Evidently a wash-stand is a thing to be ashamed of, for they are concealed in the most ingenious way. Mine in the daytime is rather an attractive commode; Laura's is a writing-table, which at night opens up and discloses the wash-basin. Otherwise there is little furniture: two cane-bottomed chairs, two bamboo tables (twins); one has a blue ribbon tied on its leg to tell it from its brother. Two ingeniously braided mats of linen cord do duty for the _descente de lit_. Oh yes! there is a mirror for each of us, which in my hurry to finish my letter I forgot to mention; but they are so small and wavy that the less we look in them the better we are satisfied with ourselves. We have a large balcony, which has a beautiful view of the harbor and the opposite shore, two huge wooden so-called windows, which are not windows, opening on to the balcony. There is a panel in the middle which you can open if you want some fresh air. Glass is never used for windows, so that when you shut your window you are in utter darkness. Opposite is the door which is not a door, but a sort of a gate with lattice shutters, giving the room the look of a bar-room. There is space above the shutters which is open to the ceiling. Any one in the gallery who wanted to could stand on a chair and peer over. Everything that goes on in the gallery, every noise, every conversation, can be clearly overheard, and if one only understood the language it might be very interesting. The bars and locks on our doors and windows date from the fifteenth century, I should say, and it is with the most herculean efforts that we manage to shut ourselves in for the night; and we only know that the day has broken when we hear the nasal and strident Cuban voices, and the clattering of plates on the other side of the gate. Then we work like galley-slaves unbarring, and the blazing sun floods our room. I don't know if bells are popular in Havana; but in this hotel we have none. If you want a chambermaid, which you do about every half-hour, you must open your gate and clap your hands, and if she does not come you go on clapping until some one else comes. For our early breakfast we begin clapping at an early hour, and finally our coffee and a huge plate filled with the most delicious oranges, cut and sugared, are brought to us. We tried to obtain some simple toast; but this seemed unknown to the Cuban cuisine, and we had to content ourselves with some national mixture called rolls. CUBA, _January 24, 1873._