In a particular part of St. John’s, running north and south, lies a well-made broad street, which, from being inhabited principally by Scotchmen, is known by the appropriated name of “Scotch Row.” Capital stores (when I _am_ at Rome, I like to do as Rome does, and give everything its approved title) flank each side of the street, and display their glittering wares to the admiration of passers-by; and from whence (with but few exceptions) emanate those dresses and ribbons of a thousand dyes, with which the _fair sex_ of _every colour_ delight to enrobe their lovely forms. Here, as in the merchants’ stores, may be found articles of the most opposite natures. In one part lies a delicate white satin bonnet, with its bunches of “orange flowers,” to grace the head of some blushing bride, or decorated with the snowy plumes torn by the swarthy African from some swift-footed ostrich; while by its side reposes a broken ewer, or an iron pot. You may, in truth, buy anything and everything in these “Scotch shops,” from three farthings’ worth of tape to the most costly articles. Dresses of all kinds; ribbons, laces, flowers, and bonnets; coats, vests, pantaloons, umbrellas, and shoes; blondes, scarfs, mantelets, perfumery, and _tenpenny nails_; paint, frying-pans, and carpets; jewellery of every description, dripping-pans, and Seidlitz powders; Epsom salts, ginger-beer, and white lead; horses’ halters, cherry-tree chairs, and preserved fruits; children’s dresses, lanterns, horse-whips, and coffee; sugar-loaves, saddles, bonnet-shapes, and white-handled knives; ladies’ corsets, Valenciennes edging, and Westphalia hams; pigs’ tongues, truckle cheese, and bird-seed; dish-covers, bottle-baskets, hooks-and-eyes, and brimstone; harness, cattle medicines, and lozenges; “Mechian” razor strops, and Metcalf’s toothbrushes; with brandy, champagne, Madeira, sherry, port, sauterne, Rhenish wines, bottled stout, pale ale, glasses to drink all these good articles out of, and I know not what besides. Loaves of sugar dangling by the side of zephyr scarfs, or candle-boxes _vis-à-vis_ with ostrich feathers. Oh! ye tradesmen of Regent-street, so polite and perfumed, and such _calibre_, who stand behind your glossy counters with the air of “my lord duke,” or glide with noiseless steps and mincing airs over your Persian carpeted floor,—what, _what_ would you think of our Antiguan shops? Or how would those over-fashionable gentlemen at Storr and Mortimer’s be astounded, when tendering for approval to “beauty bright” those costly gems which carry us back to the days of the Arabian nights, if they came in contact with a brass kettle or an iron pot!