A CEMETERY. 309 



Occasionally, in the park, may be seen a Miss who 

 has discarded pantalettes, and, when seen, her rosy 

 cheeks and white transparent skin contrast so favor- 

 ably with the universal yellow and brown hues of 

 the East Indian dames, that one could almost and 

 without any great expansion of the imagination, 

 think her an angel from the ethereal regions sent to 

 illuminate the dusky scene. 



A few miles from the landing is a cemetery, which 

 I visited. The road to it embraces a beautiful walk 

 or drive through a long shaded avenue formed by 

 rows of cypress trees; the cemetery is laid out in 

 the form of a square, and is well filled with monu- 

 ments, the styles and workmanship of which would 

 do no discredit to Laurel Hill or Greenwood. Most 

 of them bore inscriptions in French, several were 

 devoted to the last remains of English naval com- 

 manders who had died whilst on this station. Over 

 the remains of one of these, a comparatively young 

 man, was erected the base of a column, a few feet 

 above which the column was fractured, signifying 

 that the deceased was cut down by the fell destroyer 

 in the spring tide of life, and ere he had arrived 

 at the goal to which his talents would have con- 

 ducted him. 



One beautiful tribute to the memory of the departed 

 prevails — on each tomb is a vase containing flowers, 

 which, from their fragrance and freshness, were ap- 

 parently renewed by no niggard hand. This beautiful 

 custom reminded me of the oft-repeated wish of the 

 old man in the best of Dickens' Christmas Stories, 

 "Lord, keep my memory green." On my way back 

 from the cemetery, I came in contact with a crowd 



