This past week, a giant ceiba of great age toppled on the slopes of Picton in Laventille, causing damage to a home and injury to a person.

The recent rebranding of the former Neal and Massy Group’s assets to a brash new generic name—Massy—apparently did not sit well with many Trinbagonians who took to Facebook and Twitter en masse to

Trinidad has many fine examples of Islamic architecture which have reflected the status, dignity and size of the Muslim community in the island. Nevertheless, the first masjids were humble structur

William “Panchoo” Campbell was possibly the last person in T&T who had been a kidnap victim of the slave trade. Emancipation in 1834 affected Tobago differently from Trinidad since unlike the l

Recently I read a deeply saddening post on my Facebook blog, Virtual Museum of T&T: the longstanding Palladium Cinema, which since 1918 (the year World War I ended) has provided endless motion

Port-of-Spain has one of the finest natural harbours in the world.

In last week’s column we looked at the events surrounding the arrival of the Scottish Presbyterian missionary, the Rev Alexander Kennedy, in Trinidad in 1836 and ended at his acquisition of a parce

Over the past week, the Trinidad Guardian reported on the developing tragedy of the sale and dubious future of the historic Greyfriars Scots Presbyterian Church on Frederick Street. For 176 years t

This is the final chapter in the four-part series which I commenced a month ago when I learned that the historic Greyfriars Church on Frederick Street had been sold and is now threatened with demolition. Before this piece goes further, I would simply like to cap off the history of this venerable edifice, which traces its origins to the arrival in Trinidad of the Rev Alexander Kennedy in 1836 (he died in 1892). To his memory and in recognition of his zeal and energy, a memorial tablet was proposed and executed. 

In 1923 the church hall was enlarged considerably, which increased its functionality. On either side of the magnificent pipe organ (which has now been dismantled and is allegedly being offered for sale), twin stained-glass windows were installed in 1927. The tower was enlarged and the floor re-tiled. 

During the 1950s, an extensive renovation saw the outer walls plastered and the mesh covering for the windows installed. The pulpit also dates from this era, as do memorial tablets raised in honour of the congregation members who fell during the two world wars. All these works were undertaken through the funds raised by the congregation and without any assistance from the government, in keeping with the independent ideals of the church founders, who, more than a century previously, had politely refused funding from the colonial administration. 

Along the way, a sense of lethargy seems to have set in and the fervour shown by older generations disappeared. The congregation shrank in size and this was reflected in the growing dereliction of Greyfriars and the hall.

The chapel roof became compromised; massive gaps began to show in the wall plastering. Service shifted from the kirk to the hall and then ceased altogether. The sister church of St Ann’s on Charlotte Street (whose own unique history will be recounted in a future article) received what remained of the Greyfriars assembly. 

The little cemetery—which holds the remains of the daughter of Kennedy and two other infants—became neglected. The rear premises which once served as a carpark became a near-wilderness. The fate of the historic building seemed uncertain until the carpark was sold—and then came the awful news that the kirk and hall had followed suit.

The Rev Clifford Rawlins made this doleful situation known to me and his anguish over the matter exceeded mine, as he had been the minister at this church for several years. The sale was conducted under a cloak of ambiguity with some clarity only coming when the intrepid Joshua Surtees, a London-based journalist working with the T&T Guardian, did a series of articles on the matter and managed to speak with the new owner, businessman and developer Alfred Galy. 

Mr Galy would give no affirmative statement on what his intentions were for the site, but hinted that demolition was not out of the question. 

It is at this juncture, I change the tone of my usual writing style and make a direct appeal to Mr Galy to do what is ethically right and conserve the two buildings and the little cemetery that have become dear landmarks to the city and its people.

Shame and aspersion must follow those church elders who permitted the sale. Statements made in this regard postulate that the million dollar restoration of the St Ann’s church has strained the congregational purse, to the extent that a divestment of properties has become necessary—but why should Greyfriars be sacrificed to this financial constraint? 

The RC Archdiocese is fighting a valiant battle in order to save its precious Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception from collapse—a building with far more serious engineering problems than Greyfriars. Could the Presbyterians not have waited until funds accumulated sufficiently to start the restoration of their church? 

Even now, it is within Mr Galy’s power to save the kirk where its own elders lacked the fortitude to do so; the State, in typical style, cares not for the demise of our heritage. 

Corporate Trinidad has exhibited its mettle for preservation with three swift actions in recent months which resulted in Boissiere House, George Brown House and Globe Cinema being saved by private concerns, who were well within their rights to demolish these heritage buildings but forebore to do so, instead restoring and repurposing them at great cost. 

These are the final words I will write in my attempt to appeal to Mr Galy to become not the destroyer of the church, but its saviour, and let it be his legacy to the ages. 

Probably because it happened nearly 60 years ago and lasted for only a short time, many cannot now remember when T&T, for one brief interlude, lost is status as a semi-autonomous colony of Britain and became a province in a governance arrangement called the Federation of the West Indies or West Indies Federation. It was a model similar to what had been put into place in Australia and marginally akin to the government of the United States, with separate territorial administrations under a federal legislature. One might argue that the federation was a last ditch attempt by England to save what was left of its rapidly declining empire. 

In 1948, India had become independent, depriving the British of their crown jewel. In the immediate post-WWII era there arose in the Caribbean many popular leaders from among the people whose emergence signalled to the Crown that change was imminent. In T&T this man of the people was Dr Eric Williams. He proved his political mettle in the establishment of the PNM as the dominant force in the colony. Similar upheavals were taking place in Jamaica, British Guiana and Barbados, among other territories. The British Caribbean Federation Act (1956) became the legislative authority for the federation and on January 3, 1958, the federation came into being. The proposal for a federal capital was one of the earliest matters, with Chaguaramas being the popular choice, but since this area was largely a US Army facility established under the Bases Agreement (1941), the capital was more or less Port-of-Spain. 

