The Nassauese, on the whole, seem to be a kind-hearted and friendly set of people, partly English, partly Southern in character, but with rather a predominance of the latter ingredient in their composition.  Their women resemble the women of our own Southern States, but seem simpler and more domestic in their habits,—­while the men would make tolerable Yankees, but would scarcely support President Buchanan, the Kansas question, or the Filibustero movement.  Physically, the race suffers and degenerates under the influence of the warm climate.  Cases of pulmonary disease, asthma, and neuralgia are of frequent occurrence, and cold is considered as curative to them as heat is to us.  The diet, too, is not that “giant ox-beef” which the Saxon race requires.  Meat is rare, and tough, unless brought from the States at high cost.  We were forced to the conclusion that no genuine English life can be supported upon a regime of fish and fruit,—­or, in other words, no beef, no Bull, but a very different sort of John, lantern-jawed, leather-skinned, and of a thirsty complexion.  It occurred to us, furthermore, that it is a dolorous thing to live on a lonely little island, tied up like a wart on the face of civilization,—­no healthful stream of life coming and going from the great body of the main land,—­the same moral air to be breathed over and over again, without renewal,—­the same social elements turned and returned in one tiresome kaleidoscope.  Wherefore rejoice, ye Continentals, and be thankful, and visit the Nassauese, bringing beef, butter, and beauty,—­bringing a few French muslins to replace the coarse English fabrics, and buxom Irish girls to outwork the idle negro women,—­bringing new books, newspapers, and periodicals,—­bringing the Yankee lecturer, all expenses paid, and his drink found him.  All these good things, and more, the States have for the Nassauese, of whom we must now take leave, for all hands have been piped on deck.

We have jolted for three weary days over the roughest of ocean-highways, and Cuba, nay, Havana, is in sight.  The worst cases are up, and begin to talk about their sea-legs, now that the occasion for them is at an end.  Sobrina, the chief wit of our party, who would eat sour-sop, sapodilla, orange, banana, cocoa-nut, and sugar-cane at Nassau, and who has lived upon toddy of twenty-cocktail power ever since,—­even she is seen, clothed and in her right mind, sitting at the feet of the prophet she loves, and going through the shawl-and-umbrella exercise.  And here is the Moro Castle, which guards the entrance of the harbor,—­here go the signals, answering to our own.  Here comes the man with the speaking-trumpet, who, understanding no English, yells out to our captain, who understands no Spanish.  The following is a free rendering of their conversation:—­

“Any Americans on board?”

“Yes, thank Heaven, plenty.”

“How many are Filibusteros?”

“All of them.”