vacant place amongst the crowd of merchant vessels belonging to America and every maritime country in Europe, we furled sails and dropped anchor. In about ten minutes we descried at a little distance a short, bluff-built boat, with a white awning, a couple of oars, and a yellow flag at her stern, making towards us. When she came alongside, we observed that she contained three persons—the oarsman, the steersman, and a slightly-made gamboge-faced little man, dressed in a black frock-coat, white waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed Panama hat. He was seated in an arm-chair with a crimson velvet cushion, and his small feet, cased in yellow morocco slippers, rested upon a rich carpet of many colours. He was the officer of health, without whose boleta de sanidad, or bill of health, no person was permitted to land. He accosted us very politely in Spanish:
“The name of the vessel?”
“Firefly.”
“What country?”
“English.”
“The captain’s name?”
“Johnson.”
“Where from?”
“From ”
“How long at sea?”
“Eight days.”
“What sort of weather?”
“Fine weather—fresh breezes—two days a strong north.”
“Any passengers?”
“Yes; three.
“Any cholera on board?”
“No.”
“Yellow fever?”
“No.”
“Any sickness at all?”
“None.”
Of course we received a certificate of health, and were permitted to go on shore. This important functionary then departed, lounging in his arm-chair, puffing his cigar, and spitting on his carpet, for in Havana every person smokes, and every person spits. A number of shore-boats soon collected about us, the owner of each soliciting the honour of transporting me to the quay. I selected the largest one, having a particular objection to trusting my frail body to a “fairy skiff,” with only a half-inch board between mj-self and death. Having landed in safety, I betook myself to the office of Her Britannic Majesty’s consul. That department was then— and, I presume, is still—filled by Mr. Crawford, a gentleman who worthily represents Her Most Gracious Majesty in that quarter, and whose attention and hospitality are liberally extended to all strangers. He recommended me to a boarding- house kept by a Mrs. Almy, the widow of an American merchant who had died in Havana. He conducted me to the hotel, and introduced me to the lady, after which he invited me to dine with him at four o’clock, promising to send his carriage for me half-an-hour before that time. I accepted the invitation, but a difficulty presented itself. I was in ship costume, and my luggage was on board the schooner. By vigorous exertion, however, this difficulty was overcome, and my trunks were got on shore. But now another obstacle, more formidable than the former one, opposed its hostile front. Before I could obtain possession of my wardrobe, it was considered necessary to ascertain if there were a deliberate intention on my part to cheat the Queen of Spain —in other words, if I had smuggled in my boxes any goods on the importation of which a duty was imposed.
In order that a due examination should be instituted, the law required that my boxes should be taken to the custom-house; but the doors of that fiscal establishment closed at three o’clock, and that hour had struck. Here was a “fix.” What was to be done? There was a commissioner attached to the establishment of Mrs. Almy—an American—thin, wiry, long-nosed, lantern-jawed, and sallow; with a sly, knowing eye, which told you at a glance that its owner was in the habit of making pretty correct “guesses,” and was no indifferent “calculator.” Well, this functionary “guessed” he could make it all “slick,” and he departed on that mission. In about five or ten minutes he returned, and requested me to follow him with my keys, from which I “calculated” that he had succeeded in making it “slick,” which elegant expression I take to be a corruption of sleek. We arrived at the quay, where I observed my luggage, and a fierce-looking soldier, in a blue uniform, having a musket with a fixed bayonet, standing guard over it. A lively conversation commenced between him and my Yankee friend, which was maintained with much gesticulation for some time, during which I heard the latter frequently say “Ingles” and “ignorante,” and the former “No, no, señor I no importa, no importa—inutilmente.” At last something was said sotto voce. There was a pantomimic performance, the meaning of which, of course, I did not understand; but, in consequence of what I saw, I made no observation afterwards respecting a certain item in my bill. The heart of the benevolent soldier was touched, and, relaxing his features into a grim smile, he pointed to the boxes, and said, “Si, Si!” The ceremony of examination was soon performed. The soldier was satisfied by my merely opening the boxes, observing, “Sufficiente, sufficiente!” And here I cannot help remarking how pi-oud the Queen of Spain ought to be in having such servants, who, though stern and rigid in the performance of their duty, still possess hearts which are not altogether inaccessible. An English custom-house officer would, most probably, have been firm, unbending, and churlish to the last; but the Spaniards, and especially Spanish functionaries, are a noble race—proud, high-minded, and lofty, as becomes an hidalgo of Spain, they may be, but they are notwithstanding gentle and approachable, and seldom fail in the long run to win golden opinions of all sorts of men.
My friend, thanks to the sympathising soldier, had now made everything “slick,” as he “guessed” he would, and I was ready at the time appointed to step into the carriage of H. B. Consul. It was a handsome English open carriage, drawn by a pair of strong iron-grey horses. It was the only vehicle of the kind in Havana, for the people of that city—at least those who can