assume a home-made disguise. A strange
sensation of guilt, of going to do something
wrong, comes over me and makes me quake
from the top of my extemporised turban
to the sole of my sandal slippers. Whither
shall I wander, forlorn pantomimist that I
am? I loiter about the least frequented
neighbourhoods, until the shades of eve—which in
this climate come with a rush—have fallen,
and then I mix fearlessly with the throng,
among whom I am but as a drop in a Black
Sea. In my peregrinations I meet a
company of negro masqueraders, who, without
the least ceremony, are entering the private
dwelling of an opulent don. The illustrious
family are tranquilly seated in the elegant
sala; but what care their visitors? It is
carnival time and they, serfs of that same
house, are licensed to bring themselves and
their friends. They bear between them a
painted screen, which they unfold and plant
in the middle of the saloon. It forms a
theatrical proscenium on a small scale.
An orchestra of tambours, tin-trays, and
nutmeg-grating güiros opens the performances,
and then the actors proceed to saw
the air. They perform this operation in
turn, by reason of the limited proportions
of their stage; and one very tall negro, who
appears to have been altogether omitted in
the carpenter's calculations, has to speak
his speech behind the top drop. He speaks
it trippingly too; for in the middle of a most
exciting monologue, he upsets the whole
paraphernalia and himself into the bargain.
The entertainment, including refreshments,
has lasted some fifteen minutes, when the
itinerant troupe (who derive no benefit
from their labours save what honour and
self- enjoyment yield) pick up their portable
proscenium and walk away.

By far the gayest region of the city
during a carnival is the Plaza de Armas, a
spacious square, with wide promenades,
gardens, and trees, in a railed enclosure.
Here are the governor's house, the
residences of Cuban Belgravia, the cafes, and
the cathedral. Myriads of masqueraders, in
every variety of motley and domino, congregate
in the plaza after their day's perambulations,
and dance, sing, or bewitch each
other with their disguises. There is a party
of masqued and dominoed ladies: genuine
whites all; you can tell it by the shape of their
gioveless hands and the transparent pink of
their finger nails; endeavouring to hoax a
couple of swains in false noses and green
spectacles, both of whom have been already
recognised. The perplexed youths try
their hardest to discover their fair
interlocutors by peeping at their profiles through
their wire masks, but in vain. At the
next quiet tertulia these same ladies will
have rare fan with their puzzled victims of
the night of the masquerade. "Within ear-
shot of where I am standing are a small
crew of ancient mariners, Britons every
one of them; unless they happen to be
Americans from Boston: it does not matter
which to a Cuban. They belong to the
good ship Mary Barker, lately arrived from
Halifax, in quest of Cuban copper. Jack
has come ashore to-night to see the sights
and collect material for a new yarn, which
he will deliver at his native fireside one of
these odd days. Some masker has
approached the group, and has brought them
the astounding information that he—the
unknown—belongs to the Mary Barker.
Jack turns to his messmates with a
bewildered air. Then, addressing the masker,
"What, Joe?" says he at a venture.

"No, not Joe," says the man behind the
mask. "Try again."

"Shiver my timbers!" exclaims Jack,
"I give it up. Here, Tom," says he to a
shipmate of that name, "you're good at
conhumdrums; just step for'ard and tell
this here lubber who he is."

Tom tries and fails, but arrives at the
possible conclusion that it is "some o' them
'ere Cubeyans a-making game on us."

Refreshment stalls stand at intervals
along the pavement of the plaza. Each
table has a white tablecloth, and is dimly
illumined by candles sheltered from the
wind by enormous stand-shades of glass, or
lamps of portable gas. Leather-bottomed
chairs are placed invitingly around, and
charcoal braziers for warming drinks keep
their respectful distances. Egg- flip, bottled
ale, cafe noir, and a kind of soupe a la
Julienne, called by the natives aijaco, are
dispensed by negress vendors, who charge
double for everything, and drive a roaring
trade. Approaching one of the tables I
call for a plate of aijaco, and am perfectly
understood by the dark divinity who places
before me a pot-pourri of yams, green
bananas, cut pumpkins, aguacates, chicken,
and broth of the same. I do full justice
to this rich and substantial repast, and, by
way of dessert, conclude with a very small
cup of properly made café noir and a
genuine Yara. I then betake myself to the
nearest coffee-house. After black coffee,
cometh what is popularly termed plus-café,
and this being an unlicensed spirit cannot
be had in the street. The coffee-saloon is
well patronised, and the air of carnival is