ern Florida, yet near enough to furnish some cause for
uneasiness, are the slave-states of the Great Republic. She is an
island, too; and as an island, whatever power holds or protects her,
must maintain on the spot a sufficient army and navy, as it would not do
to rely upon being able to throw in troops and munitions of war, after
notice of need.

As to the wishes of the Cubans themselves, the degree of reliance they
place, or are entitled to place, on each other, and their opportunities
and capacity for organized action of any kind, I have already set down
all I can be truly said to know; and there is no end to assertion and
conjecture, or to the conflicting character of what is called
information, whether received through men or books.

XXII.

LEAVE-TAKING

All day there have been earnest looks to the northwest, for the smoke of
the "Cahawba." We are willing and desirous to depart. Our sights are
seen, our business done, and our trunks packed. While we are sitting
round our table after dinner, George, Mr. Miller's servant, comes in,
with a bright countenance, and says "There is a steamer off." We go to
the roof, and there, far in the N. W., is a small but unmistakable cloud
of steamer's smoke, just in the course the "Cahawba" would take. "Let us
walk down to the Punta, and see her come in." It is between four and
five o'clock, and a pleasant afternoon, and we saunter along, keeping in
the shade, and sit down on the boards at the wharf, in front of the
Presidio, near to where politicians are garroted, and watch the progress
of the steamer, amusing ourselves at the same time with seeing the
Negroes swimming and washing horses in the shallow water off the bank. A
Yankee flag flies from the signalpost of the Morro, but the Punta keeps
the steamer from our sight. It draws towards six o'clock, and no vessel
can enter after dark. We begin to fear she will not reach the point in
season. Her cloud of smoke rises over the Punta, the city clocks strike
six, the Morro strikes six, the trumpets bray out, the sun is down, the
signals on the Morro are lowering--"She'll miss it!"--"No--there she
is!"--and, round the Punta comes her sharp black head, and then her full
body, her toiling engine and smoking chimney and peopled decks, and
flying stars and stripes--Good luck to her! and, though the signal is
down, she pushes on and passes the forts without objection, and is lost
among the shipping.

My companions are so enth