The federal union from the start was fraught with problems. For one, the individual economics and social situations of the respective territories were not properly considered; for instance, certain minority factions like the Indo Trinidadians (British Guiana, like Belize, had only observer status) feared marginalisation in the largely homogenous Afro-Caribbean space. The federation’s government consisted of a bicameral parliament with 19 senators appointed by the governor general and an elected House of Representatives, with Jamaica and Trinidad having 17 and ten seats respectively, thus making them majority stakeholders. In 1958, Lord Hailes, the governor general, proclaimed federal elections—which would show up the serious flaws of the system. The two dominant political parties—which were systematically engineered by white Jamaicans (Norman Manley’s West Indian Federal Labour Party and Alexander Bustamante’s Democratic Labour Party)—completely dominated the elections and claimed 26 and 19 seats respectively, with the DLP winning six of the ten T&T seats. The appointment of Sir Grantley Adams of Barbados as the federal prime minister further soured the alliances so weakly forged under federal legislation. Manley and Dr Williams were seen as the two men best fit to lead the federation and with their decision to concentrate on their provincial politics, major confidence in the federation was lost. 

Under the new regimen, it was touted that several institutions and services would be common to all territories, including a Supreme Court, shipping service, the West India Regiment and the University College of the West Indies. One of the biggest omissions of the federation structure, however, was neglecting to provide a single customs service. The concept of free trade and zero barriers to entry were admittedly in a nascent stage even on a global spectrum, but with each territory maintaining its individual tariffs and excise duties, free trade within the federation was stymied. This placed a limitation on the amount of economic growth and development which could be achieved. Moreover, with only a stingy federal budget provided by subvention from the UK, Jamaica and T&T as the two largest and most viable economies were required to bear the brunt of the burden of supporting the federal institution. 

Even within the individual territories, there was an inward focus on local political climates rather than federal affairs. Following poor results for the PNM in the 1959 county council elections in Trinidad, Dr Williams too became disillusioned with the federation. His growing discontent, however, was independently exceeded by what was brewing in Jamaica. As the province with the largest number of seats, Jamaica held immense sway in federal affairs. In 1961, by forcing Manley into holding a referendum, Bustamante compelled Jamaica to withdraw from the federation and swiftly led Jamaica to independence in April 1962. This elicited the famous comment from Dr Williams: “One from ten leaves nought.” Dr Williams was re-elected to the post of prime minister and in a rapid drafting of an Independence Constitution leading to nationhood, the Federation of the West Indies finally collapsed, being dissolved in 1962.

In the late 19th century, severe civil unrest in Venezuela saw an influx of thousands of Venezuelans to Trinidad. Now, this was not new, since from at least the 1840s peons known as the “cocoa panyols” had supplied seasonal labour for the booming chocolate industry; and Venezuela provided at least 70 per cent of all food imported into the island in the period 1820-1930, with corn, cattle, pigs, plantains, leather, tasso (dried meat), cheese and yams being shipped in great quantities to San Fernando and Port-of-Spain. Indeed, live beef on the hoof was brought to the sandy beach on the Woodbrook foreshore (which in those days was just south of Ariapita Avenue) and then herded to market in a wild stampede. 

The class of immigrant in the period 1890-1915, however, was of a better breeding, being gentlefolk who came here with their fine grandee manners and cultured ways. Not a few of them were Generalissimos or senior military men ousted by turmoil. Some, like the Dragos, Forjonels, Pradas and De Limas, were able to establish prosperous businesses and put down permanent roots in the island. Others were merely waiting until peace returned to their homeland so that they could recoup their losses and establish themselves. These itinerants lived in two respectable boarding houses: the Hotel Miranda owned by David A Nanton and located on Henry Street, and Hotel Guiria owned by Joaquin Pildain, a Portuguese, located on the corner of Almond Walk (Broadway) and Marine (Independence) Square. These institutions provided cramped and often uncomfortable quarters where entire families were sometimes squashed into one or two rooms. Women and children in particular resided in these circumstances while the men in general wandered about the city seeking out fellows in similar circumstances and congregating to drown their sorrows. 

Hotel Guiria burns
In 1895, one Sunday morning at 3:45 am, a fire broke out at the Hotel Guiria, allegedly from a lamp in a toilet. It soon engulfed the structure; its stone walls stood firm, but it was filled with combustible material such as wooden walls, roof beams, stairs, etc. Chaos ensued with victims being trapped, since the main accommodations were on the first floor with the ground floor.
Mr Heromino Fagasin jumped out of a window and died of a broken neck. Another, Mr Kramer, and several lady guests died as the roof collapsed under them while they were on it trying to leap to another building. Mrs De Osio and her children also leapt to the ground where the young ones survived. She herself was naked from being burnt, and rolled over the stony ground. Several policemen were present and she pleaded with them to carry her to a more comfortable resting place, but the kindly officers of the law ignored her. She was aided by the Rev Fr Emmanuel OP, who had run across from the Cathedral presbytery on Charlotte Street. 

