feel a shock—­and that not a slight one—­at the first sight of the average negro women of Port of Spain, especially the younger.  Their masculine figures, their ungainly gestures, their loud and sudden laughter, even when walking alone, and their general coarseness, shocks, and must shock.  It must be remembered that this is a seaport town; and one in which the licence usual in such places on both sides of the Atlantic is aggravated by the superabundant animal vigour and the perfect independence of the younger women.  It is a painful subject.  I shall touch it in these pages as seldom and as lightly as I can.  There is, I verily believe, a large class of Negresses in Port of Spain and in the country, both Catholic and Protestant, who try their best to be respectable, after their standard:  but unfortunately, here, as elsewhere over the world, the scum rises naturally to the top, and intrudes itself on the eye.  The men are civil fellows enough, if you will, as in duty bound, be civil to them.  If you are not, ugly capacities will flash out fast enough, and too fast.  If any one says of the Negro, as of the Russian, ’He is but a savage polished over:  you have only to scratch him, and the barbarian shows underneath:’  the only answer to be made is—­Then do not scratch him.  It will be better for you, and for him.

When you have ceased looking—­even staring—­at the black women and their ways, you become aware of the strange variety of races which people the city.  Here passes an old Coolie Hindoo, with nothing on but his lungee round his loins, and a scarf over his head; a white-bearded, delicate-featured old gentleman, with probably some caste-mark of red paint on his forehead; his thin limbs, and small hands and feet, contrasting strangely with the brawny Negroes round.  There comes a bright-eyed young lady, probably his daughter-in-law, hung all over with bangles, in a white muslin petticoat, crimson cotton-velvet jacket, and green gauze veil, with her naked brown baby astride on her hip:  a clever, smiling, delicate little woman, who is quite aware of the brightness of her own eyes.  And who are these three boys in dark blue coatees and trousers, one of whom carries, hanging at one end of a long bamboo, a couple of sweet potatoes; at the other, possibly, a pebble to balance them?  As they approach, their doleful visage betrays them.  Chinese they are, without a doubt:  but whether old or young, men or women, you cannot tell, till the initiated point out that the women have chignons and no hats, the men hats with their pigtails coiled up under them.  Beyond this distinction, I know none visible.  Certainly none in those sad visages—­’Offas, non facies,’ as old Ammianus Marcellinus has it.

But why do Chinese never smile?  Why do they look as if some one had sat upon their noses as soon as they were born, and they had been weeping bitterly over the calamity ever since?  They, too, must have their moments of relaxation:  but when?  Once, and once only, in Port of Spain, we saw a Chinese woman, nursing her baby, burst into an audible laugh:  and we looked at each other, as much astonished as if our horses had begun to talk.