The streets of the city are wide, and of course arranged as usual to run at right angles; there has been no hurry or confusion in the building of it, the spirit of the designer is visible everywhere, and the design has been carefully carried out with harmonious effect; every vista is pleasant and refreshing to the eye. Like most other southern cities the thoroughfares are shaded with magnificent old trees, thickly planted, and of prodigious size, on both sides of the road; and yet Columbia has a character peculiarly its own. It is like an oasis lifted up and out of the great world round it; a serene and silent city it sits apart, with a life and story all its own; there is no noise or bustle, no hurrying throngs of people streaming through the vacant streets, no jingling bells of cars, no rattling of carriages passing over the stony roads--only at certain hours the hotel omnibuses crawl to and from the station--a drowsy hum is in the air, the shops have opened their glassy eyes and are blinking in the morning light; they might as well go to sleep again--nobody seems to want to buy anything--only a few stragglers are wandering aimlessly about, everything moves leisurely, nobody seems in a hurry about anything. Life itself seems to move onward with slow and solemn footstep, scarce making a single echo on the shores of time. So stands this lovely city steeped in the southern sunshine, robed in fair green garlands, with blooming gardens clinging about her skirts; there is a refreshing sweetness in the air, a purity and harmony mingled with a Sabbath stillness everywhere. A patriarchal simplicity pervades the atmosphere, the people seem to know we are strangers, and as strangers greet us with a recognising smile or pleasant word; the coloured folks relapse into a broad grin; there is a gentle courtesy, an air of good breeding, even among the loafers gathered at the street corners as they lift their ragged caps and make way for us to pass. We turn down a pretty, shady thoroughfare and as we are rambling along in a state of sweet contentment, imbued with the brooding spirit of the place, a cheery voice bids us “Good morning.” We look up and two black faces with laughing eyes and gleaming teeth look down upon us from a perfect nest of roses, the two women are sitting in their balcony with their dusky children rolling at their feet; a game at questions, answers, and observations follows, and we enjoy quite a pleasant characteristic conversation; one comes down and brings us a handful of sweet-smelling flowers as we pass on our way. We wander through this idyllic city as through a land of dreams, and have some difficulty in finding our way back to our hotel, as the streets are all verbally christened but none have their names written up, the houses too are unnumbered. I remarked that this is an awkward arrangement or want of arrangement. “Not at all,” is the answer, “everybody knows everybody here.” “But it is certainly puzzling for strangers.”