He administered last rites to Mrs De Osio and she died on the ground. Perhaps the most tragic was the case of the widowed Mrs Escheveria and her children. Being late alerted to the fire, she saw her maid with the two youngest babes perish in the flames. The brave woman then threw her other three children, who were already burnt, into the square. Her twin daughters Rose and Aurora, aged 12, and their sister Claudia, were terribly injured. By this time, ambulance carts as well as other wheeled conveyances had arrived to take the wounded to the Colonial Hospital, almost two miles away at the top of Charlotte Street near the Queen’s Park Savannah. One was parked several hundred feet away from the dying Escheveria children. Rose, still able to walk, but naked, bleeding and burnt, begged a policeman standing nearby to carry her to the cart, to which he replied—in the best caring form of the Trinidad policeman—that she would have to walk since he could not soil his tunic by touching her, far less than picking the injured girl up. 

One has but to pause to see that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Both the young girl and her siblings died. In all, the death toll was 50, some being killed outright in the building and others dying later in the hospital. It was a dark day indeed for Port-of-Spain. The hotel did not recover from the terrible incident and it was never rebuilt. The site today is the one occupied by KFC on Independence Square.

Last week, we began our look at the cholera epidemic of 1854 which bears frightening similarities to the threat of Ebola today. Early in the epidemic, the borough council mandated that the graves of victims be confined to the section of Lapeyrouse cemetery running along Colville Street, abutting the western wall. Less than a week later, gravediggers were swamped and emergency measures were mandated, compelling the opening of trenches as mass graves wherein the corpses were sprinkled with lime to smother the scent of death. Refuse carts were diverted to collecting the dead and trundling them to the cemetery. Symptoms of the dread disease included diarrhoea, fever and muscular pains. Sometimes a deathlike coma was the result and several unfortunates were buried alive. One hapless Indian was about to suffer such a grim fate when one of the soldiers near the trenches noticed movement in his limbs. He recovered and was given a job catching feral goats which roamed the town. His nickname ever after was Lapeau (short for Lapeyrouse). 

The Government tried several remedies such as burning barrels of pitch to ‘purify the air’ and distributing ineffective medicines, since no one had yet made the vital connection between the sanitation of the city and the plague. One vivid memory of the epidemic is written by Lewis Osborne Inniss who lived through this ordeal as a child: “My first recollections are in connection with the epidemic of Asiatic cholera which visited Trinidad in 1854 and swept away thousands of its inhabitants. I was six years of age and distinctly remember rows of carts driving past our house at Newtown, piled up with empty coffins being carried out to Maraval and Diego Martin and the queer rumbling sound they made. I still have a cut-glass decanter in my possession which has a story attached to it.  “It is this—In order to render first aid as soon as possible the Government Medical Department gave free to every householder who wish, a supply of two mixtures with directions for their use, and the decanter in question contained one mixture which along with the other was kept on the sideboard at our house. “I was the youngest of three brothers and imbued with the usual curiosity of small boys, we wondered what those mixtures tasted like.”

In San Fernando, the dead were interred in trenches in an old cemetery on the slope below what is today the National Center for Persons with Disabilities. The borough council of that town even had to issue an ordinance to prevent the dead from being buried in private lands which was at the time a common practice in the town. On the sugar estates, the Indians died without count and in several areas, there are still mounds which mark their mass graves.  Lapeyrouse cemetery still has many graves along its western wall which mark early victims’ burial places but also a couple of the mass graves which were dug in 1854. These were later adorned with memorials from families whose loved ones were interred with strangers. A bare and empty space which contains the remains of many dead was endowed with a plaque to three children of Dr L A A DeVerteuil (1807-1900) who was one of the heroes of the epidemic and one of the grand old men of the 19th Century. He worked himself senseless attending to the sick and dying but the scourge struck his home, and three of his young children perished within hours of each other. The French-inscribed epitaph reads: “Marie Antoinette Clemence Nee le 18 Juin 1850, Marie Antoine Gaston de Verteuil Nee 6 Julliet 1848, Francois Marie Gaston de Verteuil Nee 9 Janvier 1854, Mort de 18 Septembre 1854. CHOLERA.” 

Cholera continued to devastate the island through October 1854. San Fernando was particularly hard hit with people being interred in private lands rather than the cemetery and on the estates, the Indians fell rapidly. In several countryside areas, there are mounds which mark the mass graves of the Indian labourers of the estates. November saw a wane in the disease with the daily death toll in PoS averaging ten to 15 a day, down from a high of 40 per day in early October. There are still no figures to give us an exact idea, but it is estimated that in the capital alone, nearly 2,000 people died and there is no count either for those who succumbed in the rural districts. One wonders today, if proper quarantine measures had been implemented, if so many would have died.

One of the most solemn reminders of the role T&T played in the horrors of two World Wars is the cenotaph at Memorial Park. This year marks the 100th anniversary of the start of the Great War in Europe which grew to engulf the British Empire as well.

As a loyal colony, T&T saw many of its young men enlisting in various corps to fight for their monarch. They came from all backgrounds, ranging from poor black men merely looking for an opportunity to the sons of rich planters who felt that they would return covered in glory. A large number left their bones in lonely war graves in Europe. Given the terrible casualties that were reported (in all over 200 men from T&T lost their lives), a public meeting chaired by the Mayor of Port-of-Spain, Dr Enrique Prada, was held at the Princes Building on August 4, 1916, to discuss a permanent memorial to the deceased. This consultation was attended by Governor Sir John Chancellor and though the idea was approved, it was decided to wait until the war ended to implement it. Thus, it was not until 1918 that the project was revived, and at a public conference in 1919 the suggestion was made that the monument should be erected on Marine (Independence) Square in the area now occupied by the Cipriani statue.

