Amidst all this the French language prevails; everything more or less pertains of the French character, and an Englishman can scarcely believe that he is in one of the colonies of his own country.
VISIT TO PAMPLEMOUSSES.
May 16th.
Few passing visitors, like ourselves, leave the Isle of France without performing a pilgrimage to Pamplemousses, a pretty village seven miles distant, near which are the (so-called) tombs of Paul and Virginia, and the Botanic Gardens.

For this purpose--as we sail the day after tomorrow, I started at daylight.

The road, even at this early hour, was crowded with people--Coolies, Chinamen, Negroes, and others, bringing in their produce to market, while every now and then a carriage passed by filled with well-dressed Creoles enjoying the coolness of the morning air, or bent upon making a holiday of it, for the day was Sunday.

I breakfasted in one of the numerous cabarets by the roadside, dignified with the name of Hotel de -- --, etc.

Numerous small streams crossed the road, and the country, so far as seen, exhibited a refreshing greenness and richness of vegetation.
Les Tombeaux are situated in a garden surrounded by trees, and a grove of coffee plants, behind the residence of a gentleman who must be heartily sick of being so constantly disturbed by strangers.