The village of Girgaum, to the south of the island, is, however, the most picturesque and most densely populated of all these native settlements. No other part of the island is so fascinating as night approaches. A blaze of light flashing on the surface of huge reservoirs of water, on citron- and orange-groves, flooding flagged courtyards surrounded with blooming tropical fruits and flowers, the brilliant colors and varieties of dress of the numerous attendants, male and female, together with the groups formed by different parties arriving or departing, with the sounds of all kinds of music and midnight revelry,--altogether formed a _coup d'oeil_ which I can never forget, and which can be only seen in a tropical climate. Parts of this village, I am told, are entirely given up to the dissipated and pleasure-seeking youths who may happen to be beguiled by these outward appearances. It presents a very different aspect in the morning light; the cottages amid its palm-groves look so quiet and secluded that it is still more attractive. In some parts there are vast plantations of cocoanut trees, with the neat little huts, here and there, of native planters stretching toward a portion of the island called the Back Bay. Lying on the opposite side of the palm-groves of Mazagaum, a fishing village, about an hour's drive over a beautiful strand brings us to an interesting spot called Breach Candy. On our way, especially in the afternoon, we meet carriages full of handsome Parsee ladies, generally brilliantly attired in their peculiar costumes, surrounded by numbers of happy-looking children, taking their evening airing. Grand mohguls and nabobs, driving out in magnificent European equipages, drawn by two and not infrequently by four spirited Arabian horses, pass rapidly by. At length, leaving the grand and princely occupants of all these brilliant equipages, we arrive at a spot desolate and yet peaceful beyond description--the cemeteries of the dead of all peoples and all creeds. No sound is heard. One solitary Hindoo, robed in pure white, with his bare shaved head, is praying over a smouldering spot covered with hot ashes, which shows signs of a body having been recently burned there. These graves are separated, it is true, but hardly distinguishable from one another. Desolate homes of the dead, we cannot tell which are Christian and which pagan. All sleep quietly in the same dust. But kind nature has decked them in tender living green, with here and there a beautiful wild flower, while the ever-encroaching sea washes away every year, bit by bit, the tombs of Hindoo, Moslem, Jain, Buddhist, and Christian alike.