Strenuous objections to this site led to another location being earmarked, this being the “Little Savannah,” which was then an open pasture opposite the Royal Victoria Institute (National Museum). Sir John Chancellor’s successor as governor, Sir Samuel Wilson, approved the transfer of the Little Savannah to the Port-of-Spain City Council to initiate the memorial. It was Sir John, however, who whilst visiting England in 1919 had contacted sculptor LF Roslyn who conceived a design of an arch (much like Paris’s Arc de Triomphe) and produced drawings which were displayed for public viewing at the Royal Victoria Institute. During the war, a stamp tax had been implemented to raise revenue and this was now debited for the immense sum of $32,000 for the cenotaph, with an additional $5,000 being raised by public contributions.  The foundation stone of the cenotaph was laid on May 1, 1924, by Sir Samuel Wilson, with a time capsule containing the history of the project as well as newspaper clippings and coins being inserted.   The monument was described in the Port-of-Spain Gazette as follows: “The memorial is of portland stone and bronze, with a set of four granite steps around the base constructed on a solid circular concrete foundation about 18 feet across. Standing squarely on the granite steps is the massive base of the column, let into which are the bronze panels engraved with the names of the fallen, some 168 in number. Rising immediately above this are three emblematic groups of statuary—one in front and one on either side. The front represents Courage—the figure of a soldier armed with a rifle, standing guard over and defending a dying comrade who lies on the ground at his feet.

The side groups are the prows of ships emblematic of the part taken in the war by the Royal Navy and the Mercantile Marine, and on each is seated a female figure–the one on the South in a pensive attitude reading the scroll of Fame, the other on the North, bearing a laurel wreath, emblematic of the tender care of the sick and fallen.” On June 28 of the same year, coinciding with the fifth anniversary of the Treaty of Versailles, the cenotaph was unveiled by the mayor and other dignitaries with marines from the warship HMS Ormonde providing the Guard of Honour. The inscription read: “1914-1918. In Honour of All who Served, In Memory of All who fell.” The names of 180 war dead were engraved thereupon with a re-dedication in 1945 for an addition to the memory of the fallen of World War II.

The names of these brave men of the second conflict are on a separate monument in the Military Cemetery in St James. Every year, a dwindling number of WWII veterans and numerous public officials gather at Memorial Park on the Sunday closest to Armistice Day, November 11, to commemorate the sacrifice of the fallen soldiers with a wreath-laying ceremony. T
hough there will soon be no more of those who gave their service in the war effort, the cenotaph will long stand to remind us of the people who dared risk and lose their lives so that others could live in freedom.

Among the dozens of T&T men who registered to fight in Europe during World War I (1914-18), there are many who never returned to their homeland. Their stories were quickly forgotten and their names emblazoned on the cenotaph at Memorial Park, Port-of-Spain, remain the sole reminder of their ultimate sacrifice. 

There were two distinct factions of recruits. The first comprised men of colour from largely humble origins, like Ruthven Ignatius Pegus, who was born and raised at Moruga and was killed in 1917. 
The other group was called the “Merchants and Planters Contingent,” since its rank came from the sons of the white elite of society who sought glory in battle and found only the bark of gunfire instead. 

It is from the second set that one of the most heart-rending tales of the war comes. 

It is the story of the sons of John Lamont Eccles and his wife, Jessie. John was the son of William Eccles (1816-59), who was attorney and manager for the vast assets of William Burnley (1782-1850) of Orange Grove. William was also responsible for the island’s first railway—the Cipero Tramroad—in 1847, and the foundation of an orphanage and school that is now the St Mary’s Children’s Home. William Eccles was instrumental in the building of the St Mary’s Anglican Church in Tacarigua, where he was buried, along with two of his sons and a daughter who died in her youth.

Upon his death, William’s sons, John Lamont Eccles and Burnley Hunter Eccles (both named for prominent planters), took over his stewardship, with the former running Orange Grove and the latter at Woodbrook, which was also part of the Burnley empire. John and his brother both passed away in 1892, within six months of each other, aged 43 and 39 respectively. John had three sons with his wife, Jessie, who died around 1912. 

After their deaths, their families were compelled to move from their estate homes, since the management of the Burnley properties passed on to other people and eventually, the properties were sold in 1899. 

All the boys enlisted for action, with the youngest being the first to fall. His name was Hilton Burnley Eccles and he was born in 1887 at Orange Grove. Only five years old when his father died, he grew up in Port-of-Spain, and though details are sketchy, he settled down in Canada with his wife Theresa and worked as an accountant. He signed up with the Canadian Infantry (Quebec) Unit on October 23, 1914, and was sent to Africa, where he served in the Natal Campaign. Reported missing from his machine gun detachment, he was found dead on November 2, 1916. His remains were interred at the Regina Trench war cemetery in Grandcourt, France.

Hilton’s elder brother Vernon John Lamont Eccles was born in 1883 and was also part of the Canadian Infantry, though of the Alberta Regiment. He was married as well. Like his brother, Vernon served in South Africa during the Natal Campaign and was killed on the same day as his younger sibling. Vernon had attained the rank of captain. He was buried at the Courcellette British Cemetery in France. His wife remarried shortly thereafter and lived the rest of her life in New York.

The Natal Campaign was part of the fierce fighting that raged in Africa, one of the lesser known theatres of conflict in World War I. 

The eldest son of John Lamont Eccles, 2nd Lieut John Vivian William Eccles, served at the headquarters of the King’s Own Royal Lancashire Regiment at Salonika in what is now modern-day Greece. On May 4, 1917, he was aboard a ship that was torpedoed in the Mediterranean Sea by a German submarine. His body was never recovered, although his name was inscribed on the Savona Memorial in Italy. 

