seven
o’clock
With a deep sigh , the planter raised his head from the table where he was writing , and looked out upon the lands he had made his own . They lay on the Thomas River , a few hours ' horseback travelling from Spanish Town , the capital , and they had the advantage of a plateau formation , with mountains in the far distance and ravines everywhere . It was Christmas Day , and he had done his duty to his slaves and the folk on his plantation . He had given presents , had attended a seven o'clock breakfast of his people , had seen festivities of his negroes , and the feast given by his manager in Creole style to all who came -- planting attorneys , buccras , overseers , bookkeepers , the subordinates of the local provost-marshal , small planters , and a few junior officers of the army and navy . He had turned away with cynicism from the overladen table , with its shoulder of stewed wild boar in the centre ; with its chocolate , coffee , tea , spruce-beer , cassava-cakes , pigeon-pies , tongues , round of beef , barbecued hog , fried conchs , black crab pepper-pod , mountain mullet , and acid fruits . It was so unlike what his past had known , so `` damnable luxurious ! '' Now his eyes wandered over the space where were the grandilla , with its blossom like a passion-flower , the black Tahiti plum , with its bright pink tassel-blossom , and the fine mango trees , loaded half with fruit and half with bud .