Portugal, of the states of northern Italy, of Brazil, and of the
republics of the Spanish Main. We thread our slow and careful way among
these, pass under the broadside of a ship-of-the-line, and under the
stern of a screw frigate, both bearing the Spanish flag, and cast our
anchor in the Regla Bay, by the side of the steamer "Karnac," which
sailed from New York a few days before us.

Instantly we are besieged by boats, some loaded with oranges and
bananas, and others coming for passengers and their luggage, all with
awnings spread over their sterns, rowed by sallow, attenuated men, in
blue and white checks and straw hats, with here and there the familiar
lips and teeth, and vacant, easily-pleased face of the Negro. Among
these boats comes one, from the stern of which floats the red and yellow
flag with the crown in its field, and under whose awning reclines a man
in a full suit of white linen, with straw hat and red cockade and a
cigar. This is the Health Officer. Until he is satisfied, no one can
come on board, or leave the vessel. Capt. Bullock salutes, steps down
the ladder to the boat, hands his papers, reports all well--and we are
pronounced safe. Then comes another boat of similar style, another man
reclining under the awning with a cigar, who comes on board, is closeted
with the purser, compares the passenger list with the passports, and we
are declared fully passed, and general leave is given to land with our
luggage at the custom-house wharf.

Now comes the war of cries and gestures and grimaces among the boatmen,
in their struggle for passengers, increased manifold by the fact that
there is but little language in common between the parties to the
bargains, and by the boatmen being required to remain in their boats.
How thin these boatmen look! You cannot get it out of your mind that
they must all have had the yellow fever last summer, and are not yet
fully recovered. Not only their faces, but their hands and arms and legs
are thin, and their low-quartered slippers only half cover their thin
yellow feet.

In the hurry, I have to hunt after the passengers I am to take leave of
who go on to New Orleans:--Mr. and Mrs. Benchley, on their way to their
intended new home in western Texas, my two sea captains, and the little
son of my friend, who is the guest, on this voyage, of our common friend
the captain, and after all, I miss the hearty hand-shake of Bullock and
Rodgers. Seated under an awning, in the stern of