Another twist in the Eccles tragedies of World War I is the death of Col Robert Eccles, who was the son of Burnley Hunter Eccles. His rank outstripped that of his fallen cousins and he served as part of the War Office administration in London after his tour of duty with the Oxfordshire Regiment ended. 

Col Eccles was standing next to a cache of ammunition on October 30, 1915, in the yard of the headquarters, when it exploded, killing him outright. He was accorded a grave at the prestigious Kensal Green Cemetery in London.

Perhaps the only silver lining of this sad episode of history is that the dead men’s parents did not live to see their sons die in wartime.

For a very long time, Port-of-Spain has been the shopping capital of the Eastern Caribbean. Its constant throng of imports and exports combined with a healthy private sector interest, contributed to the expansion of a city that by the end of the 19th century, was hailed as the New York of the Caribbean.

Then came 1895, when a fire levelled the entire business quarter of Frederick Street, compelling reconstruction. In stepped a young architect named George Brown who remodelled the area using signature elements of wrought iron, Scottish firebrick and plate glass which gave a renewed magnificence to the shops.

What succeeded the old cocoa and coffee mercantiles of the pre-fire era was a plethora of fine department stores modelled on the business type made popular by Macy’s in New York City, and Harrod’s in London, where everything of the best kind could be acquired under the lantern roofs of George Brown, that allowed a soft sunlight to filter into the shopping floors.

In 1918, a visitor to Port-of-Spain described the place thus: “The shopping district fairly teems with pedestrians and vehicles throughout the business hours, and Frederick Street, which is perhaps the busiest in the city, is a gay and interesting sight, kaleidoscopic in colour, crowded with life, and a very beehive of activity. 

“Here are stores, after stores of every kind, many modelled on the plan of our own department stores, and here one may find anything and everything the markets of the world afford. Clerks crowd the shop entrances. Goods heap the sidewalks as at a Paris bazaar. A few blocks farther the crowd has thinned, and the shops are smaller and less pretentious.”

One of the largest emporiums was the Miller’s Public Supply Stores which began life around 1835, when Irishman John Miller broke with his employers at Wilsons (a large cocoa and sugar agent) and went into business on his own. Although he died in 1843, his store survived and was administered from Gatechurch Street in London, by a relative, James Miller Esq.

The firm had a main building on Frederick Street, which was rebuilt after the fire, and another on Henry Street, which was primarily a hardware dealer, selling estate supplies and saddlery for the thousands of horses and mules in use in the city.

Miller’s, like other merchants of the period, had a room behind the premises on Frederick Street where cocoa planters could bring in their beans and receive a store credit instead of cash. 

During the period 1870-1920, there was a cocoa boom in the island and this was a good way of transacting commerce. In order to capitalise on the cocoa wealth, Miller’s had branches at Princes Town and Arima. Cocoa taken in trade could be forwarded by railway to Port-of-Spain.

The main building was quite spectacular and its showcases were packed with toys, ready-made clothes, boots, shoes, hardware, and such niceties. A separate section was dedicated to fine furniture crafted in Barbados as well as crockery and other housewares. In yet another department was a grocery that sold fine wines and spirits. 

Miller’s was a fixture right up until the 1930s when it closed for good. The building still survives as the Golden Doors Plaza on Frederick Street.

Another emporium just up the road was C Vincent and Co Housed in a smaller but equally elegant George Brown building. This store did business on a less grand scale than Miller’s but was quite outstanding all the same. It was established in the 1880s by a man who had formerly been a draper, tailor and haberdasher, since in the 19th century these were not as yet specialty professions. Popularly known as the Red Boot Store, Vincent and Co was primarily a gentleman’s outfitter although they did carry wardrobes for ladies as well.

This was a time when dapper meant a finely tailored suit with a black waistcoat, Wilson hat, and a solid watch chain looped across one’s front. 

Travelling meant moving around with enough clothes to outfit an army, so for overseas voyages, the company stocked heavy trunks bound in brass as well as fine leather portmanteaus. Perfumes, colognes and toilet water were also sold and a tailor on the premises could outfit to custom specifications those who could not find what they liked among the ready-made items. 

A unique establishment, Vincent and Co lasted a relatively short time, being gone by the 1920s and closing a ritzy chapter in local commercial history.

Christmas has become commercialised to the point where it has lost some of its special savour. The rampant consumerism that now begins as early as September in some stores, has robbed the season of its traditional values and in the process, has deprived us of that essence which once made Yuletide important to our ancestors.

Christmas was of course introduced with the coming of the Spaniards to the island in their first permanent settlement of San Jose de Oruna (St Joseph), in 1592. 

There is no documentary evidence yet known about how these early colonisers celebrated the season, but being of an almost unanimously Roman Catholic persuasion, it can be assumed that there would have been mass at the church.

First Peoples became evangelised through the machinations of the colonists themselves and later, through the influence of Capuchin monks who began arriving to establish missions in the island in 1687. Through a process of supplanting indigenous beliefs with Christianity and doubtless with the enticement of trinkets as gifts, there would have been some observance of Christmas at the missions.

The influx of French planters and their slaves after the Cedula of Population in 1783 brought a more stabilising influence to the society. Like the Spaniards, the French were almost all Roman Catholic and attended midnight mass at the wooden chapel which served the little muddy town that was Port-of-Spain.

With the growing affluence of the planters, especially after the conquest of the island by the British in 1797, Christmas balls became a great tradition with sumptuous meals being served on large tables. Both imported cured meats such as hams were served with an abundance of local fare like wild game, turtle and fish. The slaves who were fortunate enough to be on estates held by more humane masters also had a share in the festivities.

