on great spaces devoted to wooing the air from the park and the river.  The windows are enormous.  Not satisfied with the giant sliding doors that open on the street, revealing windows—­unencumbered with sash or glass, there are sliding doors under the window sills, that roll back right and left and offer the chance to introduce a current of air directly on the lower limbs.  One of the lessons of the tropics is the value of the outer air, and architecture that gives it a chance in the house.  It is a precious education.  The artificial light within must be produced by candles, and each stupendous apartment is furnished with one tallowy and otherwise neglected candle stick, and you can get, with exertion, a candle four inches long.  There is a wardrobe, a wash stand, with pitcher and basin, and a commode, fans, chairs, and round white marble table, all the pieces placed in solitude, so as to convey the notion of lonesomeness.  The great feature is the bed.  The bedstead is about the usual thing, save that there is no provision for a possible or impossible spring mattress, or anything of that nature.  The bed space is covered with bamboo, platted.  It is hard as iron, and I can testify of considerable strength, for I rested my two hundred pounds, and rising a few pounds, on this surface, with no protection for it or myself for several nights, and there were no fractures.  There is spread on this surface a Manila mat, which is a shade tougher and less tractable than our old style oilcloth.  Upon this is spread a single sheet, that is tucked in around the edges of the mat, and there are no bed clothes, absolutely none.  There is a mosquito bar with only a few holes in it, but it is suspended and cannot under any circumstances be used as a blanket.  There is a pillow, hard and round, and easy as a log for your cheek to rest upon, and it is beautifully covered with red silk.  There is a small roll, say a foot long and four inches in diameter, softer than the pillow, to a slight extent, and covered with finer and redder silk, that is meant for the neck alone.  The comparatively big red log is to extend across the bed for the elevation it gives the head, and the little and redder log, softer so that you may indent it with your thumb, saves the neck from being broken on this relic of the Spanish inquisition.  But there is a comforter—­not such a blessed caressing domestic comforter as the Yankees have, light as a feather, but responsive to a tender touch.  This Philippine comforter is another red roll that must be a quilt firmly rolled and swathed in more red silk; and it is to prop yourself withal when the contact with the sheet and the mat on the bamboo floor of the bedstead, a combination iniquitous as the naked floor—­becomes wearisome.  It rests the legs to pull on your back, and tuck under your knees.  In the total absence of bed covering, beyond a thin night shirt, the three red rolls are not to be despised.  The object of the bed is to keep cool, and if you do find the exertion of getting