They of the lovely sex, meanwhile, undergo, with what patience they may, an Oriental imprisonment.  In the public street they must on no account set foot.  The Creole and Spanish women are born and bred to this, and the hardiest American or English woman will scarcely venture out a second time without the severe escort of husband or brother.  These relatives are, accordingly, in great demand.  In the thrifty North, man is considered an incumbrance from breakfast to dinner,—­and the sooner he is fed and got out of the way in the morning, the better the work of the household goes on.  If the master of the house return at an unseasonable hour, he is held to an excuse, and must prove a headache, or other suitable indisposition.  In Havana, on the contrary, the American woman suddenly becomes very fond of her husband:—­“he must not leave her at home alone; where does he go? she will go with him; when will he come back? remember, now, she will expect him.”  The secret of all this is, that she cannot go out without him.  The other angel of deliverance is the volante, with its tireless horses and calesero, who seems fitted and screwed to the saddle, which he never leaves.  He does not even turn his head for orders.  His senses are in the back of his head, or wherever his mistress pleases. “Jose, calle de la muralla, esquina a los oficios,”—­and the black machine moves on, without look, word, or sign of intelligence.  In New York, your Irish coachman grins approval of your order; and even an English flunkey may touch his hat and say, “Yes, Mum.”  But in the Cuban negro of service, dumbness is the complement of darkness;—­you speak, and the patient right hand pulls the strap that leads the off horse, while the other gathers up the reins of the nigh, and the horses, their tails tightly braided and deprived of all movement, seem as mechanical as the driver.  Happy are the ladies at the hotel who have a perpetual volante at their service! for they dress in their best clothes three times a day, and do not soil them by contact with the dusty street.  They drive before breakfast, and shop before dinner, and after dinner go to flirt their fans and refresh their robes on the Paseo, where the fashions drive.  At twilight, they stop at friendly doors and pay visits, or at the entrance of the cafe, where ices are brought out to them.  At eight o’clock they go to the Plaza, and hear the band play, sitting in the volante; and at ten they come home, without fatigue, having all day taken excellent care of number one, beyond which their arithmetic does not extend.  “I and my volante” is like Cardinal Wolsey’s “Ego et Rex meus.”

As for those who have no volantes, modesty becomes them, and quietness of dress and demeanor.  They get a little walk before breakfast, and stay at home all day, or ride in an omnibus, which is perhaps worse;—­they pay a visit now and then in a hired carriage, the bargain being made with difficulty;—­they look a good deal through the bars of the windows, and remember the free North, and would, perhaps, envy the volante-commanding women, did not dreadful Moses forbid.