This of course was no elaborate matter but to poor beings trapped in the oppressive circumstances as the slaves were, a little was quite magnanimous in their eyes. Some who were permitted to keep provision grounds could raise crops or chickens for sale and thus have some cash for a few extra innocent luxuries. If the master of the plantation wished, he would distribute some extra food and pieces of cloth. One invaluable account was written on La Reconnaissance Estate (Lopinot Valley) by Webster Gillman who bought the cocoa plantation after the death of its founder, Comte de Lopinot in 1819. Gillman recorded:

“We are all here carousing at La Reconnaissance. My family are preparing my dinner, and I am keeping order amongst 80 negroes who are all dancing, old and young, big and little, around me as hard as they can put feet to the ground. I spent last Christmas here and finding the negroes were most happy and contented.

“I determined to make them so this year and I have succeeded. Early this morning, the 25th, we were awoke by salutes of small arms and as soon as the day broke, all the children were brought to the house to say their catechisms and to sing psalms, which to me was a very pleasing sight; this plan I adopted since I purchased the estate as I conceived that knowledge and existence of a superior being above would do no harm for them to know, and I have seen the happiest effects resulting from it. 

“At nine o’clock while at breakfast, the whole of the negroes came dressed in the gayest clothes to wish us a Merry Christmas, and a piece of beef and an allowance of flour and raisins with a proportion of rum for the men and wine for the women and children. Then began dancing and the whole house is made free to them for three hours and they are enjoying themselves in the hall etc. 

“I have been three hours engaged in fitting the whole of the men with two suits of clothes each viz. a hat, a woollen cap, woollen shirt, a linen shirt, blue cloth jacket lined with flannel, blue trousers, and a pair of duck trousers; the manager’s wife supplying the women and children with hats, handkerchiefs, two shirts, blue wrapper and blue petticoat, with a linen gown, the boys supplied according to their ages.”

Far from being a kindly indulgence, these clothes were the yearly allowance for the slaves and would have to last until next season, but in the Christmas spirit, this pittance was like the riches of the world.

When indentured labour began entering Trinidad from India in 1845, the overwhelming majority of these people were Hindus with a small number of Muslims. Christmas was an unknown concept to them of course and here in the Caribbean, they would have their first contact with this festive season.

The labourers were bound in five and ten-year contracts to sugar estates (cocoa plantations to a lesser extent), and from 1866-1880, were offered an incentive to remain in the island and form a peasantry which would provide a seasonal workforce for the plantations.

Whilst bound to the estates, a few owners and managers of a more benign disposition would have introduced Christmas to the lives of the workers.

Almost certainly, this was the case of the Orange Grove Estates conglomerate which was managed by the foresighted William Eccles (1816-59), who founded an industrial school and orphanage in Tacarigua, under the auspices of the Anglican Church.

This paternalistic approach would have also pertained at Lothians Estate near Princes Town where the kindly Irishman, H B Darling was the proprietor.

The coming of the Rev John Morton and his wife, Sarah, in 1868 to establish the Presbyterian Church’s Canadian Mission to the Indians (CMI) began a long process of trying to find the right method of evangelisation and at once hit upon education as the key.

Dozens of schools were founded across the island with concentration on the areas where there was a predominantly high population of ex-indentured labourers and their children.

Churches in Quebec, Nova Scotia and Ontario would forward to the CMI large boxes filled with small bibles, toys, religious books and sometimes clothing (made by the Auxiliaries of the Women’s Foreign Mission Society) which would be distributed in the schools.

The ladies of the Chalmers church in Quebec were particularly magnanimous for in addition to the regular fare, they sent along dressed dolls, pocketknives, school bags, marbles, pencil boxes, scissors, whistles, necklaces and watches. The whole was often valued at $60 which was quite a large sum in those days, and this generosity from Quebec was a steady expectation from the early 1890s right up to 1914. One can only imagine the excitement of the poor children of the canefields upon receiving such elaborate presents.

Mrs Morton described one such treat in 1877, at Mission Village, which would later become Princes Town:

“Examination of the Mission School Miss Blackadder’s began at 12 sharp. A number of white people present—Mr Darling, who sent a good supply of candies and two beautiful bouquets, Mr and Mrs Frost, who sent a nice parcel of small books and cards, and some others. Children present sang nicely and, indeed, went through their exercises very well and were particularly clean. The little pictures from the box you sent were greatly prized. I hope you will be able to get some more.

“All got some candy and a large banana; that was all the treat.”

The early experiments with treats proved to be so successful for the conversion process that it spread to other parts of the CMI field including Tunapuna.

At the Tacarigua school, where the very same Mrs Blackadder from Mission Village was later assigned, Mrs Morton described a treat in 1887:

“A Christmas treat early became an institution. We had seven schools to provide for. In each we examined the register and counted how many children had made over 400 attendances, how many 300, and so on. All these had cakes and candy and a little present according to the days they had made. The careless ones who had too few attendances were called up and told they could not have any present and only a small share of the sweetmeats. A very few who came in for cakes but had not come to read were sent home without anything as a warning to the rest.

“We find this a good plan for encouraging attendance; we have adopted the same plan in our Sabbath schools, but confining the rewards to the very best children.”

The Christmas treat tradition soon spread to other denominational schools and was often accompanied by a concert. This often coincided with the auspicious annual visit by the local school inspector who would assess the progress of the students.

