The chief monument of Nassau is not one built by hand, but a silk-cotton-tree, planted, some two hundred years ago, by one John Miller, Esq., opposite the present "public buildings." It is a stupendous tree of Titanic proportions. The roots, unable to find their way down through the rocky soil, swell up like buttresses, radiating round the trunk some fifteen yards, and, rising six and eight feet from the ground, form part of the actual bulk of the tree, and give the huge veteran the appearance of a web-footed monster, standing in solemn reverie. Amongst the gnarled and weird-looking roots are ravines, in whose dark hollows a legion of elves might dwell and hold their revels. High above this root-work spreads a canopy of leaves of the most exquisite, tender green. Singular to say, the gigantic growth flattens at the top, and is nearly squared off in correspondence with the aspect the paucity of earth has forced the roots to assume. Had Shakespeare seen this mighty monster,--which travellers from California declare to be even more imposing than any of the Mammoth trees,--he would have immortalised it in a few grand lines, or made it the background of some quaint fairy scene, the home of another Herne the Hunter, Oberon and Titania, Ariel, or Puck. There are several other fine silk-cotton-trees on the island, and in Cuba this tree grows to perfection, but the specimen I have attempted to describe is universally acknowledged to be the finest known. I was much surprised to notice the rapidity with which the silk-cotton tree burst into leaf. On my arrival I noticed one in the grounds of the hotel which seemed to be dead. The rest were green, but this one was quite barren. In three days it was lost to sight, hidden in its own foliage, developed within the space of two nights. The silk-cotton-tree is so called because it bears a pod full of flossy silk, which is used instead of down for pillow cases, but the fibres are too short to be woven.