Suffering as the inhabitants do, from the great heat of the days, the delightful evenings are particularly enjoyed. No sooner has the sun hidden his rays in the bosom of the ocean, than the land-breeze arises; this, blowing as it were from the centre of the island, towards the sea, appears to come from all points of the compass at once. Evening is the time for walking; and often have I seen beautiful faces, and bright eyes, gleaming in the moonbeams. Every author who has written about these “sunburnt isles,” has, I think, mentioned the beauties of a West Indian night, and well worthy is it to be praised. The sky is of a deeper and more lovely blue, almost approximating to violet; and the atmosphere is so much clearer than in England, that many stars are visible to the naked eye which there require the aid of a telescope. The larger planets glitter with a refulgence unknown to more temperate latitudes— “With purest ray, Sweet Venus shines,” and appears almost like another moon. Mars rolls on in eternal solitude, shewing his broad red face to our wondering gaze. Bright-eyed Jove, with his “atmospheric belt,” almost blinds us with his lustre; while the galaxy (or milky way) looks like— “A circling zone, powder’d with stars;” thus they glide on in their beauty— “Bright wanderers o’er the blue sky free;” but oh! when our own attendant planet, the “Silver Queen of night,” rises in peerless majesty, shedding a flood of glory over all the surrounding landscape, the scene is inexpressibly lovely. How often, when enjoying her beams, and gazing on her “spotted disk,” have I thought of those lines of Mrs. Charlotte Smith— “And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night, That in thy orb the wretched might find rest.”