Today, Christmas treats have become sordid affairs of sometimes dubious motives, but those who were educated in the primary schools of several decades ago still cherish memories of the joy felt at the bestowing of small gifts which meant so much.

One of the most poignant memories of a Tobago Christmas I have ever read was written by the tragic poet, Eric M Roach (1915-74) who penned a piece for a sort of anthology of Trinbago, introduced by David Frost. In this recollection of childhood in Mt Pleasant Village in the 1920s, he wrote about the hardships of life, privations felt only in reminiscing for at the time, they were the unanimous circumstances of the working class.

Of Christmas, Roach recalled the slaughtering of a hog by his father and some of the village men, the carcass being scraped clean and the meat quartered amongst them, being carried home wrapped in banana leaves with merry wishes to all. This was their recompense for a season of brute labour in the crop time, clearing land and planting food crops in the communal system of lend-hand. 

Tobago’s Christmases, as I have gleaned from various sources, were based on two very distinct lines—the plantocracy and the working classes who were almost entirely descended from the slaves of the island. This social stratification survived well into the 20th century, even after a powerful coloured landowning class came into being with the bankruptcy of the former white estate owners. One remarkable account of a planter’s party in the 1930s was given by Americans Heath and Jefferson Bowman who had rented Terry Hill Great House for a year or so. They had been invited to a ball by an old, established landowning clan: “At Merchiston Estate, in a spot where the bush has grown thick about an avenue of stately palmettos, lies an old grave upon whose slab has been carved the tragic tale of the young heir who rode to Scarborough Town to a dance, caught a chill and died the following night. 

“Bacolet Estate House, on the outskirts of Scarborough, resounded to the strains of music. The great main room was decorated with the green shoots of bamboo and the scarlet of hibiscus and poinsettia; balloons hung from the rafters. A few of the guests were already dancing. Officials of the island in evening clothes, and their wives in long, sweeping gowns, were talking with the planters. White-coated black boys and starched maids circulated among them with trays of rum punches and whiskies. Everyone was in a rare good humour because it was Christmas Eve. There was a fir tree in one corner of the room hung with shining ornaments and candles; children’s presents lay beneath the branches of this, the only analogy to the northern holiday these people had once known.

A young man from Merchiston Estate came in, he was greeted and a punch placed in his hand, but he and the young one beneath the slab were separated by almost two centuries.”
For those who laboured on what remained of Tobago’s estates following the island’s economic collapse in 1847, very little changed from the time of slavery when masters with a kindlier disposition would give out a largesse of food and clothing at Christmas time. The Bowmans tried to adopt this tradition as well, since they wrote: “Not bothering to dress, we slipped on robes and began tying up our servants’ gifts. Leotha (maid) was to receive two lengths of bright dress material in her favourite shades of red and blue, old Providence (yardman) a khaki shirt and trousers to replace his ancient rags. Martin (valet) was to receive the best present of all—a handsome wrist watch.” The servants of Terry Hill reciprocated the Bowmans’ generosity with simple gifts of their own such as fruit and flowers. 

Tobago also developed a peculiar sharecropping system to ensure the survival of its plantation economy in the 19th century which saw a resilient class of people called the metayer come into being. They provided labour to the estates where they or their parents had once been enslaved in exchange for a percentage of the rum, sugar or molasses produced and often with the privilege of renting provision grounds from the planter. These independent people often celebrated with demijohns of good rum, cooked ground provisions and with possibly a contribution of a pig by the estate proprietor. Scarborough was a sleepy town compared to those in Trinidad which sprang alive with bustling commerce. Along the waterfront and up Main Street around Market Square, there were shops where some of the comforts of the season could be bought, but with a currency shortage on the island, there was little in the way of imported goods within the reach of the agrarian masses.

When the Trinidad Guardian commenced publication in 1917, there were occasions when the advertisements reflected the very diverse nature of society. Notices for meetings of the several Chinese associations were printed in the appropriate calligraphy for instance, but perhaps the ones which most completely represented the potpourri of Trinidad were the New Year’s Day greetings which were trilingual and delivered the missive in Spanish, English and French. 

This was not unusual since in the first place, French Patois was the first language of the majority of the population. In 1887 James Henry Collens wrote: “Patois—a compound of bad French and English, with a flavour of Spanish—is spoken not only in Trinidad, but even in Grenada and St Lucia. Some years ago, Mr J Thomas, a native, with considerable ability, wrote and published his ‘Creole Grammar,’ in which he elevates the patois to the dignity of a language. Certainly, this lingua is an expressive one. It is sparkling with humour, masterly for sarcasm and ridicule, magnificent for abuse, but I am afraid it is wanting in elegance of diction. Some of the Creole proverbs are very witty and pregnant with meaning. Thus, quoting from Mr Thomas’ book: ‘Yon doegt pas sa pouend pices.’ (A single finger cannot catch fleas.) ‘Deier chien, ce “chien,” douvant chien, ce “missier chien.” (Behind dog’s back, it is ‘dog,’ but before dog, it is ‘Mister dog.’)

