in their brains."

Still, the pretty ones do not brighten; they walk up and down, eyeing
askance the quiet boarders who look so contented over their children and
worsted-work, and wondering in what part of the world they have taken
the precaution to leave their souls. Unpacking is then begun, with
rather a flinging of the things about, interspersed with little peppery
hints as to discomfort and dulness, and dejected stage-sighs, intended
for hearing. But this cannot go on,--the thermometer is at 78 degrees
in the shade,--an intense and contagious stillness reigns through the
house,--some good genius waves a bunch of poppies near those little
fretful faces, for which a frown is rather heavy artillery. The balmy
breath of sleep blows off the lightly-traced furrows, and, after a
dreamy hour or two, all is bright, smooth, and freshly dressed, as a
husband could wish it. The dinner proves not intolerable, and after it
we sit on the piazza. A refreshing breeze springs up, and presently the
tide of the afternoon drive sets in from the city. The _volantes_ dash
by, with silver-studded harnesses, and postilions black and booted;
within sit the pretty Senoritas, in twos and threes. They are attired
mostly in muslins, with bare necks and arms; bonnets they know
not,--their heads are dressed with flowers, or with jewelled pins. Their
faces are whitened, we know, with powder, but in the distance the effect
is pleasing. Their dark eyes are vigilant; they know a lover when they
see him. But there is no twilight in these parts, and the curtain of the
dark falls upon the scene as suddenly as the screen of the theatre upon
the _denouement_ of the tragedy. Then comes a cup of truly infernal tea,
the mastication of a stale roll, with butter, also stale,--then,
more sitting on the piazza,--then, retirement, and a wild hunt after
mosquitoes,--and so ends the first day at Woolcut's, on the Cerro.

HAVANA. THE HOTELS.

"Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" Yes, truly, if you can get it,
Jack Falstaff; but it is one thing to pay for comfort, and another thing
to have it. You certainly pay for it, in Havana; for the $3 or $3.50
_per diem_, which is your simplest hotel-charge there, should, in any
civilized part of the world, give you a creditable apartment, clean
linen, and all reasonable diet. What it does give, the travelling public
may like to learn.

Can Grande has left Woolcut's. The first dinner did not please him,--the
cup of