With these low cliffs, in strongest contrast to the stately and precipitous southern point of St.Lucia, the southern point of Grenada slides into the sea, the last of the true Antilles.

For Tobago, Robinson Crusoe's island, which lies away unseen to windward, is seemingly a fragment of South America, like the island of Trinidad, to which the steamer now ran dead south for seventy miles.
It was on the shortest day of the year--St.Thomas's Day--at seven in the morning (half-past eleven of English time, just as the old women at Eversley would have been going round the parish for their 'goodying'), that we became aware of the blue mountains of North Trinidad ahead of us; to the west of them the island of the Dragon's Mouth; and westward again, a cloud among the clouds, the last spur of the Cordilleras of the Spanish Main.

There was South America at last; and as a witness that this, too, was no dream, the blue water of the Windward Islands changed suddenly into foul bottle-green.

The waters of the Orinoco, waters from the peaks of the Andes far away, were staining the sea around us.

With thoughts full of three great names, connected, as long as civilised man shall remain, with those waters--Columbus, Raleigh, Humboldt--we steamed on, to see hills, not standing out, like those of the isles which we had passed, in intense clearness of green and yellow, purple and blue, but all shrouded in haze, like those of the Hebrides or the West of Ireland.