ionary war, like a cold eastern wind, has chilled their zeal and
blasted their best expectations.

The clove-tree, the cinnamon, pepper, and nutmeg, and many other choice
spices and fruits of the eastern and Asiatic regions, produce abundantly
in Cayenne.

The town itself is prettily laid out, and was once well fortified. They
tell you it might easily have been defended against the invading force of
the two united nations; but Victor Hugues, its governor, ordered the
tri-coloured flag to be struck; and ever since that day the standard of
Braganza has waved on the ramparts of Cayenne.

He who has received humiliations from the hand of this haughty,
iron-hearted governor, may see him now in Cayenne, stripped of all his
revolutionary honours, broken down and ruined, and under arrest in his
own house. He has four accomplished daughters, respected by the whole
town. Towards the close of day, when the sun's rays are no longer
oppressive, these much-pitied ladies are seen walking up and down the
balcony with their aged parent, trying, by their kind and filial
attention, to remove the settled gloom from his too guilty brow.

This was not the time for a traveller to enjoy Cayenne. The hospitality
of the inhabitants was the same as ever, but they had lost their wonted
gaiety in public, and the stranger might read in their countenances, as
the recollection of recent humiliations and misfortunes every now and
then kept breaking in upon them, that they were still in sorrow for their
fallen country: the victorious hostile cannon of Waterloo still sounded
in their ears; their Emperor was a prisoner amongst the hideous rocks of
St. Helena; and many a Frenchman who had fought and bled for France was
now amongst them begging for a little support to prolong a life which
would be forfeited on the parent soil. To add another handful to the
cypress and wormwood already scattered amongst these polite colonists,
they had just received orders from the court of Janeiro to put on deep
mourning for six months, and half-mourning for as many more, on account
of the death of the Queen of Portugal.

After a day's journey in the interior is the celebrated national
plantation. This spot was judiciously chosen, for it is out of the reach
of enemies' cruisers. It is called La Gabrielle. No plantation in the
western world can vie with La Gabrielle. Its spices are of the choicest
kind; its soil particularly favourable to them; its arrangements