The harbour of Port Stanley is usually safe enough, but, in the extraordinary gales which often rage outside, does not always afford safe anchorage. The steamship on which the writer was a passenger lay far out in the bay, but the force of a sudden gale made her drag her anchors, and but for the steam, which was immediately got up, she would have gone ashore. A sailing-vessel must have been wrecked in the same position. Of course, the power of the engines was set against the wind, and she was saved. Passengers ashore could not get off for two days, and those on board could not go ashore. No boat could have lived, even in the bay, during a large part of the time. The West Indian Station demands our attention next. Unfortunately, it must not take the space it deserves, for it would occupy that required for ten books of the size of this—ay, twenty—to do it the barest justice. Why? Read Charles Kingsley’s admirable work, “At Last”—one, alas! of the last tasks of a well-spent life—and one will see England’s interest in those islands, and must think also of those earlier days, when Columbus, Drake, and Raleigh sailed among the waters which divide them—days of geographical discovery worth speaking of, of grand triumphs over foes worth fighting, and of gain amounting to something. [Illustration: THE LANDING OF COLUMBUS AT TRINIDAD.] On the 31st July, 1499, Columbus, on his third voyage, sighted the three hills which make the south-eastern end of Trinidad. He had determined to name the first land he should sight after the Holy Trinity, and so he did. The triple peaks probably reminded him. Washington Irving tells us, in his “Life of Columbus,” that he was astonished at the verdure and fertility of the country, having expected that it would be parched, dry, and sterile as he approached the equator; whereas, he beheld beautiful groves of palm-trees, and luxuriant forests sweeping down to the sea-side, with gurgling brooks and clear, deep streams beneath the shade. The softness and purity of the climate, and the beauty of the country, seemed, after his long sea voyage, to rival the beautiful province of Valencia itself. Columbus found the people a race of Indians fairer than any he had seen before, “of good stature, and of very graceful bearing.” They carried square bucklers, and had bows and arrows, with which they made feeble attempts to drive off the Spaniards who landed at Punta Arenal, near Icacque, and who, finding no streams, sank holes in the sand, and so filled their casks with fresh water—as is done by sailors now-a-days in many parts of the world. “And there,” says Kingsley, “that source of endless misery to these harmless creatures, a certain Cacique—so goes the tale—took off Columbus’s cap of crimson velvet, and replaced it with a circle of gold which he wore.”