A few pleasant events, it is true, have medicated this ennui. Amongst them was a musical soiree, for which General P—— procured us tickets, an amateur affair for benevolent purposes. It had a charming duett or two on the harp and piano, one on the cornet, extremely graceful. Then there was an evening out to tea; then there were a few kindly lent books. But the crowning event was the welcome advent of the steamer on its way to Havana, once more establishing us in a world from which we seem to have been vanished a century. It brought fresh news, fresh letters, fresh promises of home.
Floods of rain came too, at last, drowning out the heat, baptizing these air-gormandizing trees, filling the drained wells with assurances that we will not just now
“Die of thirst with all the waters near.”
It is a curious fact that the tide rises and falls regularly every day in these wells. With the exception of one or two small lakes in the interior, no other water is found on the island, which may help to explain the fact that it had no indigenous animals.
Thursday night, May 10th.—I sit alone by the waxen taper in my room to write my parting with Nassau—to end for the present my pen-peregrinations. But I fear I cannot muster one decorous sigh for the occasion. Everybody is going; there will be many partings but few farewells. I will leave with you and with memory those tropical experiences, knowing that, whatever you may do with them, memory is like all other sextons—he buries more than he exhumes. The full-packed trunks, carpet-bags, and boxes of curiosities around me, are welcome reminders that early to-morrow morning the good ship Karnak will breathe a welcome breath through her two great red nostrils and will wind and puff her way around the lighthouse in search of us.
THE END.
