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
gloveless 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 fun with their
puzzled victims of the night of the masquerade. Within earshot 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 his.'

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 t