nly been in the hotel one day when a gentleman to whom I had a
letter kindly offered me a room in his house. The offer was too
tempting, so I left my kennel without delay, and in my new quarters
found every comfort and a hearty welcome, rendered more acceptable from
the agreeable society which it included, and the tender nursing I
received at the hands of one of the young ladies during the week I was
confined to the house by illness. Among all the kind and hospitable
friends I met with in my travels, none have a stronger claim on my
grateful recollection than Mr. Egerton and his family. When able to get
out, I took a drive with mine host: as you may easily imagine, there is
not much scenery to be found in a marsh bounded by a forest swamp, but
the effect is very curious; all the trees are covered with Spanish moss,
a long, dark, fibrous substance which hangs gracefully down from every
bough and twig; it is often used for stuffing beds, pillows, &e. This
most solemn drapery gave the forest the appearance of a legion of mute
mourners attending the funeral of some beloved patriarch, and one felt
disposed to admire the patience with which they stood, with their feet
in the wet, their heads nodding to and fro as if distracted with grief,
and their fibrous weeds quivering, as though convulsed with the
intensity of agony. The open space around is a kind of convalescent
marsh; that is, canals and deep ditch drains have been opened all
through it, and into these the waters of the marsh flow, as a token of
gratitude for the delicate little attention; at the same time, the
adjacent soil, freed from its liquid encumbrance, courts the attractive
charms of the sun, and has already risen from two and a half to three
and a half feet above its marshy level.

The extremity of this open space furthest from the town has been
appropriately fixed upon as the site of various cemeteries. The
lugubrious forest is enough to give a man the blue devils, and the
ditches and drains into which the sewers, &c., of the town are pumped,
dragging their sluggish and all but stagnant course under a broiling
summer gun, are sufficient to prepare most mortals for the calm repose
towards which the cypress and the cenotaph beckon them with greedy
welcome. The open space I have been describing is the "Hyde Park" and
"Rotten Row" of New Orleans, and the drive round it is one of the best
roads I ever travelled; it is called the "Shell Road," from the
top-dressing