“The French, Spanish and Portuguese classes usually speak their own tongue in their home circles, but nearly all understand English and converse tolerably fluently in it. In this respect, the French particularly beat us hollow, and as I have a pretty strong conviction that a Frenchman’s English is infinitely better than an Englishman’s French, I wisely refrain from airing my little Gallic knowledge.”
The death of patois as a first language came a generation later as the older folks used it as a secret code to exclude their children from conversation. Spanish was the first European tongue used in the island when it was a colony of Spain from 1498-1797. This, however, did not account for the use of it in newspaper advertisements since by 1900, barely a memory of this period remained. Trinidad was home to thousands of Venezuelans, either Cocoa Panyols who had come to work on the cocoa plantations or else more genteel exiles fleeing persecution from the dictatorial governments. Port-of-Spain was fed by provisions from Venezuela and there was a regular steamship service to the Orinoco River. Commerce in the city included a number of merchants who traded with Caracas, and Bolivares circulated as legal tender. Large stores like the Bonanza and Salvatori’s did considerable business with Venezuelan clients on a regular basis in addition to acting as export agents for leather and other produce, thus it was considerate of them to wish their customers “Un Ano Nuevo Prospero.” 

English, oddly enough, was only a second language of sorts before 1920 despite 123 years of British rule up to that point. Even as late as 1869 when Irishman Patrick Keenan submitted his comprehensive report on the public and denominational schools of the island, he was able to write.  “In point of fact, the place is quite a Babel. The operation of the Ward schools has, no doubt, extended the use of English to districts where English had been previously unknown. But this diffusion of the English language has been accomplished by the most irrational process that could possibly be conceived. French and Spanish speaking children have been set to learn English alphabets, English spelling, and English reading, without the slightest reference whatever in the explanation of a word or the translation of a phrase, to the only language, French or Spanish, which they could speak or understand. The desire of every lover of the colony must be to see that all the inhabitants speak English.”

Indeed, it was useful for shop clerks and proprietors to have a good grasp of at least some of the diverse languages spoken in the colony if they were to have any trade at all. Yldefonso De Lima, the Sephardic Jewish immigrant from Venezuela who founded the famous jewelry store, Y De Lima and Co. in 1888 was something of a prodigy being fluent in Spanish, English and French, with a smattering of Dutch Papiamento and even some Bhojpuri for dealing with Indian clients. 

Today, the wonderfully musical sound of languages has been silenced except in the pidgin Spanish of parang and pockets of patois in the hills.

As some of you may have noticed by now, I have a fascination with cemeteries. That interest has manifested itself in my book, Walking with the Ancestors—The Historic Cemeteries of Trinidad, which was published in 2014 and documents the rich history of our burial grounds and some of the people who lie in them. The older graveyards are an invaluable repository of history and they provide a somewhat tangible connection to the founders of our cultural and ethnic legacy. 

Our post-independence experience and conditioning has taught us to despise all history as being “colonial” and the heritage of “oppressors” with pale skins. The inevitable state of affairs resulting from this prevailing mentality has been the swift destruction of our anthropological artefacts, ranging from the ornate architectural gems to documents, photos and books. 

Historic cemeteries have suffered the neglect of the decades. National policy dictates that a grave may be reused every eight or ten years, so that inevitable overcrowding has seen older monuments being destroyed to make way for new burials. 

There is, however, another more rapidly developing and worrying trend afoot which is the obliteration of historically important graves for their wrought iron elements. 

Vandalism in cemeteries is nothing new. In 1911 the Port-of-Spain Gazette reported that mausoleums and vaults at Lapeyrouse were being broken into and robbed. Jawbones were being smashed for their gold dentures and even skulls were stolen and being sold to obeah practitioners for five dollars apiece. The bronze medallion erected to the memory of Dr J G B Siegert (of Angostura Bitters fame) was also stolen for its metal.

Within recent times, however, with the insatiable demand for scrap metal, everything from old cars to water mains have become targets for scrappers. Cemeteries have not been spared. 

During the 19th century and up to the 1920s, heavy cast iron enclosures were popular for families that could afford sumptuous memorials for their dead. These fences were imported directly from France or England via mail-order or were available from early funeral haberdashers like J Haynes Clark livery stables. A wide variety of patterns was available ranging from elegant French curves to castings depicting classical themes. These have since become examples of the art of the metallurgist but the number is decreasing every day. 

At the 1868 Paradise Cemetery in San Fernando, the complete railing surrounding the grave of Canon Horatio Nelson Huggins, one of the most influential and respected clergymen in the district who died in 1895, has been stolen and allegedly now adorns a house. 

The problem is far worse and accelerated at Lapeyrouse Cemetery in Port-of-Spain, where within the space of a few months, several significant sites have been heavily defaced. Some of the iron has been merely cut away with hacksaw blades but in other cases, they have been brutally rooted out from the concrete and stone abutments in which they are moored.

These are ruined along with the marble and leaden epitaphs which record the existence of the people who lie in those graves. The desecrated resting places are numerous. 

The graves of some prominent people have been almost destroyed—William H Burnley of Orange Grove (d.1850), the richest man in the colony in his time, the magnificent, gothic Blanc Truijillo vault and the Blasini tomb. 

On my most recent walk through Lapeyrouse, I came across a forlorn tomb. I had seen it before but now only a fragment of its once decorative cast iron paling remains. In their haste to rob the dead, the scrappers have destroyed the grave completely, down to the marble slab which once bore inscriptions to members of the Dyett family, written in French. Now, only one survives because it is engraved on the single largest fragment of the tombstone that remains. Surmounted by relief images of doves, it reads “ICI REPOSE ELIZA DYETT, MORT LE 24 OCTOBRE 1874”

The obliteration of these gravestones and their continued vandalism, robs present and future generations of a vital heritage resource. 

We live in a country where few public records are properly preserved and these colonial era graves sometimes are all that remain as evidence that our ancestors existed. Most of the clans who should have taken natural responsibility for their upkeep are either extinct in the island or else have lost touch with their heritage and thus, their ancestors’ dust is relegated to the care of local government agencies which even less so appreciate the true value of our cemeteries.