years ago. Strict conservatism obtains here; nothing has been done in the way of improvement; the old wooden houses are bruised and battered as though they had been engaged in a battle with time and been worsted; they are covered with discolorations and patches, naked and languishing for a coat of new paint. There are no dainty green sun blinds here, but heavy worm-eaten wooden shutters, and queer timber doors hung on clumsy iron hinges; here and there we get a glimpse of the dingy interiors while a few bearded men are lounging smoking in the doorways, and a few children, chattering like French magpies, are playing on the threshold. Everything is quiet and dull--a sort of Rip Van Winkle-ish sleep seems drooping its drowsy wings and brooding everywhere, till a lumbering dray comes clattering over the cobble stones, and sends a thousand echoes flying through the lonely streets. From these stony regions, past the little old-fashioned church where the good Catholics worshipped a century ago and we emerge upon Canal Street, the principal business thoroughfare of the city; it is thronged with people at this time of day, busy crowds are passing to and fro, the shop windows are dressed in their most attractive wares, temptingly exposed to view. Confectioners, fruit, and fancy stores overflow into open stalls in front and spread along the sidewalk; huge bunches of green bananas, strawberries, peas, pines, cocoa-nuts and mangoes, mingled with dainty vegetables, are lying in heaps. We are tempted to try a mango, the favourite southern fruit, of whose luscious quality we have so often heard, but the first taste of its sickening sweetness satisfies our desires. The street is very wide, and the jingle-jangle of the car-bells, the rattling of wheels, and the spasmodic shriek and whistle of the steam engine--all mingle together in a not unsweet confusion. Lumbering vehicles, elegant carriages, street-cars, and a fussy little railway, all run in parallel lines along the wide roadway. This is the great backbone of the city, whence all lines of vehicular traffic branch off on their diverse tracks into all the highways and by-ways of the land. Here we get on to a car which carries us through the handsomest quarter of the city. Quaint, old-fashioned houses, surrounded by gardens of glowing flowers, and magnificent magnolias, now in full bloom, stand here and there in solitary grandeur, or sometimes in groups like a conclave of green-limbed giants, clothed in white raiment, and perfumed with the breath of paradise. Past lines of elegant residences, where the _élite_ of the city have their abode, and we soon reach a rough wooden shed yclept a “depot.” Here the horses are unhitched, and a steam dummy attached to carry us on our way. The little dummy looks like a big-bellied coffee-pot as it puffs fussily along, on its way, but it does its work well, and in a little time lands us at “Carrolton.”