“It is now getting late, and the rooms are terribly warm.  The fans of the long rows of lovely sitters, who have not moved out of their places the whole evening, keep up a constant flutter, and one begins to sigh for a breath of fresh air, and relief from the discomforts of a full dress suit.  But the grand affair of the evening is yet to come off, we are told, so we linger on, and are finally rewarded by the grand ceremony of the ‘Pinata,’ from which the ball takes its name.  This word I can hardly give the meaning of as applied to this ceremony, which consists in having pendent from the ceiling a form of ribbands and flowers, the ribbands numbered and hanging from the flowery the rights to pull which are drawn like prizes in a lottery.  Of these ribbands, one is fastened to a beautiful crown of flowers, which, when the ribband to which it is attached is pulled, falls into the hands of the lucky person, who has the privilege of crowning any lady he may deem worthy of the honor ‘Queen of the Ball,’ to whom every one is obliged to yield obedience, homage, and admiration.  There is, also, the same opportunity afforded to the ladies to crown a king.  The whole ceremony is pretty, and creates much merriment and amusement.

“This ceremony over, at midnight we sally out into the open air.  But what a sight greets us there!  Lights blaze in such profusion that it seems more than day.  Music and dancing are everywhere.  Songs and mirth have taken complete possession of the place, while people of all ages, sexes and colors are mixed together, in what seems inextricable confusion, intent upon having a good time in the open air while their masters and betters are doing the same thing under cover.  This is a carnival sight indeed, and only to be seen in a tropical clime.”

Guantanamo, the home of the pirates.

Approaching Cuba as Columbus did—­across the narrow stretch of sea from San Domingo—­you first sight the long, low promontory of the eastern tip, which the discoverer named Point Maysi.  So different is the prospect from that seen at the other end of the island, as you come down in the usual route from New York or Florida, that you can hardly believe it is the same small country.  From Maysi Point the land rises in sharp terraces, backed by high hills and higher mountains, all so vague in mist and cloud that you do not know where land ends and sky begins.  Coming nearer, gray ridges are evolved, which look like cowled monks peering over each other’s shoulders, with here and there a majestic peak towering far above his fellows—­like the Pico Turquino, 11,000 feet above the sea.  Sailing westward along this south shore, the “Queen of the Antilles” looks desolate and forbidding, as compared to other portions of the West Indies; a panorama, of wild heights and sterile shores, and surge-beaten cliffs covered with screaming sea birds.  At rare intervals an opening in the rock-bound coast betrays a tiny harbor, bordered by cocoa palms, so guarded and concealed by hills, and its sudden revelation, when close upon it, astonishes you as it did the first explorer.