NOTEBOOK

be buried on shore. Was bound for the States to get
his family.

Sunday, Jan. 6, 1867. We are out 22 days from San
Francisco.

This Key West looks like a mere open roadstead, but
they call it one of the best harbors in the world—they
say that the 100 little keys scattered all around keep off
the sea and storm. It seems to be a very pretty little
tropical-looking town with plenty of handsome shade
trees. It is very cool and pleasant. The great frowning
fortification is Fort Taylor, and is very strong.

We don't calculate to find any Key West folks in
Heaven.

Sunday, Jan. 6 continued. Rev. J. G. Fackler was
buried here at Key West at noon by Episcopal minister.

Our doctor told me it was Asiatic cholera, but they
must have deceived the port surgeon, else they wouldn't
have let us land.

I attended Episcopal service—heap of style—fash-
ionably dressed women—350 of them, and children, and
25 men.

Don't see where so much dress comes from in a town
made altogether of I and 2 story frame houses, some
crazy, unpainted and with only thick board shutters for
windows—no carpet, no mats—bare floors—cheap prints
on walls.

Only about 10 or 12 houses with any pretension of
style and one-half of these are military officers' quarters.

The contribution box fooled me—I heard no money
dropping in it, and the paper currency never occurred
to me.

Men stylishly dressed with yellow ribbon cravats.

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