so enchanting, that no one who looked upon it, could keep from feeling Bernardin-St.-Pierreish. At daylight next morning we got a look at Port Louis. The town is not extensive, though nestling prettily under tall volcanic hills. Its suburbs are composed of the red-roofed huts of liberated Africans, making long streets. In its bazar, like nearly all places in that portion of the globe, your attention is first arrested by the grotesque—the kaleidoscope of costume. Of course your ubiquitous pig-tail friend “John Chinaman” is present. Here he attires himself in dark nankeen clothes, wears his clumsy shoe without sock, twists his plaited queue under a Manilla hat, and with his Paul Pry umbrella which he seldom hoists, looks as much like another “John Chinaman” who passes him, as two bricks in a house. You see the Arab with his head entirely shorn, or the dark-haired Lascar most diminutive in loin wardrobe, but gaudy in the vest that covers his fine-formed chest; the Parsee clothed in his gown of white muslin, his turban and pointed shoes; the Malayan women in very brief attire, their children strapped on their backs, sitting on the wayside, chewing the areca-nut or the betel-leaf that they may spit blood-red saliva, and none the better looking for having a large ring fastened through the skin of their foreheads, or hanging from one nostril. These people are all very graceful in their movements. Their religions are comprised in Mohammedanism, Buddhism, Hindoo, &c. They number some six thousand of the population of the place.