taken Father Ambrosius, brown capuchin, rope round the waist, shaved head and all, along with us through life.
The next day, at his suggestion, we had mounted two little Spanish jennets and rode up the Sugar-loaf to see more of the view. I believe nothing finer exists than this sudden elevation out of the blue sea, St. Thomas, W. I.
On the following day we were asked to dine with the old banker, to whom my husband had brought letters of credit, and to whom was consigned a very large sum of money which was to settle the claims of one Anna Maria Sparks to the estate in San Francisco owned by her son, one Leidesdorf, and bought by one Captain Folsom. I shall have more to say of this romantic story later on. As it was, I picture myself dressed in an India muslin and going down to my first West India dinner. The change from the propeller was delightful. The thermometer was up among the nineties, and yet the Englishmen present were in the orthodox black coat and trousers, and the two American officers were sweltering in their fine naval uniforms and stiff embroidered collars (one of them, who was very fat, said in my ear, with a good-natured smile, "You know how uniforms shrink"). The Americans present were in white-duck pantaloons and black dress-coats, the only ones who dared to differ from the English regard for les convenances (and I am not sure they were much cooler). Several ladies were present, and the dinner was admirable — a well-seasoned soup, a fish called the barracouta, an excellent entrée, a pair of guineafowls, roast mutton, a salad of green peppers and tomatoes, well dressed; and, what was more important to the gentlemen, good old Madeira which had travelled far, Tinto which was fresh from Spain, clarets as good as when they first left France, and Burgundy a trifle better.
After the dinner was finished our host, the banker,
