nion and duties in town. As my military friend, Don
Manuel, must also depart--his leave of absence having expired--I accept
his invitation to share the boat which is to convey him to Santiago, and
bid adieu to Don Benigno and his family, who contemplate remaining at
the sea-side for some days longer.

Don Manuel is excellent company, and, although an officer in the Spanish
service, his views of politics are exceedingly liberal. During the
homeward passage, the officer entertains me with various stories
illustrative of Cuban administration. He tells me that since the Pearl
of the Antilles has adorned the Spanish crown, the island of Cuba has
always been governed by a captain-general, a mighty personage, invested
with much the same power and authority as that of a monarch in some
countries, and, like a king, could not possibly do anything that was
wrong.

'The Cubans,' says he, 'have seldom had reason to be grateful to Spain
for the rulers she has appointed over them, because these have been
usually selected rather on the score of influence than capacity or
merit. There is, however, on record at least one captain-general whose
name is held in esteem by the Cuban people, on account of the good he
effected during his short reign in Havana. Captain-General Tacon
established some degree of safety for the inhabitants by introducing new
laws, and by severely punishing certain social offences which his
predecessors had rather overlooked, if they did not themselves set the
example. It is said of Tacon that, like Alfred the Great, he promised
the Cubans that they should be able to cast their purses upon the public
pavement, and yet find them there again after many days. Stories are
current in Cuba of the general's singular mode of administering justice,
which in many cases partook of an originality somewhat whimsical of its
kind.'

Don Manuel gives me the most popular story of this sort--that of the
cigar girl of Havana, which I will now repeat to the reader in the
following form:

Miralda Estalez was remarkable alike for the beauty of her person and
the excellence of her tobacco. She kept a cigar-shop in Havana, in the
Calle del Comercio; a narrow street, with a footpath scarcely wider than
an ordinary kerbstone. It was the veriest section of a shop, without a
front of any kind; presenting, from the street side, much the same
appearance as a burnt-out dwelling would exhibit, or a theatrical scene
viewed by an audience. Durin