My nephew and I, being able to do no good there, were anxious to
escape from ruined Kingston, and made arrangements to stay as paying
guests with one or two planters, in order to see something of their
daily life. After a second drive through the exquisitely beautiful Bog
Walk and over Monte Diavolo, we found ourselves on the sugar estate of
a widow, a lady of pure white blood. There were abundant indications
of the former prosperity of the place, and even more apparent signs
that at present the wolf was very close to the door. The verandah was
paved with marble, there was some fine mahogany carving in the central
hall, the dessert-service was of George II. silver-gilt, and the china
beautiful old Spode. Everything else about the place told its own
story of desperate financial conditions. Our hostess declared that it
was impossible for a woman to manage a sugar estate, as she could not
always be about amongst the canes and in the boiler-house, and her
sons were not yet old enough to help her. No one who has not
experienced it can picture the heat of a Jamaican sugar-factory; I
should imagine the temperature to be about 120 degrees. Most people, I
think, take a rather childish pleasure in watching the first stages of
the manufacture of familiar products.
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