Blunders in foreign languages are the common entertainment of all travelers; but one of our party at Matanzas achieved a success in this line, which may fairly be considered uncommon. The Vice-Consul-General, the Consul at Matanzas, and some Cuban ladies, together with our own party, had gone out to the Valley of the Yumuri. Altogether we had six or seven volantes. Returning in the evening, mine happened to be the last in the procession. My companion had a theory of his own about the Spanish language, to wit: that all you had to do to make a Spaniard understand you was to add an “o” to every English word. Seeing one of the gleaming bugs, which strangers put in little cages, and carry off as curiosities, lit on the shoulder of our volante driver, he conceived this a good opportunity, and straightway shouted, “_Catcho buggo_.” Some word, faintly resembling one or the other of these, as we were afterward told, means, in Spanish, “faster.” The poor Cuban, perched on the back of the forward horse, eight or ten feet in front of us, looked around in astonishment, only to be met by the renewed exclamation, “Buggo, _buggo_, I say!” Ahead of him were six volantes, filling up the narrow road; we were at the top of a steep, stony hill, nearly two miles long; the road sides were precipitous, and even the track was filled with obstructions; but behind was the savage looking “Americano,” shouting, “Buggo, buggo.” So with a crack of the whip over the horse in the thills, and a cruel plunge of the spur into the heaving flank of the free one, away we went, past the nearest volante, and over the stones down the hill; looking back to see how his passengers appreciated his performance, the driver found one of them laughing immoderately, and the other still screaming “Buggo, buggo.” Greatly encouraged he gave the horses an extra lash, and whirled by the next volante, and the next, and the next. The example was contagious, the rest whipped up, and meantime we dashed ahead, careening over the sides of the hill, bounding off the great stones in the track of the wheels, jolting and clattering along at break-neck pace, past every volante; past amazed muleteers, coming in with their burdens of forage; past groups of countrymen, lassoing their young cattle; past the sword-bearing farmers, riding out from town to their country homes; past astonished negroes, and stupidly staring coolies on the roadside; across the bridge and into the narrow streets of the town; nearly running over some of the stately Senoritas at the Plaza del Armas, astounding the grave Spaniards, upsetting coolies that loitered about the crossings, raising such a racket as apparently Matanzas hadn’t seen for a twelve-month, and finally drawing up, seven volantes in succession, with unprecedented clatter, and whirl of dust, at the door of the “Leon d’ Oro.” The moment we stopped, my persistent companion pounced upon the poor volante-driver, exclaiming “Buggo, buggo, I say.”