ables, 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 cafe noir and a
genuine Yara. I then betake myself to the nearest coffee-house. After
black coffee cometh what is popularly termed 'plus-cafe,' and this being
an unlicensed spirit, cannot be had in the street. The coffee-saloon is
well patronised, and the air of carnival is here very strong. Everybody
and everything seem to follow the masquerade lead, the very furniture
forming no exception to the rule: for the gas chandeliers are encased in
fancy papers, the walls and pictures are adorned by tropical leaves and
evergreens, the chairs are transformed into shapes of seated humanity,
the marble slabs of the little round tables are partially disguised in
robes of glass and crystal. As for the white-jacketed proprietor and his
myrmidons, including Rubio, the mixer of liquors, behind the counter,
they all wear smiles or holiday faces, while they carefully conceal
their natural sleepiness.

'Mozo! garcon! Una copita con cognac!' The waiter hears, but does not
obey, having already too many copitas on his mind. 'Alla voy, senor!'
he, however, says; and as it is some consolation to know that he will
come eventually, I forgive his procrastination, and bide my time.
Meanwhile, I watch a group of maskers who surround a guitar-playing
improvisatore, who assures his audience in song that he is expiring
because of the faithlessness of his mulatto, who has rejected his
advances with ridicule.

iAy, ay, ay! que me estoy muriendo, si.
iAy, ay, ay! por una mulata;
Y ella esta reyendose,
Que es cosa que me mata!

In an opposite corner are a pair of moralising Davids gravely descanting
upon the frailty of woman to the accompaniment of a windy accordion and
a gueiro nutmeg-grater, something after this fashion:--

Women there are in this world, we see,
Whose tongues are long enough for three;
They bear their neighbours' skins about,
And twist and turn them inside out.
Pellejo ajeno! lo viran al reves.

This is the whole song, and nothing but the song: for negro melodies,
of which the above is a specimen, are essentially epigrammatic.

A rush is made to the big barred